Usually, Harry went wherever Lowenstein went. This morning, however, he sensed without a hint of any kind from Lowenstein that he would not be welcome in Captain Henry Quaire’s office when the Chief went in there to discuss the murder of Officer Jerome H. Kellog with Quaire and Lieutenant Natali.
He got himself a cup of coffee and stationed himself near the entrance to the Homicide Unit, where he could both keep an eye on Quaire’s office and intercept anybody who thought they had to see the Chief.
Chief Lowenstein came suddenly out of Quaire’s office and marched out of Homicide. As he passed Harry, he said, “I’ve got to go see the Dago.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Dago was the Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, the Honorable Jerry Carlucci.
They rode down to the lobby in the elevator, and out the door to where Harry had parked the Chief’s official Oldsmobile, by the CHIEF INSPECTOR DETECTIVE BUREAU sign at the door.
The police band radios came to life with the starting of the engine, and there was traffic on the command band:
“Mary One, William Five, at the Zoo parking lot,” one metallic voice announced.
“A couple of minutes,” a second metallic voice replied.
“Mary One” was the call sign of the limousine used by the Mayor of Philadelphia, “William” the identification code assigned to Special Operations.
“Who’s William Five?” Sergeant McElroy asked thoughtfully.
“Probably Tony Harris,” Lowenstein said. “Washington is William Four. But what I’d really like to know is why Special Operations is meeting the Mayor, or vice versa, in the Zoo parking lot. I wonder what wouldn’t wait until the Mayor got to his office.”
“Yeah,” McElroy grunted thoughtfully.
“Well, at least we know where to wait for the Mayor. City Hall, Harry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Weisbach call in this morning?”
“No, sir.”
“When we get to City Hall, you find a phone, get a location on Weisbach, call him, and tell him to stay wherever he is until I get back to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
When the mayoral Cadillac limousine rolled onto the sidewalk on the northeast corner of Philadelphia City Hall, which sits in the middle of the junction of Broad and Market streets in what is known as Center City, Chief Lowenstein was leaning against the right front fender of his Oldsmobile waiting for him.
He knew that Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernich habitually began his day by waiting in Mayor Carlucci’s office for his daily orders, and he wanted to see Mayor Carlucci alone.
Lowenstein walked quickly to the side of the long black Cadillac, reaching it just as Lieutenant Jack Fellows pulled the door open. He saw that his presence surprised Fellows, and a moment later, as he came out of the car, Mayor Carlucci as well.
“’Morning, Matt,” Carlucci said. He was a tall, large-boned, heavyset man, wearing a well-tailored, dark blue suit, a stiffly starched, bright-white shirt, a dark, finely figured necktie, and highly polished black wing-tip shoes.
He did not seem at all pleased to see Lowenstein.
“I need a minute of your time, Mr. Mayor.”
“Here, you mean,” Carlucci said, on the edge of unpleasantness, gesturing around at the traffic circling City Hall.
A citizen recognized His Honor and blew his horn. Carlucci smiled warmly and waved.
“Yes, sir,” Lowenstein said.
Carlucci hesitated a moment, then got back in the limousine and waved at Lowenstein to join him. Fellows, after hesitating a moment, got back in the front seat. The Mayor activated the switch that raised the divider glass.
“OK, Matt,” Carlucci said.
“A police officer has been shot,” Lowenstein began.
“Dead?” the Mayor interrupted. There was concern and indignation in the one word.
“Yes, sir. Shot in the back of his head.”
“Line of duty?”
“His name is Kellog, Mr. Mayor. He was an undercover officer assigned to the Narcotics Unit. He was found in his home about an hour ago.”
“By who?”
“When he didn’t show up for work, they sent a Twenty-fifth District car to check on him.”
“He wasn’t married?”
“Separated.”
“Has she been notified?”
“They are trying to locate her.”
“Get to the goddamned point, Matt.”
“The story is that she’s moved in with another detective.”
“Oh, Jesus! Do you know who?”
“Detective Wallace J. Milham, of Homicide.”
“Isn’t he the sonofabitch whose wife left him because she caught him screwing around with her sister?”
Mayor Carlucci’s intimate knowledge of the personal lives of police officers was legendary, but this display of instant recall surprised Lowenstein.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is what you’re trying to tell me that this guy, or the wife, is involved?”
“We don’t know, sir. That is, of course, possible.”
“You realize the goddamned spot this puts me in?” the Mayor asked rhetorically. “I show up, or Czernich shows up, to console the widow, and there is a story in the goddamned newspapers, and the day after that it comes out-and wouldn’t the Ledger have a ball with that?-that she’s really a tramp, shacked up with a Homicide detective, and they’re the doers?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why I thought I’d better get to you right away with this.”
“And if I don’t show up, or Czernich doesn’t, then what?” the Mayor went on. He turned to Lowenstein. “So what are you doing, Matt?”
“Detective Milham is on the street somewhere. They’re looking for him. A good man, Joe D’Amata, is the assigned detective. Lou Natali’s already on his way to the scene, and probably Henry Quaire, too.”
“You ever hear the story of the fox protecting the chicken coop?” Carlucci asked nastily. “If you haven’t, you can bet that the Ledger has.”
“Henry Quaire is a straight arrow,” Lowenstein said.
“I didn’t say he wasn’t. I’m talking about appearances. I’m talking about what the Ledger’s going to write.”
“I don’t think Wally Milham has had anything to do with this. I think we’re going to find it’s Narcotics- related.”
“A man who would slip the salami to his wife’s sister is capable of anything,” the Mayor said. “I have to think that maybe he did. Or the wife did, and if he’s shacked up with her…”
“So what do you want me to do, give it to Peter Wohl?”
“Wohl’s got enough on his back right now,” the Mayor said.
You mean running an investigation of corruption that I’m not even supposed to know about, even though I’m the guy charged with precisely that responsibility?
“What’s the name of that mousy-looking staff inspector? Weis-something?”
“Mike Weisbach?”
“Him. He’s good, and he’s a straight arrow.”
You used to think I was a straight arrow, Jerry. What the hell happened to change your mind?
“What are you going to do? Have him take over the investigation?”
