He left Captain Quaire's office and walked back to his desk and searched through it until he found Peter Wohl's home telephone number. He started to go back to Quaire's office for the privacy it would give him and then decided to hell with it. He sat down and dialed the number.
On the fourth ring there was a click. 'This is 555-8251,' Wohl's recorded voice announced. 'When this thing beeps, you can leave a message.'
Natali raised his wrist to look at his watch and waited for the beep.
'Inspector, this is Lieutenant Natali of Homicide. It's five minutes after nine. If you get this message within the next fortyfive-'
'I'm here, Lou,' Peter Wohl said, interrupting. 'What can I do for you?'
'Sorry to bother you at home, Inspector.'
'No problem. I'm sitting here trying to decide if I want to go out for a pizza or go to bed hungry.'
'Inspector, did you hear about Tony the Zee?'
'No. You are talking about Anthony J. DeZego?'
'Yes, sir. He got himself blown away about an hour and a half ago. Shotgun. On the roof of the Penn Services Parking Garage behind the Bellevue-Stratford. There's some suggestion it's narcotics-related.'
'Those who live by the needle die by the needle,' Wohl said, mockingly sonorous. 'You got the doer?'
'No, sir. Not a clue so far.'
'Am I missing something, Lou?' Wohl asked.
'Inspector, Narcotics is interviewing one of your men. He found the body and-'
'They think he's connected. Got a name?'
'Payne,' Natali said.
'Payne?'Wohl parroted disbelievingly. 'Matthew Payne?'
'Yes, sir. I thought you would like to know.'
'Why do they think he was involved?'
'There was another victim, Inspector. A girl. Penelope Detweiler. A 9^th District wagon carried her to Hahneman. Payne knew her. And he removed his car from the crime scene right afterward. I think that's what made them suspicious.'
There was a moment's silence on the line.
'Where do they have him?'
'They had him here, but they just left. Sergeant Dolan?'
'Don't know him.'
'And another guy. Plainclothes or a detective. I don't know him. Dolan said they were going to get Payne's girlfriend and his car-she has the car-and finish the interview at Narcotics.'
'Thank you, Lou. I owe you one. How many does that make now?'
Staff Inspector Peter Wohl hung up without waiting for a reply.
Peter Wohl put the telephone back in its cradle and stood up. He had been sprawled, in a light blue cotton bathrobe, on the white leather couch in his living room, dividing his attention between television (a mindless situation comedy but one that featured an actress with a spectacular bosom and a penchant for low-necked blouses) and a well-worn copy of a paperbound book entitledWiring Scheme, Jaguar 1950 XK120 Drophead Coupe.
Above the couch (which came with two matching armchairs and a plate-glass and chrome coffee table) was a very large oil painting of a voluptuous and, by current standards, somewhat plump, nude lady that had once hung behind the bar of a now defunct men's club in downtown Philadelphia. The service bar of the same club, heavy 1880s mahogany, was installed across the room from the leather furniture and the portrait of the naked, reclining, shyly smiling lady.
The decor clashed, as Peter Wohl ultimately had, with the interior designer who had gotten him the leather, glass, and chrome furniture at her professional discount when she had considered becoming Mrs. Peter Wohl. Dorothea was now a Swarthmore wife, young mother, and fading memory, but he often thought that the white leather had become a permanent part of his life. Not that he liked it. He had found out that the resale value of high- fashion furniture was only a small fraction of its acquisition cost, even if that cost had reflected a forty-percent professional discount.
He turned the television off and went into his bedroom. His apartment had once been the chauffeur's quarters, an apartment built over the slate-roofed, four-car garage behind a turn-of-the-century mansion on Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill. The mansion itself had been converted into luxury apartments.
He went to his closet, hung the bathrobe neatly on a hanger, and took a yellow polo shirt, sky-blue trousers, and a seersucker jacket from the closet. He put the shirt and trousers on, and then a shoulder holster that held a Smith amp; Wesson.38-caliber Chief's Special fiveshot revolver.
Still barefoot, he sat down on his bed and pulled the telephone on the bedside table to him.
'Special Operations, Lieutenant Lucci.'
'Peter Wohl, Tony,' Wohl said. Lieutenant Lucci was actually the watch officer for the four-to-midnight shift of the Highway Patrol. When Special Operations had been formed, it had moved into the Highway Patrol headquarters at Bustleton and Bowler Streets in Northeast Philadelphia. For the time being at least, with Special Operations having nowhere near its authorized strength, Wohl had decided that there was no way (for that matter, no reason) to have the line squad supervisor on duty for the four-to-midnight and midnight-to-eight shift. The Highway watch officer could take those calls.
'Good evening, sir,' Lucci said. Two weeks before, Lucci had been a sergeant, assigned as Mayor Jerry Carlucci's driver. Before that he had been a Highway sergeant. Wohl thought he was a nice guy and a good cop, even if his closeness to the mayor was more than a little worrisome.
'What do you know about DeZego getting himself shot, Tony?'
'Blown away, Inspector,' Lucci said. 'With a shotgun. On the roof of that parking garage behind the Bellevue- Stratford. Nick DeBenedito went in on the call. We were just talking about it.'
'Is he there?'
'I think so. You want to talk to him?'
'Please.'
Sergeant Nick DeBenedito came on the line thirty seconds later. ' Sergeant DeBenedito, sir.'
'Tell me what happened with Tony the Zee, DeBenedito.'
'Well, I was downtown, and there was a 'shots-fired,' so I went in on it. It was on the roof of the parking garage behind the Bellevue. Inspector, I didn't know he was a cop.'
'That who was a cop?'
'Payne. I mean, he was wearing a tuxedo and he had a gun, so I put him down on the floor. As soon as Martinez told me he was a cop, I let him up and said I was sorry.'
Peter Wohl smiled at the mental image of Matt Payne lying on the concrete floor of the parking garage in his formal clothes.
'What went down on the roof?'
'Well, the way I understand it, Payne went up there in his car with his girlfriend, saw the first victim-the girl. She was wounded. So he sent his girl downstairs to the attendant's booth to call it in, tried to help the girl, and then he found Tony the Zee. The doerdoers-had a shotgun. They practically took Tony the Zee's head off. Anyway, then we got there. The doers were long gone. I sent Martinez with the wagon to see if he could get a dying declaration-'
'Did she die?'
'No, sir. But Martinez said she was never conscious, either.'
'Okay.'
'So I hung around until Lieutenant Lewis from the 9^th, and then the Homicide detectives, showed up, and then I went to the hospital and got Martinez and we resumed patrol.'
'Do you have any reason to think that Payne was involved?'
'Lieutenant,' DeBenedito said uncomfortably, 'what I saw was a civilian with a gun at a crime scene. How
