Murder For Political Reasons

By Richard Silverstone

It's late October, as the Presidential election nears. A stockbroker is assassinated in a deli not far from Wall Street while under FBI surveillance. To investigate or protect the dead man? Did the killers know the FBI was on the scene but weren't afraid to act? How could a murder happen with the FBI at the location? The NYPD Chief of Detective sent Detective Michael Golden to protect the evidence from corruption. NYPD had the authority to investigate. A grand jury or the courts would determine who has jurisdiction. Why is the murdered man, Sam Wheaton, of great importance to the FBI? Police sent a car to East Seventy-Second street to bring the daughter of the murdered man to NYPD headquarters to be informed of her father's death. Rachel Wheaton, the daughter, was excruciatingly shy. Rarely was seen in public, had a music room in the house, and played the viola. Sam Wheaton was a big shot on Wall Street, and is the first of other future murders. There is a hidden reason for the murders—a need for the information not to see the light of day. The killings are to silence and warn of the danger to divulge. Rachel Wheaton and Detective Golden develop a love relationship as the investigation continues. Rachel withholds information that can place her in great jeopardy. Each murder moves the case closer to the secret and closer to Rachel. Can Golden protect Rachel and keep her safe? There's a twist in the plot, and the reason for the murders is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Silverstone
• Release date: May 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005515188

Richard Silverstone

Richard Silverstone spent most of five decades running large business enterprises. In 1998-1999 he began to write. The first book was fiction. Roderick Thorp the author of the story that was used to create "Die Hard" and "The Detective", edited "Murder For Political Reasons." I learned to write from him when I wanted to become an author. I joined writer workshops to enhance the writing's quality and desirability. My business experience gave me background knowledge with direct observation of many events. This new book "Murder Them Now" adds many new elements to mystery, romance, and murder.

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Murder for Political Reasons

Richard Silverstone

Copyright 2022 by Richard Silverstone

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Table of Contents

Chapter One - New York Deli

Chapter Two - Meet The Chief

Chapter Three - The Ride Home

Chapter Four - Need More Help

Chapter Five - Signed Menu

Chapter Six - Lamb Chops

Chapter Seven - Search The Records

Chapter Eight - Trouble And The Nephew

Chapter Nine - The Chief Says No

Chapter Ten - The Error Account

Chapter Eleven - Kathleen Allen

Chapter Twelve - The Merry-Go-Round

Chapter Thirteen - Why Investigate

Chapter Fourteen - Donald Frye

Chapter Fifteen - Come Out Wherever You Are

Chapter Sixteen – Rico

Chapter Seventeen - The Coffin Was Closed

Chapter Eighteen - The Senator And The Chinese

Chapter Nineteen - Identify The Body

Chapter Twenty - The U.N. Plaza

Chapter Twenty-One - Who Controls The Money

Chapter Twenty-Two - More Of What They

Chapter Twenty-Three - Family Is Family

Chapter Twenty-Four - A Chain Reaction

Chapter Twenty-Five - Streets Are Blocked

Chapter Twenty-Six - Bed And Breakfast

Chapter One - New York Deli

DETECTIVE MICHAEL GOLDEN LISTENED as he sat in a chair in front of the desk of Murry Greenblatt, Chief of Detective for the City Of New York, I had a call from a friend of mine, who owns a deli on water street, near wall street. He never had anybody die in the deli during the thirty years he's had the place. Nothing I tell you must never leave this office. Do you understand me? The Chief warned.

I get it. You can trust me. Golden responded.

NYPD has an informant in government. The body of a old man at the deli may have connections to the Presidential elections. You need to keep all the evidence under NYPD control. Keep me informed.

Golden's partner Terry Corrado, a seventeen year veteran of NYPD, was out front with the motor running. It was Wednesday, a cold late October day, before the coming Presidential election. Michael Golden entered the car and adjusted the seat back to accommodate his long legs. The unmarked four-door police car headed south toward The Battery. The vehicle made a sharp turn onto Water Street and then suddenly stopped. A crowd of early morning jaywalkers as thick as a Saint Paddy's Day Parade blocked their way.

