The Assassin boh-5 Page 11

"Was that true, what you said, about you don't have much in common with girls your own age?"

  "Yes, it was."

  "You're a really nice guy. Be patient. Someone will come along."

  "I hope so," he said, and turned again and went and had his shower.

  When he came out, he sensed movement in his kitchen. He cracked the door open. Mrs. Glover was leaning against the refrigerator. She had a cheese glass in one hand, and a bottle of his cognac in the other.

  "I hope you don't mind."

  "Of course not."

  "You want one?"

  "No. I don't want to smell of booze when I go to work."

  "When do you have to be at work? Is taking me back to Upper Darby going to make you late?"

  "No. I've got until half past one."

  She looked at him, and then away, and then drained the cheese glass.

  "What I said before," she said, "was what my father told me when Ken and I broke up. That I was a nice girl, that I should be patient, that someone would come along."

  What the hell is she leading up to? Am I the someone?

  "I'm sure he's right."

  "Now, you and I are obviously not right for each other…"

  Damn!

  "…but what I've been thinking, very possibly because I've had more to drink in the last twelve hours than I've had in the last six months, is that, until someone comes along for you, and someone comes along for me…"

  "The sky wouldn't fall? There will not be a bolt of lightning to punish the sinners?"

  She raised her head and met his eyes.

  "What do you think?"

  "I think I know how we can kill the time until the Plymouth place opens."

  "I'll bet you do," she said, and set the cheese glass and the bottle of cognac on the sink and then started to unbutton her blouse.

  ****

  As Matt Payne was climbing the stairs to his apartment at quarter to seven, across town, in Chestnut Hill, Peter Wohl stepped out of the shower in his apartment and started to towel himself dry.

  The chimes activated by his doorbell button went off. They played "Be It Ever So Humble, There's No Place Like Home." One of what Wohl thought of as the "xylophone bars" was out of whack, so the musical rendition was discordant. He had no idea how to fix it, and privately, he hated chimes generally and "Be It Ever So Humble" specifically, but there was nothing he could do about the chimes. They had been a gift from his mother, and installed by his father.

  He said a word that he would not have liked to have his mother hear, wrapped the towel around his middle, and left the bathroom. He went through his bedroom, and then through his living room, the most prominent furnishings of which were a white leather couch, a plateglass coffee table, a massive, Victorian mahogany service bar, and a very large oil painting of a Rubenesque naked lady resting on her side, one arm cocked coyly behind her head.

  The ultrachic white leather couch and plate-glass coffee table were the sole remnants of a romantic involvement Peter Wohl had once had with an interior decorator, now a young suburban matron married to a lawyer. The bar and the painting of the naked lady he had acquired at an auction of the furnishings of a Center City men's club that had gone belly up.

  He unlatched the door and pulled it open. A very neat, very wholesome-looking young man in a blue suit stood on the landing.

  "Good morning, Inspector," the young man said. His name was Paul T. (for Thomas) O'Mara, and he was a police officer of the Philadelphia Police Department. Specifically, he was Wohl's new administrative assistant.

  Telling him, Peter Wohl thought, that when I say between seven and seven-fifteen, I don't mean quarter to seven, would be like kicking a Labrador puppy who has just retrieved his first tennis ball.

  "Good morning, Paul," Wohl said. "Come on in. There's coffee in the kitchen."

  'Thank you, sir."

  Officer O'Mara was a recent addition to Peter Wohl's staff. Like Peter Wohl, he was from a police family. His father was a captain, who commanded the 17^th District. His brother was a sergeant in Civil Affairs. His grandfather, like Peter Wohl's father and grandfather, had retired from the Philadelphia Police Department.

  More important, his father was a friend of both Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin and Chief Inspector (Retired) Augustus Wohl. When Officer O'Mara, who had five years on the job in the Traffic Division, had failed, for the second time, to pass the examination for corporal, both Chief Coughlin and Chief Wohl had had a private word with Inspector Wohl.

