“I never thought about that,” Matt said. “I wonder why he never got married?”
“I thought you knew,” Brewster Payne said, after a moment. “He was in love with your mother.”
“And she picked you over him?” Matt said, genuinely surprised. “I never heard that before.”
“He never told her; I don’t think she ever suspected. Not then, anyway. But I knew. I knew the first time I ever met him.”
“Jesus!” Matt said.
“Would you like to hear my theory—theories—about this mysterious assignment of yours?”
“Sure.”
“I think Dennis Coughlin is about as happy about you being a policeman as I am; that is to say he doesn’t like it one little bit. He’s concerned for your welfare. He doesn’t want to have to get on the telephone and tell your mother that you’ve been hurt, or worse. Theory One is that you are really going to go to Highway. Dennis hopes that you will hate it; realize the error of your decision, and resign. Theory Two; which will stand by itself, or may be a continuation of Theory One, is that if you persist in being a policeman, the best place for you to learn the profession is from its most skilled practitioners, the Highway Patrol generally, and under Inspector Wohl. I found it interesting that Wohl was given command of this new Special Operations Division. Even I know that he’s one of the brightest people in the Police Department, a real comer.”
“I met him the night of Uncle Dutch’s wake,” Matt said. “In a bar. When I told him that I was thinking of joining the Department, he told me I would think better of it in the morning; that it was the booze talking.”
“Theory Three,” Brewster Payne said, “or perhaps Two (a), is that Dennis has sent you to Wohl, with at least an indication on his part that he would be pleased if Wohl could ease you out of the Police Department with your ego intact.”
Matt considered that a moment, then exhaled audibly. “Well, I won’t know will I, until I get there?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Matt wolfed down his Taylor ham on toast, then started to put on his shoulder holster.
“They issue you that holster?” Brewster Payne asked.
“No, I bought it a week or so ago,” Matt said. “When I wear a belt holster under a jacket, it stands out like a sore thumb.”
“What about getting a smaller gun?”
“You can’t do that until you pass some sort of examination, qualify with it,” Matt said. “I wasn’t that far along in the Academy when I was—I suppose the word is ‘graduated.’”
“There’s something menacing about it,” Brewster Payne said.
“It’s also heavy,” Matt said. “I’m told that eventually you get used to it, and feel naked if you don’t have it.” He shrugged into the seersucker jacket. “Now,” he said, smiling. “No longer menacing.”
“Unseen, but still menacing,” his father responded, then changed the subject. “You said you were having headlight trouble with the bug?”
The bug, a Volkswagen, then a year old, had been Matt Payne’s sixteenth-birthday present, an award for making the Headmaster’s List at Episcopal Academy.
“I don’t know what the hell is the matter with it; there’s a short somewhere. More likely a break. Whenever I start out to fix it, it works fine. It only gives me trouble at night.”
“There is, I seem to recall, another car in the garage,” Brewster Payne said. “On which, presumably, both headlights function as they should.”
The other car was a silver, leather-upholstered Porsche 911T, brand new, presented to Matthew Payne on the occasion of his graduation, cum laude, from the University of Pennsylvania.
“Very tactfully phrased,” Matt said. “Said the ungrateful giftee.”
He had not driven the Porsche to Philadelphia, or hardly at all, since he had joined the Police Department.
His father read his mind: “You’re afraid, Matt, that it will…set you apart?”
“Oddly enough, I was thinking about the Porsche just now,” Matt said. “Hung for a sheep as a lion, so to speak.”
“I think you have that wrong; it’s sheep and lamb, not lion,” Brewster Payne replied, “but I take your point.”
“I am being—what was it you said?—being ‘set apart’ as it is,” Matt said. “Why not?”
“I really do understand, Matt.”
“If I am sexually assaulted by one or more sex-crazed females driven into a frenzy when they see me in that car…”
“What?” his father asked, chuckling.
“I’ll tell you how it was,” Matt said, and smiled, and went out of the kitchen, pausing for a moment to throw an affectionate arm around Brewster C. Payne.
Payne, sipping his coffee, went to the kitchen window and watched as Matt opened one of the four garage doors, then emerged a moment later behind the wheel of the Porsche.
He should not be a policeman, he thought. He should be in law school. Or doing almost anything else.
Matt Payne tooted “Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits” on the Porsche’s horn, and then headed down the driveway.
TEN
Officers Jesus Martinez and Charles McFadden arrived together, in Officer McFadden’s Volkswagen, at Highway Patrol headquarters at quarter to eight, determined to be on time and otherwise to make a good first impression. They were both wearing business suits and ties, McFadden a faintly plaided single-breasted brown suit, and Martinez a sharply tailored double-breasted blue pinstripe.
He looked, McFadden accused him, not far off the mark, like a successful numbers operator on his way to a wedding.
