“Actually, Peter, he will bring a fresh approach, which may very well be useful. Yesterday, when Tony walked Coughlin and our new sergeant through the Roy Rogers, Matt wondered aloud why Doer Two put his revolver under Charlton’s vest. Tony was somewhat chagrined that question hadn’t occurred to him.”
“Is that significant?”
“Never leave a stone unturned…” Washington began.
“… or the stone under the stone,” Wohl finished.
“You were, as I recall, an apt pupil,” Washington said. “It might be. It opens avenues of inquiry. ‘Is Doer Two a cop hater?’ for example. ‘Is he someone who knew, and intensely disliked, Kenny Charlton?’ ‘Did Stan Colt-which brings us to that-use the under-the-vest technique in one of his cinema fantasies?’ ”
“Yeah,” Wohl agreed. “What about Stan Colt?”
“The commissioner didn’t mention that Sergeant Payne’s services will be required in Dignitary Protection when Stan Colt comes to our fair city?”
“No,” Wohl said, simply. “He didn’t.”
“He apparently made a very good impression on Monsignor Schneider,” Washington said, “as incredible as that might sound. I am to lose his services temporarily whenever the Colt people think they need him.”
“Can’t you get me out of that?” Matt asked.
On the other hand, that would give me a lot of time with Terry.
“No,” Washington said. “Peter-Tony just walked in, shaking his head ruefully-you asked if there is anything I need. I just thought of something.”
“It’s yours,” Wohl said.
“I’m a little short of wheels. Sergeant Payne, obviously, will no longer be needing his sparkling new Crown Victoria.”
“Okay,” Wohl said. “And to prove what a fully cooperating fellow I am, I will even have Sergeant Payne deliver it to you, tomorrow when he reports for duty.”
“It’s always a pleasure dealing with you, Inspector,” Washington said, and the line went dead.
Peter removed the cellular phone from the hands-off system, laid it on the desk, and turned to Matt.
“Now, where were we?”
The telephone on his desk buzzed, and Wohl answered it.
The conversation was very brief.
Wohl said “Yes, sir” three times, “Yes, sir, at three” once, and “Yes, sir” one final time.
He looked at Matt again. “The commissioner thinks it would be a very good idea if I were to be at the Monti Funeral Home at three,” he said, “to coincide with the visit of the mayor, and his announcement that he has formed a task force to quickly get the Roy Rogers doers.”
Matt nodded.
“Now, where were we?” Wohl asked again.
When the Hon. Alvin W. Martin got out of the mayoral limousine at the Monti Funeral Home on South Broad Street in Yeadon, just outside the city limits, he paused long enough on the sidewalk to tell the press that he would have an announcement to make as soon as he had offered his condolences to Mrs. Charlton and the Charlton family.
Then he made his way into the funeral home itself, where he found the long, wide, carpeted central corridor of the building about half full of men with police badges on their uniforms, or hanging from breast pockets of suits, from chains around the necks, or on their belts.
Each of the badges had a narrow, black “mourning band”-sliced from the elastic cloth around the bottom of old uniform caps-across it.
The mayor spotted Deputy Commissioner Coughlin at almost the end of the corridor. Commissioner Mariani had told him that Coughlin knew Mrs. Charlton, and would escort him into the “viewing room” where Charlton’s body was laid out, wait until the mayor paid his respects at the casket, then introduce him to Mrs. Charlton, and finally lead him out of the viewing room.
Coughlin was in the center of a group of seven men. Mayor Martin recognized first Mr. Michael J. O’Hara of the Bulletin- no camera, and in a suit. What the hell is he doing here? And with these people? — and then Captain Hollaran, Coughlin’s executive assistant-or whatever the hell his title is-and Lieutenant Jason Washington. The others he could not remember having met-or, for that matter, even seen- before.
One was in the special uniform of the Highway Patrol, and as Martin drew closer, he saw the insignia of a captain. That made him the Highway Patrol’s commanding officer. That little fellow is the head of Highway Patrol? There was another captain, a large man with an imposing, even somewhat frightening, mien-Jesus, I’d hate to get on the wrong side of him! — in a standard police captain’s blue tunic and white shirt uniform.
The other two men-young men, one in his twenties, the other maybe ten years older-in Coughlin’s group didn’t look like policemen. Both were wearing gray, single-button suits very much like the suit the mayor was himself wearing- I’ll give three to two that they get their clothes in the same place, and that place is Brooks Brothers. They look like lawyers. I’ll give even money that’s what they are.
Well, I would have lost that one, he thought, as the older of the lawyers turned toward Commissioner Coughlin-probably to tell him he spotted me-and in doing so, his previously concealed breast pocket came into view. There was a black-banded badge hanging from it.
Martin extended his hand and smiled just a little as he reached Coughlin.
“A sad occasion, Commissioner,” he said.
“Indeed it is,” Coughlin said. “Mr. Mayor, I don’t believe you know any of these officers?”
“Aside from Captain Hollaran and Lieutenant Washington, I’m really sorry to say I don’t,” Martin said. “Good to see you, Jason, Captain.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mayor,” they said, almost in unison.
“This is Inspector Peter Wohl, of Special Operations,” Coughlin said, and the older lawyer put out his hand.
“How do you do, sir?”
“Captain Sabara, his deputy,” Coughlin went on, “and Captain Pekach of Highway Patrol.”
When the mayor had shaken their hands, Coughlin gestured toward the “other lawyer.”
“And this is Detective Payne, Mr. Mayor.”
“Is it indeed? Congratulations on the exam, Detective Payne.”
“Thank you.”
What I’m looking at here is the police establishment. A politically correct police establishment. Coughlin and Hollaran, the Irish cops of fame and legend; God only knows what the rough-looking one is, Eastern European, maybe; Wohl sounds German; Payne looks like a WASP. And Jason Washington representing the Afro-Americans- what did Washington say, “all cops are blue?” All we’re missing is a Jew.
As if on cue, a large, stocky, ruddy faced, barrel-chested man with a full head of curly silver hair, a badge with a mourning strip on it hanging from his pocket, walked up to the group. He was Chief Inspector of Detectives M. L. Lowenstein.
“Afternoon,” he said.
“Thank you for coming, Chief Lowenstein,” the mayor said. “I really wanted you here when I make the announcement. ”
Lowenstein nodded at him, then put out his hand to Detective Payne.
“I saw The List, Matt,” he said. “Congratulations.”
He knows Payne, too? That young man really gets around.
“Thank you.”
“Have you seen Denise?” Coughlin asked Lowenstein.
“Sarah and I went to the house Monday evening,” Lowenstein said, and looked at Commissioner Mariani. Neither the commissioner nor the mayor had trouble translating the look: I’ve already expressed my condolences, so there’s no reason for me to be here again, except for this political bullshit about a task force.
“Anytime you’re ready, Mr. Mayor,” Coughlin said. “I’ll take you in.”
“Right,” the mayor said, and nodded, and followed Coughlin into the viewing room.
It was a large room, with an aisle between rows of folding chairs. Up front, the first row of chairs on the right was upholstered. Mayor Martin saw the heads of two children on either side of a gray-haired woman-the widow and