One old guy dies at a deli, and it creates a traffic jam where nothing moves? The deli's up ahead near Wall Street, let's get through the crowd.

The siren gave a quick WHOOP! Red lights flashed through the car's front grille. The vehicle slowly inched forward as Terry kept one foot on the gas and the other on the brake, creating a jerking motion. The crowds divided quickly around the car and strained to see the detectives through the small opening of their slightly rolled down tinted windows. A short distance ahead, a blue-and-white police car came into view in front of a deli with a black FBI sedans parked on the opposite side of the road.

Terry parked the car next to the blue and white police car in the space. He killed the engine and flipped down the visor showing it was a police vehicle. He tried to open the driver's door but couldn't get out. Terry was 6'3", with a few extra pounds packed in the belly. He had parked too close to the blue-and-white. Golden laughed aloud as he looked over at his partner's screw-up and got out of the car. His partner slid across the seat to exit the passenger door.

The two detectives headed to the deli's front door, past the bystanders. A yuppie wormed his way in front of Terry, walking a short distance behind Golden. He grabbed the guy by the back of the collar, lifting the guy onto his toes.

Where are you going? Terry questioned.

To get my breakfast. I get it here every morning. The yuppie said, trying to turn and look back.

Not breakfast this morning. You can eat Macshit today. Responded Terry as he pulled the yuppie out of line.

You can't do that. I'll call the cops.

He is the cops, Golden said without turning around.

Feds, Golden said to himself. The FBI is here. He began to wonder. How did they get here before us? Guess the FBI needs to eat, too The deli owner, Lou Buckman is a friend of the Chief, Golden said to his partner. Buckman asked the Chief to check out the old guy's death. Golden kept the information about the informant to himself.

The detectives showed their gold shields to the uniform at the door. As they entered, they could smell the fresh-brewed coffee -- good coffee, rich, up-your-nose-to-warm-your-sinuses coffee, toward the back of the restaurant, three men sitting at a table. Two in aprons, the third man, was twice the age of the other two. Golden took the man without an apron to be Buckman the deli owner. He looked sad, sitting with the two younger men. At the back of the deli, outside the doors to the toilets, crowded two more uniforms and four suits. Golden let his eyes sweep the store again: no surveillance cameras.

Looking back at his partner, he pointed and said, Check out Buckman, the deli owner.

You want the Feds for yourself?

No, I want to see the corpse, Terry. Put a coat on the old guy who's not wearing an apron, we don't want him to catch a cold. Confirm it's Buckman, and walk him around the block. Question him about the dead man.

Give me the live guy every time. It works for me.

You have no imagination, Golden said as he walked at a quick pace toward the back of the deli, passed the three men at the table. He pulled out his gold shield and identified himself to the nearest suit.

Terry leaned over the owner at the table and started whispering.

The near suit identified himself to Golden as Detective Mario Rossi of the NYPD One. This here's Special Agent Charles Longley of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Rossi said, looking to the man next to him.

Golden shook hands with the puffy, thirty-something with thinning red hair. How was breakfast? Golden asked.

We're not here for breakfast. Longley introduced him to the other Special Agent, Golden nodded. Longley could not remember the name of Rossi's well-muscled partner, who stood in the open doorway to the men's room, obviously blocking the access. Rossi introduces his partner, Brian Collins. Golden said, Hey, but not being too obvious. Collins gave him the high sign anyway, one Shanty Irishman to another. Most people thought Golden was Jewish until they saw his map-of-Ireland face. He said, Is the DB in here? Collins nodded, Who's with the DB? Golden asked.

Patrolman Larry Dukes, Collins said. We gotta wait for the Medical Examiner

Of course we do, Golden said as he attempted to step past the Special Agents. They moved in his way, blocking the Golden's path to the restroom. The FBI thought they were being subtle.

The dead man is the subject of a long-term investigation by the Bureau, Special Agent Longley said.

