Lieutenant Bob McGrory, who had taken him to the garage, picked him up after work there and then insisted he come home with him for supper. He had been at first reluctant and uncomfortable, but McGrory' s wife, Mary- Ellen, made him feel welcome, and McGrory produced a bottle of really good scotch, and they sat around killing that, and telling Dutch Moffitt stories, and Peter's mouth finally loosened, and he told McGrory why he really had been sent to Atlantic City.
He left then, aware that he was a little drunk, and not wanting to confide in Bob McGrory the painful details of his romance with Miss Louise Dutton.
On his arrival in Atlantic City, in a fey mood, he had taken a room in the Chalfonte-Haddon Hall, a thousand- room landmark on the boardwalk, rather than in a smaller hotel or a motel. He had told himself that he would endure his time in purgatory at least in luxury.
It was, he decided,faded grandeur rather thanluxury. But it did have a bar, and he stopped there for a nightcap before he went to his room. He had just had another one-way conversation with Louise Dutton's answering machine, the machine doing all the talking, when there was a knock at his door.
'Hi,' she said. 'I saw you downstairs in the bar, and thought you might like a little company.'
He laughed.
'What's so funny?'
'I'm a cop,' he said.
'Oh,shit!'
He watched her flee down the corridor, and then, smiling, closed the door and walked across the room to his bed.
The phone rang.
Please, God, let that be Louise! Virtue is supposed to be its own reward.
'Did I wake you up?' Lieutenant Bob McGrory asked.
'No problem, I had to answer the phone anyway,' Wohl said, pleased with his wit.
'I just had a call from a friend of mine on the Atlantic City vice squad,' McGrory said. 'Two gentlemen were in an establishment called the Black Banana earlier this evening. They paid for their drinks with a Visa credit card issued to Jerome Nelson. The manager called it in. I understand he needs a friend-several friends-in the police department right now.'
'The Black Banana?' Wohl asked. 'If it's what it sounds like, we've got one of those in Philly.'
'Maybe it's a franchise,' McGrory said, chuckling.
'They still there?'
'No. The cops are checking the hotels and motels. They have what may be a name from the manager of the Black Banana, and they're also checking to see if anyone is registered as Jerome Nelson. They have a stakeout at the Banana, too.'
'Interesting,' Peter said.
'I told my friend I'd call him back and tell him if you wanted to be waked up if they find them.'
'Oh, yes,' Peter Wohl said. 'Thank you, Bob.'
On his fifth day in Atlantic City, when Peter Wohl walked into the state trooper barracks, Lieutenant Robert McGrory told him that he had just that moment hung up from talking with Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin.
' 'Almost all is forgiven, come home' is the message, Peter,' Lieutenant McGrory said.
'Thank you,' Peter said. 'Thanks for everything.'
'Any time. You going right back?'
'Yeah,' Peter said. 'My girl friend's probably finally given up on me.'
'The one at the church? Very nice.'
'Her, too,' Peter said.
There was a Mayflower moving van parked on the cobblestone street before Six Stockton Place.
It is altogether fitting and proper, Peter Wohl thought, that I should arrive here at the exact moment they are carrying out Louise's bed.
But he got out of the LTD anyway, and walked into the building and rode up in the elevator. The door to Louise's apartment was open, and he walked in.
There were two men standing with a packing list.
'Where are you taking this stuff?' Peter asked.
'What's it to you?'
'I'm a police officer,' Peter said, and took out his ID.
The man handed him a clipboard with forms on it. The household furnishings listed below were to be shipped to 2710 Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois, Apartment 1705.
'Thank you,' Peter said.
'Something wrong?'
'Nothing at all,' Peter said, and left the apartment and got in the LTD and drove to the Roundhouse.
He parked the car and went in and headed for the elevators, then turned and went to the receptionist's desk.
'Let me have that phone, will you please?' Peter asked.
He knew the number of WCBL-TV by memory now.
They told him they were sorry, Miss Louise Dutton was no longer connected with WCBL-TV.
He pushed the phone back to the officer on duty and walked toward the elevators.
When the door opened, Commissioner Taddeus Czernick and Sergeant Jankowitz got out. Jankowitz's eyes widened when he saw Wohl.
'Good afternoon, Commissioner,' Peter said.
'Got a minute, Peter?' Czernick said, and took Wohl's arm and led him to one side.
'I think I owe you an apology,' Czernick said.
'Sir?'
'I should have known you weren't the one with diarrhea of the mouth,' Czernick said.
'No apology is necessary, Commissioner,' Peter said.
Czernick met his eyes for a moment, and nodded.
'Well, I suppose you're ready to go back to your regular duties, aren't you, Peter?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Give my regards to your dad, when you see him,' Czernick said. He smiled at Peter, patted his shoulder, and walked away.
Peter got on the elevator and rode up to Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin's office.
'Well, good afternoon, Inspector,' Sergeant Tom Lenihan said, smiling broadly at him. 'How nice to see you. I'll tell the chief you're here.'
Dennis V. Coughlin greeted him by saying, 'I was hoping you would walk in here about now. You can buy me lunch. You owe me one, I figure.'
'Yes, sir. No argument about that.'
They went, with Tom Lenihan, to Bookbinder's Restaurant. Coughlin ate a dozen cherrystone clams and drank a bottle of beer before he got into the meat of what he wanted to say.
'Commissioner Czernick happened to run into Mickey O'Hara,' Coughlin said. 'And the subject somehow turned to the story Mickey wrote quoting an unnamed senior police officer to the effect that we were looking for a Negro homosexual in connection with the Nelson murder.'
'You set that up, didn't you, Chief?' Peter said.
'Mickey wouldn't tell him who the unnamed police officer was, but he did tell him, swearing by all that's holy, that it wasn't you.'
'And the commissioner believed him?'