  They had pointed out to him that just because someone has a little trouble with promotion examinations doesn't mean he's not a good cop, with potential. It just means that he has trouble passing examinations.

  Not like you, Peter, the inference had been. You're not really all that smart, you're just good at taking examinations.

  One or the other or both of them had suggested that what Officer O'Mara needed was a little broader experience than he was getting in the Traffic Division, such as he might get if it could be arranged to have him assigned to Special Operations as your administrative assistant.

  "Now that you've lost Young Payne:" his father had said.

  "Now that Matt's gone to East Detectives…" Chief Coughlin had said.

  In chorus: "You're going to need someone to replace him. And you know what a good guy, and a good cop, his father is."

  And so Officer O'Mara had taken off his uniform, with the distinctive white Traffic Division brimmed cap, and donned a trio of suits Inspector Wohl somewhat unkindly suspected were left over from his high school graduation and/or obtained from the Final Clearance rack at Sears Roebuck and come to work for Special Operations.

  Peter Wohl was sitting on his bed, pulling his socks on when Officer O'Mara walked in with a cup of coffee.

  "I couldn't find any cream, Inspector, but I put one spoon of sugar in there. Is that okay?"

  Inspector Wohl decided that telling Officer O'Mara that he always took his coffee black would be both unkind and fruitless: He had told him the same thing ten or fifteen times in the office.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "Stakeout got two critters at the Acme on Baltimore Avenue last night. It was on TV," Officer O'Mara said.

  "'Got two critters'?"

  "Blew them away," O'Mara said, admiration in his voice.

  "Any police or civilians get hurt?"

  "They didn't say anything on TV."

  Wohl noticed that Officer O'Mara did not have any coffee.

  "Aren't you having any coffee, Paul?"

  "I thought you just told me to get you some," O'Mara said.

  "Help yourself, Paul. Have you had breakfast?"

  "I had a doughnut."

  "Well, we're going to the Roundhouse. We can get some breakfast on the way."

  "Yes, sir," O'Mara said, and walked out of the bedroom.

  Peter Wohl walked to his closet and after a moment's hesitation selected a gray flannel suit. He added to it a light blue button-down collar shirt and a regimentally striped tie.

  Clothes make the man, he thought somewhat cynically. First impressions are important. Particularly when one is summoned to meet with the commissioner, and one doesn't have a clue what the sonofabitch wants.

  ****

  There was no parking space in the parking lot behind the Police Administration Building reserved for the commanding officer, Special Operations, as there were for the chief inspectors of Patrol Bureau (North), Patrol Bureau (South), Command Inspections Bureau, Administration, Internal Affairs, Detective Bureau, and even the Community Relations Bureau.

  Neither could Paul O'Mara park Peter Wohl's official nearly new Ford sedan in spots reserved for CHIEF INSPECTORS AND INSPECTORS ONLY, because Wohl was only a staff inspector, one rank below inspector. The senior brass of the Police Department were jealous of the prerogatives of their ranks and titles and would have been offended to see a lowly staff inspector taking privileges that were not rightly his.

  Wohl suspected that if a poll were t
aken, anonymously, of the deputy commissioners, chief inspectors, and inspectors, the consensus would be that his appointment as commanding officer, Special Operations Division, reporting directly to the deputy commissioner, Operations, had been a major mistake, acting to the detriment of overall departmental efficiency, not to mention what harm it had done to the morale of officers senior to Staff Inspector Wohl, who had naturally felt themselves to be in line for the job.

  If, however, he also suspected, asked to identify themselves before replying to the same question, to a man they would say that it was a splendid idea, and that there was no better man in the Department for the job.

  They all knew that the Hon. Frank Carlucci, mayor of the City of Philadelphia, had suggested to Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernick that Wohl be given the job. And they all knew that Mayor Carlucci sincerely-and not without reason-believed himself to know more about what was good for the Police Department than anybody else in Philadelphia.