You want to tell me what for? Golden inquired.

You know I can't do that, Detective.

If he's dead, what difference can it make?

We have rules we follow, and the information is confidential.

Is this a Federal crime the DB committed? Do you have a warrant, or grand jury subpoena, because if not, both you assholes need to get out of the fuckin' way. You'll be charge with interfering with the lawful business of a police officer.

We want to see the body, Longley said.

Maybe at Campbell's Funeral Home. You'll have to talk to the family or a judge to issue an order.

We're asking for a favor, Detective.

Let's not be unpleasant -- or stupid, move out of the way. Now.

Longley nodded, and a path opened. At the men's restroom doorway Collins step to one side to allow Golden to enter. Once inside, Golden closed the door and locked it. Inside was Patrolman Larry Dukes, an African-American man twice his size. What are they up to out there? I heard all the yelling. Dukes asked.

Beats the shit out of me. Golden made a show of looking around. What did you do with the stiff?

Dukes looked surprised. I didn't touch him --

Take it easy, Golden said and clapped him on the arm. It could have been a telephone pole, and it was so hard. I know you didn't move him.

He's on the pot. I wouldn't let anybody touch the body once I got here. Salazar, the counterman, found him. I think the strain gave him a heart attack. The guy must of been in a hurry, his suit jacket was on, and his pants were down around his ankles--

"How do you know that?

Salazar told me, 'that when he came in the stall door was open.' I asked him if he had reached over or under the door to undo the lock. He said no. It seemed strange to me, I then checked the lock, and it works fine.

The Detective got a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and pulled them on. Which stall is he in?

The dead man is in the second stall. Dukes said, I'm first on the scene, Detective, be careful with the evidence. I'm protecting it for the Medical Examiner.

The corpse was about the same age as the owner with his partner, thinner, white hair, and balding. His head was on his chest as if he had fallen asleep. He was still wearing the jacket of his suit. Golden also through it strange, a man sits on a toilet while wearing his suit jacket, and doesn't lock the stall door. How long have you been here, Dukes?

Half an hour? Dukes said.

How long has the dead man been here?

I would think, at least forty-five minutes. The owner knows him, and he was in here a little too long. The owner sent Salazar into check. Dukes describes his conversation with Salazar.

He crouched down in front of the corpse's hairless legs. Let's see if we can find out who this old man is. The FBI already said they knew. His nostrils were twitching.

Do you smell an odor? Golden said to Dukes.

I don't smell anything.

What the hell is that smell? It's not a bathroom smell? Golden asked again.

You're closer to him then I am.

Golden felt the man's pants around his ankles. The wallet was in his left hip pocket. The guy's blood was now obeying the law of gravity, as his lower legs were turning purple. Reaching between the man's bare shins, he removed the wallet. It was something almost spicy that he smelled. His nose was twitching more. He looked up, only inches from the dead man's face. With his left thumb, he pushed up the man's forehead and sniffed the man's drying open mouth. Dentures, his upper plate was loose. Then he let the man's head down again slowly.

Do you do this often? I'm sure glad you're doing it's not for me! Officer Dukes said.

I view this as another day at the office. Someone started to pound on the door. Who's there? He sang out.

Medical Examiner!

He pulled off the gloves. The door was pounding again.

I'll turn the wallet in as evidence. He said to Dukes and went to unlocked the door. Come on in, Doc.

Special Agent Longley was right behind the Medical Examiner. Golden raised his hand like a traffic cop. You can't come in here.

I told you, this man has been under surveillance during our investigation.

Don't you remember, I asked you what the purpose of the investigation was, and you told me you couldn't disclose the information. This is New York City's jurisdiction, and I'm telling you to get the fuck out. Longley tried to step around him. The detective slapped Longley sharply across the face and pushed him back through the door with both hands. The other Special Agent's' jaw dropped. Cross the threshold again, and I will bust you. I'll bust all of you. You think I'm kidding? Golden was trembling with a dose of adrenalin. The Chief placed Golden in charge, and it was his responsibility to see that the evidence would not be corrupted. Nobody gets in there until the Medical Examiner has the cause of death determined. You know the rules, don't force the issue.

