off, or whether Cohan is sending him a message. Cohan made it plain that he expects me to put him to work doing something worthy of his talent.'
'What did he do?' Payne asked.
Why the hell did I tell him any of this in the first place?
'He caught his wife in bed with a lawyer and beat them up.'
'Both of them?'
'Yeah, both of them. But that's not why he's being sent to us, I don' t think. The pressure began to affect his work.'
'I don't think I understand.'
And aside from that, the problems, personal or professional, of a lieutenant are really none of the business of a police officer. But I started this, didn't I? And Payne is really more than a run-of-themill young cop, isn't he?
'He's got a wild idea that Bob Holland is involved in auto theft,' Wohl said.
'Holland Cadillac?' Matt asked, a hint of incredulity in his voice.
'Yeah.'
'Is he?'
'I don't know. It strikes me as damned unlikely. If I had to bet, I'd say no. Why should he be? He's got a dealership on every other corner in Philadelphia. Presumably, they're making money. He sold the city the mayor's limousine. Hell, my father bought his Buick from him; he gives a police discount, whatever the hell that is. And Commissioner Cohan obviously doesn't think so; he thinks that the pressure got to Malone and his imagination ran away with him.'
'He was at the club yesterday. I saw him in the bar with that congressman I think is light on his feet.'
'Holland?' Wohl asked, and when Payne nodded, he went on, 'Which club was that?'
'We played at Whitemarsh Valley.'
'So Holland has friends in high places, right? Is that what you're driving at?'
'It would explain why the commissioner wants him out of the Auto Squad.'
'Yeah,' Wohl agreed a moment later. 'Well, if Holland is doing hot cars, that's now Lucci's concern, not Malone's.'
And I will make sure that Lieutenant Jack Malone clearly understands that.
'What are you going to do with him?' Payne asked.
'We now have a plans and training officer,' Wohl said. 'His name is Lieutenant John J. Malone.'
'What's he going to do?'
'I haven't figured that out yet,' Wohl said.
When Payne pulled into the parking lot, it was half past seven. The cars of Captain Mike Sabara, Wohl's deputy, and Captain Dave Pekach, the commanding officer of Highway Patrol, were already there. Payne wondered if Wohl had sent for them-the normal duty day began at eightor whether they had come in early on their own.
Once inside the building, Wohl, Sabara, and Pekach went into Wohl's office and closed the door. Payne understood that his presence was not desired.
He told the sergeant on the desk that if the inspector was looking for him, he had gone to park his car and to get the inspector's car.
When he came back and sat down at his desk, Wohl's phone began to ring.
'Inspector Wohl's office, Officer Payne.'
'My name is Special Agent Davis of the FBI,' the caller said. ' Inspector Wohl, please.'
'I'm sorry, sir, the inspector is tied up. May I have him call you back?'
'I wonder if you would please tell him that Special Agent in Charge Davis wants just a moment of time, and see if he'll speak to me?'
There was a tone of authority in Davis's voice that got through to Matt.
'Hold on, please, sir,' he said, and walked to the closed door. He knocked and then, without waiting, opened it.
'Sir, there's a Special Agent Davis-'Special Agent in Charge' is actually what he said-on twenty-nine. He said he wants 'just a moment of your time.' You want to talk to him?'
'For your general information, Officer Payne, Special Agent in Charge Davis is the high priest of the FBI in Philadelphia,' Wohl said. 'Yes, of course, I'll talk to him.' He picked up the telephone, pushed one of the buttons on it, and said, 'Hello, Walter. How are you?'
Payne closed the door and went back to his desk
When he got out of bed, at quarter past seven, John J. 'Jack' Malone almost immediately learned that among a large number of other things that had gone wrong recently in his life he could now count the plumbing system of the St. Charles Hotel, where he resided. Specifically, both the hot and cold taps in his bathroom ran ice-cold.
While he fully understood that the St.Charles was not in the league of the Bellevue-Stratford or the Warwick, neither was it a flea bag, and considering what they were charging him for his 'suite' (a bedroom, a tiny sitting room, and an alcove containing a small refrigerator, a two-burner electric stove, and a small table), it seemed to him that the least the bastards could do was make sure the hot water worked.
There was no question that it was not working. That, until he just now had been desperately hoping, it was not just the time required to get hot water up from the basement heater to the tenth floor. The damned water had been running full blast for five minutes and it was just as ice-cold now as it had been when he first turned it on.
A shower, under the circumstances, was clearly out of the question. Shaving was going to be bad enough (he had a beard that, even with a hot-towel preshave soak, wore out a blade every time he sawed it off); he was not going to stand under a torrent of ice water.
At least, he consoled himself, he had nobly kept John Jameson in his bottle last night. He had not so much as sniffed a cork for fortyeight hours, so he would not reek of old booze when he presented himself to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl and announced he was reporting for duty. All he would smell of was twenty-four hours worth of flaking skin plus more than a little nervous sweat. It was possible that a liberal sprinkling of cologne would mask that.
Possible or not, that was his only choice.
He had slept in his underwear, so he took that off, rubbed his underarms briskly with a stiff towel, and then patted himself there and elsewhere with cologne. The cologne, he was painfully aware, had been Little Jack's birthday gift to Daddy. Little Jack was nine, Daddy, thirty-four.
Three weeks before, the Honorable Seymour F. Marshutz of the Family Court had awarded Daddy very limited rights of visitation (one weekend a month, plus no more than three lunch or supper visits per month, with the understanding that Jack would give Mrs. Malone at least three hours notice, preferably longer, of his intention to exercise the lunch/supper privilege) in which to be Daddy.
He tore brown paper from around three bundles from the laundry before he found the one with underwear in it, and then put on a T-shirt and boxer shorts. Then he went to the closet for a uniform.
The uniform was new. The last time he'd worn a uniform, he had been a cop in the 13^th District. He'd worn plainclothes as a detective in South Detectives, and then when he'd made sergeant, he'd been assigned as driver to Chief Inspector Francis J. Cohan, another plainclothes assignment. When Chief Cohan had been made deputy commissionerOperations, as sort of a reward for a job well done, Cohan had arranged for Jack Malone to be assigned to the Major Crimes Division, still in plainclothes. When he'd made lieutenant, four months before, he had gone out and bought a new uniform, knowing, that sooner or later, he would need one. As commanding officer of the Auto Squad, it was up to him whether or not to wear a uniform; he had elected not to.
Sooner had come much quicker than he expected. Captain Charley Gaft, who commanded Major Crimes, had called him up yesterday and told him he was being transferred, immediately, to Special Operations, and suggested he use the holiday to clean out his desk in Major Crimes.
'Can I ask why?'
'Career enhancement,' Captain Gaft replied, after a just barely perceptible hesitation.
That was so much bullshit.
'I see.'