  A "suggestion" from Mayor Carlucci to Commissioner Czernick regarding what he should do in the exercise of his office was the equivalent of an announcement on faith and morals issued by the pope, ex cathedra. It was not open for discussion, much less debate.

  Peter Wohl had not wanted the job. He had been the youngest, ever, of the fourteen staff inspectors of the Staff Investigations Unit, and had liked very much what he was doing. The penal system of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania was now housing more than thirty former judges, city commissioners, and other high-level bureaucrats and political office holders whom Peter Wohl had caught with their hands either in the public treasury or outstretched to accept contributions from the citizenry in exchange for special treatment.

  He had even thought about passing up the opportunity to take the examination for inspector. There had been little question in his mind that he could pass the examination and be promoted, but he suspected that if he did, with only a couple of years as a staff inspector behind him, with the promotion would come an assignment to duties he would rather not have, for example, as commanding officer of the Traffic Division, or the Civil Affairs Division, or even the Juvenile Division.

  Department politics would, he had believed, keep him from getting an assignment as an inspector he would really like, which would have included commanding one of the nine Police Divisions (under which were all the police districts) or one of the two Detective Field Divisions (under which were the seven Detective Divisions) or the Tactical Division, under which were Highway Patrol, the Airport, Stakeout, Ordnance Disposal, the police boats in the Marine Unit, the dogs of the Canine Unit, and a unit whose function he did not fully understand called Special Operations.

  And then Mayor Carlucci had a little chat with Commissioner Czernick. There was a chance for the Philadelphia Police Department to get its hands on some federal money, from the Justice Department. Some Washington bureaucrat had decided that the way to fight crime was to overwhelm the criminal element by sheer numbers. Under the acronym ACT, for Anti-Crime Team, federal money would allow local police departments to dispatch to heavy crime areas large numbers of policemen.

  Philadelphia already was trying the same tactic, more or less, with the Highway Patrol, an elite, specially uniformed, two-men-in-acar unit who normally practiced fighting crime by going to heavy crime areas. But they were, of course, paying for it themselves.

  There was a way, Mayor Carlucci suggested, to enlist the financial support of the federal government in the never-ending war against crime. The Philadelphia Police Department would form an ACT unit. It would be placed in the already existing Special Operations Unit. And since Highway Patrol was already doing the same sort of thing, so would Highway Patrol be placed in the Special Operations Division. And Special Operations, the mayor suggested, would be taken out from under the control of the Special Investigations Bureau, made a division, and placed under the direct command of the police commissioner himself.

  And the mayor suggested that they needed somebody who was really bright to head up the new division, and what did the commissioner think of Peter Wohl?

  The police commissioner knew that as Mayor Carlucci had worked his way up through the ranks of the Police Department, his rabbi had been Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, retired. And he know that Peter Wohl had just done a hell of a fine job putting Superior Court Judge Moses Findermann into the long-term custody of the state penal system. But most important, he understood that when His Honor the Mayor gave a hint like that, it well behooved him to act on it, and he did.

  Paul O'Mara, on his second trip through the parking lot, finally found a place, against the rear fence, to park the Ford. He and Staff Inspector Wohl got out of the car and walked to what had been designed as the rear door, but was now the only functioning door, of the Police Administration Building.

  A corporal sitting behind a thick plastic window recognized Inspector Wohl and activated the solenoid that unlocked the door to the main lobby. Officer O'Mara pushed it open and held it for Staff Inspector Wohl, an action that made Wohl feel just a bit uncomfortable. Officer Payne had not hovered over him. He was willing to admit he missed Officer Payne.

  They rode the curved elevator to the third (actually the fourth) floor of the Roundhouse and walked down the corridor to where a uniformed police officer sat at a counter guarding access to what amounted to the executive suite. Officer O'Mara announced, somewhat triumphantly, their business: "Inspector Wohl to see the commissioner."

  The commissioner, Peter Wohl was not surprised to learn, was tied up but would be with him shortly.