The Special Agent with Longley moved his hand inside his coat near his chest, toward his shoulder holster.

Asshole, you want to shoot it out? Go for it! I know how to kill people. Longley, get your dickhead out of here.

Golden's handprint was rising white on Longley's rosy cheek. Longley motioned the other Special Agent to move. This isn't over, Detective.

Yes, it is, he began to laugh in his face. Fuck you.

Officer Dukes watched them push their way past Collins and Rossi. You got balls. I thought bullets were going to fly.

We need to maintain control until we know more.

Close the door. The excitement is over. the Medical Examiner said. Where is the body?

Over there, in the second stall. Dukes pointed.

Let's see what we have here. The Medical Examiner entered the stall. He raised the dead man's head and looked down the throat with a Mini-Maglite. This guy didn't die of a heart attack. Medical Examiner said after a moment.

'No shit, Sherlock,' Golden thought. He turned to Rossi, standing next to him, watching the Medical Examiner, You treat everybody without an NYPD shield like a suspect, got it? I'll ask the Chief to contact the U.S. Attorney's Office in New York to sort out the FBI's involvement.

Got it, Rossi answered.

He smells of bitter almonds, the Medical Examiner said. Must be Prussic acid. He took poison. Cyanide killed him.

Out of what? Do you see a glass or a paper cup? You might want to check his throat for signs of trauma,

Or somebody made him take it. I was going to say, the Medical Examiner quickly added.

Golden waved Rossi away from the stall door. Call for a prints team, and get me a copy of everyone's notes. Dukes, after the Medical Examiner finishes, you're going to have to keep people out of here until the prints and evidence people wrap up."

I'll stay in the hall and block entry at the door. No one will get past me.

No, you've got to hang out inside here, just like before. The body is going with the Medical Examiner. It's the interior evidence you're to look after and protect.

The door opened, and his partner motioned to Golden. They moved to the center of the deli for privacy. The owner of this deli is a millionaire from stock advise, thanks to the dead guy. Wheaton was a very heavy hitter on Wall Street. The deli owner provided a lot of good stuff about the victim, but nobody saw anything. I almost forgot. The Chief of Detective's office called. The Chief wants to see us, ASAP."

Why is the U.S. Department Of Justice involved in a murder in New York City? The Chief must of known more than what he told me. If politics are present, it can get worst with different Federal Agencies jockeying for positions.

What about the next-of-kin? Terry asked.

The body is still warm. Let the Chief make that decision. Golden said. The FBI has the money guy, Wheaton, under surveillance, and he's murdered under their nose. If that doesn't smell to high heaven, nothing does.

You're too smart.

Not smart enough, I'm afraid. We need to know more about what's going on. At the Police Lab, Rose could help slow down delivering evidence inquiry requests from the Feds. The Wheaton murder case could easily get out of hand if corrupted by political interference.

He made the call to Rose before he met with the Chief. Police Lab, Rose Salica said.

Rose, this is Michael Golden. I was at a murder scene today of a DB named Sam Wheaton. I'm having crime material sent up to the lab for processing. If you could mislabel the files, it would slow this case down?

I can't promise you that. Rose is cautious, not wanting herself to be part of a crime. I'll let you know what I'm able to do.

Golden wondered if he pushed his friendship with Rose too far? I shouldn't have backed her into a corner. I'll patch things up with her next time we speak.

Chapter Two - Meet The Chief

Chief of Detective Murray Greenblatt lowered his big frame into the chair behind his desk and put a well-chewed cigar into his oversized cut glass ashtray. Did you guys eat?

We ate earlier, Golden said. Terry interviewed the deli owner yesterday.

You don't mind if I have an early lunch, do you? On his desk blotter, he tossed a foil-wrapped sandwich, more prominent than an old-fashioned steam iron.

