no matter where they left their cars, one being the Hon. Jerome H. Carlucci, the mayor, and the other being Mickey O'Hara.
That wasn't exactly true, Coughlin thought as he got into O'Hara's car. But on the other hand, it was close. He himself didn't dare leave his car parked where Mickey had parked the Buick, confident he would not find a parking ticket stuck under his wiper blade when he returned for it.
Mickey enjoyed a special relationship with the Police Department of the City of Philadelphia shared by no other member of the press. Coughlin had often wondered why this was so, and had decided, finally, that while some of it was because he was a familiar sight at funerals, weddings, promotion parties, and meetings of the Emerald Society (and, for that matter, at gatherings of the German, black, and Jewish police social organizations as well), it was basically because he was trusted by everybody from the guy walking a beat to Jerry Carlucci.
He never broke a confidence, and he never published anything bad about a cop until he gave the cop a chance to tell his side of the story.
And while he did not fill his columns with puff pieces about the Philadelphia Police Department, he very often found space to make sure the public learned of some unusual act of kindness, or heroism, or dedication to duty of ordinary cops walking beats.
And that was probably, Denny Coughlin thought, because Mickey O'Hara, in his heart, thought of himself as a cop.
Not that Mickey ever forgot he was a journalist. Denny Coughlin had thought of Mickey as a personal friend for years, and he was sure the reverse was true. But he also understood that the reason Mickey had appeared at his office to offer to take him to dinner was less that they were friends than that Mickey had questions he hoped he could get Coughlin to answer.
The door chimes sounded, playing 'Be It Ever So Humble, There's No Place Like Home.'
'Who the fuck is that?' Inspector Peter Wohl wondered aloud, in annoyance that approached rage.
Amelia Alice Payne, M.D., who had been lying with her head on his chest, raised her head and looked down at him.
'Oh, my goodness! Are we going to have to wash our naughty little mouth out with soap?' she inquired.
'Sorry,' Wohl said, genuinely contrite. 'I was just thinking how nice it is to go to sleep with you like this. And then that goddamned chime!'
Amy was not sure whether he meant naked in each other's arms, or sexually sated, but in either case she agreed.
She kissed his cheek, tenderly, and then, eyes mischievous, said innocently, 'I wonder who the fuck it could possibly be?'
'What am I doing? Teaching you bad habits?' Peter asked, chuckling.
'Oh, yes,' she said.
She pushed herself off him and got out of bed, then walked on tiptoes to peer out through the venetian blinds on the bedroom window.
There was enough light, somehow, for him to be able to see her clearly.
'My God, it's Uncle Denny!' Amy said.
What the hell does Denny Coughlin want this time of night?
'We had the foresight, you will recall,' Peter said, chuckling, 'to hide your car in my garage.'
'You think he wants to come in?' Amy asked, very nervously.
On the one hand, Amy, you march in front of the feminist parade, waving the banner of modern womanhood and gender equality, and on the other, you act like a seventeen-year-old terrified at the idea Uncle Denny will suspect that you and I are engaged in carnal activity not sanctioned for the unmarried.
'No,' Peter said. 'I'm sure all he wants to do is stand outside the door.'
He got out of bed.
'You just get back in bed and try not to sneeze,' Peter said. 'And I will try to get rid of him as quickly as I can.'
'I'll have to get dressed,' Amy said.
'Why bother?' Peter said as he put on his bathrobe. 'If he comes in the bedroom, I don't think he'll believe you were in here helping me wash the windows. Maybe you could say you were making a house call, Doctor.'
'Screw you, Peter,' Amy said. 'This is not funny!'
But she did get back into the bed and pulled the sheet up over her.
Peter turned the lights off, then left the bedroom, closing the door.
Then he turned and knocked on it.
'Morals squad!' he announced. 'Open up!'
'You bastard!' Amy called, but she was chuckling.
Peter turned the lights on in the living room, walked to the door, and opened it.
Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin-who, in the process of maintaining his friendly relationship with the widow of his pal Sergeant John F. X. Moffitt, had become so close to the Payne family that all the Payne kids had grown up thinking of him as Uncle Denny-stood at the door.
In a cloud of Old Bushmills fumes, Peter's nose immediately told him.
'I was in the neighborhood, Peter,' Coughlin said, 'and thought I would take a chance and see if you were still up.'
Peter had just enough time to decide, Bullshit, twice. I don't think you were in the neighborhood, and even if you were, you got on the radio to get my location, and if you did that, you would have asked the operator to call me on the phone to see if I was up, when Coughlin added:
'That's bullshit. I wanted to see you. Radio said you were home. I'm sorry if I got you up. You got something going in there, I'll just go.'
Does he suspect Amy is in here with me?
'Come on in. I was about to go to bed. We'll have a nightcap.'
'You're sure?' Coughlin asked.
'Come on in,' Peter repeated.
Coughlin followed him into the living room, sat down on Peter's white leather couch-a remnant, like several other pieces of very modern furniture in the apartment, of a long-dead and almost forgotten affair with an interior decorator-and reached for the telephone.
As Peter took ice, glasses, and a bottle of James Jamison Irish whiskey from the kitchen, he heard Coughlin on the telephone.
'Chief Coughlin,' he announced, 'at Inspector Wohl's house,' and then hung up.
Peter set the whiskey, ice, and glasses on the coffee table in front of the couch and sat down in one of the matching white leather armchairs.
Coughlin reached for the whiskey, poured an inch into a glass, and took a sip.
'This is not the first I've had of these,' he said, holding up the glass. 'Mickey O'Hara came by the Roundhouse at six, and we went out and drank our dinner.'
'There's an extra bed here,' Peter said, 'if you don't feel up to driving home.'
And then he remembered that not only was Amy in his bed, where she could hear the conversation, but that the moment she heard what he had just said she would decide he was crazy or incredibly stupid. Or, probably, both.
If Denny Coughlin accepted the offer, there was no way he would not find out that Amy was here.
Coughlin ignored the offer.
'The trouble with Mickey is that he has a nose like a bird dog, and people tell him things they think he would like to know,' Coughlin said. 'And he thinks like a cop.'
'He would have made a good cop,' Peter agreed.
He poured whiskey in a glass and added ice.
'After he fed me about four of these,' Coughlin said, 'he asked me whose birthday party it was we were all at at the Rittenhouse Club.'
'We meaning you, me, Matt, and the FBI?'
Coughlin nodded.
'What did you tell him?'