  The door to the commissioner's conference room was open, and Wohl saw Captain Henry C. Quaire, the head of the Homicide Division, whom he liked, leaning on the conference table, sipping a cup of coffee.

  He walked in, and was immediately sorry he had, for Captain Quaire was not alone in the room. Inspector J. Howard Porter, commanding officer of the Tactical Division, was with him.

  Inspector Porter had, when word of the federal money and the upgrading of Special Operations had spread through the Department, naturally considered himself a, perhaps the, prime candidate for the command of Special Operations. He not only had the appropriate rank, but his Tactical Division included Highway Patrol.

  He had not been given the Special Operations Division, and Highway Patrol had been taken away from Tactical and given to Special Operations. Peter Wohl did not think he could include Inspector Porter in his legion of admirers.

  "Good morning, Inspector," Wohl said politely.

  "Wohl."

  "Hello, Henry."

  "Inspector."

  "Do you know Paul O'Mara?"

  "I know your dad," Quaire said, offering O'Mara his hand.

  Inspector Porter nodded at Officer O'Mara but said nothing, and did not offer to shake hands.

  What is that, Wohl thought, guilt by association? Or is shaking hands with a lowly police officer beneath your dignity?

  He glanced at Quaire, and their eyes met for a moment.

  I don't think Quaire likes Porter any more than I do,

  "I saw your predecessor last night," Captain Quaire said, as much to Wohl as to O'Mara. "You heard about what happened at the Acme on Baltimore Avenue?"

  "I didn't hear Payne shot them," Wohl said without thinking about it.

  Quaire laughed. "Not this time, Peter. He was just a spectator."

  "I'm glad to hear that."

  "That's why we're here," Quaire said. "The commissioner wants to be absolutely sure the shooting was justified."

  "Was there a question?"

  "Hell no. Both of the doers fired first."

  The commissioner's secretary appeared in the conference room door.

  "The commissioner will see you now, Inspector," she said, and then realized there were two men answering to that title in the room, and added, "…Wohl."

  "Thank you," Peter Wohl said.

  If I needed one more nail in my coffin, that was it. Porter knows I just walked in here. And I get to enter the throne ro
om first.

  SEVEN

  "Good morning, Peter," Commissioner Czernick said, smiling broadly. He was a large, stocky, well-tailored man with a full head of silver hair. "Sit down."

  "Good morning, sir."

  "Would you like some coffee?"

  "Please."

  "Black, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  I don't think I am about to have my head handed to me on a platter. But on the other hand, I don't think he called me in here to express his appreciation for my all-around splendid performance of duty. And nothing has gone wrong in Special Operations, or I would have heard about it.

  "How's your dad?"

  "Fine, thank you. I had dinner with him on Monday."

  "Give him my regards, the next time you see him."

  "I'll do that, thank you."

  "You see the Overnights, Peter?"

  The Overnights were a summary of major crimes, and/or significant events affecting the Police Department that were compiled from reports from the districts, the Detective Divisions, and major Bureaus, and then distributed to senior commanders.

  "No, sir. I came here first thing."

  Obviously, I've missed something, and I am about to hear what it is, and why it is my fault.

  "Stakeout took down two critters at an Acme on the Baltimore Pike," Czernick said. "It's almost a sure thing these were the characters we've been looking for. If it was a good shooting, we're home free."

  "I did hear about that, sir. And from what I heard, I think it was a good shooting."

  "Every once in a while, Peter, we do do something right, don't we?"

  I'll be damned. I didn't do anything wrong.

  "Yes, sir, we do."

  "The Vice President's coming to town."

  "I saw it in the newspaper."

  "He's coming by airplane. He's going to do something at Independence Hall. Then he wants to make a triumphal march up Market Street to 30^th Street Station, and get on a train."

  "'March,' sir?"

  "Figure of speech. What do they call it, 'motorcade'?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I talked to the Secret Service guy. He really wants a Highway escort. On wheels, I mean. I think he thinks, or at least the Vice President does, that that makes them look good on the TV."