Now that I am Chief of Detectives, they hand slice the corned beef for me, He turned back the foil with unrestrained relish, then set aside a wax paper envelope full of pickles and carefully tore it open. Since my cholesterol is two-thirty, maybe as high as two-fifty, my wife wants me to eat salads. I had them put coleslaw on top of the meat with Russian dressing. I guess I can tell her I had a little salad for lunch. If she knew I had to put up with guys who hit FBI agents, she'd know how much I need my comfort food. He bit into the humongous sandwich. Mmf. Good. Great. Terry, start talking.

The deli owner is Lou Buchman, Terry read from his spiral pad.

The Chief's pushed in the nose and recessed lower lip reminds you of an American Bully Pitbull. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, then raised his thick eyebrows as he listened. The deli owner is a yid, very unusual, an good in today's world. Koreans own all the Japanese restaurants, and it's good to see a Jewish deli is stilled owed by a Jew.

It may not be the truth, but it seems like the truth, Golden thought when the Chief says it.

"Buchman had known Wheaton for a least eighteen years. Wheaton was a widower for nine of those years. He leaves a daughter, Rachel, in her late twenties, he guesses. Single and excruciatingly shy. She can barely have a conversation or get a word out. Buchman has seen her many times over the years and says she is like a deer caught in fear when it hears a noise near bye.

Excruciatingly,' the Chief repeated. Nice word. If you can spell it right, put it in your report.

Golden pulled from his side pocket the photograph of Rachel Wheaton that had been in her father's wallet and handed it to the Chief. The Chief held it like a CD with his fingertips. It's hard to see shyness. She could be a pretty girl, hard to tell from this old photograph.

Plays the viola, Terry said.

The what?

The vee-oh-la, Terry repeated. It's like a violin, only bigger.

The Chief laughed. Viola. Are you guys going to night school on me?

It has a deep, mellower tone, Golden volunteered, reaching for a pickle. May I?

How did she react to the news of his passing?

I didn't tell her. We want to talk to you first. There was something creepy about the mismatched clothes she wore in the photo. Her father had the dough and could afford better.

Maybe will tell her here? The Chief said, even though he has never done it before.

Her father's wallet lists her as the person to be notified in case of an emergency. Her listed phone number is the same as the father's home number. That's where she must live. Golden said as he passed the card over to the Chief.

You should have his wallet bagged and tagged with the photo. He said as he looked at the card. Wheaton wanted to be an organ donor?

You can't donate those organs to hogs now, Golden said.

Let's be sure to tell that to the daughter. The Chief snapped back at Golden's unfunny comment. He reached for his phone, pressed one button, Marie, call the number I am going to give you. Ask Miss Rachel Wheaton to get ready to come down to One Police Plaza. We are sending a car for her now. Dispatch a radio patrol car. She's at 129 East Seventy-Second Street. He gave her the phone number, then hung up. Terry, what else do you know about Wheaton?

Terry turned the page of the spiral pad. Wheaton had been a big deal, a stockbroker on Wall Street. Wheaton, the market insider, offering stock advice to the deli owner who made his breakfast, made him a millionaire. He was the person to be with if you invest in the Technology sector.

Golden looked out the window at the Brooklyn Bridge, still gracefully spanning the East River. The noon sun shimmered on the East River, the cold, blinding glare dangerously hypnotic and restful. As the light came in through the window, Golden's face showed the shadows from too many late nights and alcohol.

Every detective in the city knew the Chief was at this desk by six o'clock every morning and loved his job.

On one level, Golden was not much different. He loved his job as much as he loved the city, loved his life and freedom -- freedom he was coming ever more perilously close to losing, thanks to a woman who wanted him despite everything she knew about him.

Kate was swaying to the music in a simple white dress when Golden met her at a charity event. He loved the way she moved. He approached her, Do I know you?

Startling her for a moment. You don't look familiar. She kept her gaze on him. I arrange these types of charity events for police widows. Are you a donor?

I'm a police detective. Could I buy you a drink?

"No, thank you. I'm