The available parking spaces around the relatively new building were all full. There were a row of Highway motorcycles parked, neatly, as if in a military organization, at an angle with their rear wheels close to the building; and a row of Highway radio cars, some blue-and-whites identifiable by the lettering on their fenders, and some, unmarked, by their extra radio antennae and black-walled high-speed tires.
There were also the blue-and-whites assigned to the Seventh District, the Seventh District’s unmarked cars, and several new-model cars, which could have belonged to any of the department’s senior officers.
And there was a battered Chevrolet, festooned with radio antennae, parked in a spot identified by a sign as being reserved for Inspectors.
“That’s Mickey O’Hara’s car,” Charley McFadden said. “I wonder what he’s doing here?”
“There was a woman kidnapped last night,” Hay-zus said. “It was on the radio.”
“Kidnapped?” McFadden asked.
“Couple of people saw some nut forcing her into a van, with a knife,” Hay-zus said.
They had driven through the parking area without having found a spot to park. McFadden drove halfway down the block, made a U-turn, and found a parking spot at the curb.
“That’s abducting,” McFadden said.
“What?”
“What you said was kidnapping was abducting,” McFadden said. “Kidnapping is when there’s ransom.”
“Screw you,” Hay-zus said, in a friendly manner, and then, “Hey, look at them wheels!”
A silver Porsche was coming out of the parking lot, apparently after having made the same fruitless search for a place to park they had.
“I’d hate to have to pay insurance on a car like that,” McFadden said.
“You got enough money to buy a car like that, you don’t have to worry about how much insurance costs,” Hay-zus said.
Both of them followed the car as it drove down Bowler Street past them.
“I know that guy,” Charley McFadden said. “I seen him someplace.”
“Really? Where?”
“I don’t know, but I know that face.”
Jesus Martinez looked at his watch, a gold-cased Hamilton with a gold bracelet and diamond chips on the face instead of numbers, and on which he owed eighteen (of twenty-four) payments at Zale’s Credit Jewelers.
“Let’s go in,” he said. “It’s ten of.”
&n
bsp; McFadden, not without effort, worked himself out from under the Volkswagen’s steering wheel, then broke into a slow shuffle to catch up with Martinez.
They went into the building through a door off the parking lot, through which they could see Highway Patrolmen entering.
They looked for and found the to-be-expected window counter opening on the squad room. A Corporal was leaning on the counter, filling out a form. They waited until he was through, and looked at them curiously.
“We were told to report to the Commanding Officer of Highway at eight,” Hay-zus said.
“You’re a police officer?” the Corporal asked, doubtfully.
“Yeah, we’re cops,” Charley McFadden said.
“I know you,” the Corporal said. “You’re the guy who ran down the shit who was the doer in Captain Moffitt’s shooting.”
McFadden almost blushed.
“We were,” he said, nodding at Martinez. “This is my partner, Hay-zus Martinez.”
“What do you want to see the Captain about? The reason I ask is that he’s busy as hell right now; I don’t know when he’ll be free.”
“Beats me,” McFadden said. “We was told to report to him at eight.”
“Well, have a seat. When he’s free, I’ll tell him you’re here. There’s a coffee machine and a garbage machine around the corner.” He pointed.
“Thanks,” Charley said, and walked around the corner to the machines, not asking Hay-zus if he wanted anything. Hay-zus was a food freak; he didn’t eat anything that had preservatives in it, or drink anything with chemical stimulants in it, like coffee, which had caffeine, or Coke, which had sugar and God only knows what other poison for the body.
When Charley returned, a minute or two later, holding a Mounds bar in one hand and a can of Coke in the other, Hay-zus nodded his head toward the counter. The guy they had seen in the Porsche, the one Charley said he knew from someplace, was talking to the Corporal. As Charley watched, he turned and headed for where Hay-zus was sitting on one of the row of battered folding metal chairs.
Charley walked over and sat down, and then leaned over Hay-zus.
“Don’t I know you from somewheres?”
“Is your name McFadden?” Matt Payne asked.
“Yeah.”
“I was at your house the night you got Gerald Vincent Gallagher.”
“You were?” Charley asked. “I don’t remember that.”
“I was there with Chief Coughlin,” Matt said. “And Sergeant Lenihan.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember now,” Charley said, although he did not. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Matt said. “Yourself?”
There was a sort of stir as someone else came through the door from the parking lot. Matt recognized Peter Wohl; he wondered if Wohl would recognize him.
Wohl recognized all three of the young men on the folding metal chairs. He gave them a nod, and kept walking toward his office.
God damn it, you’re a commanding officer now. Act like one.
He turned and walked to the three of them, his hand extended first to Martinez.
“How are you, Martinez?” he said, and turned before Martinez, who wasn’t quite sure of Wohl’s identity, could reply. “And McFadden. How’s it going? And you’re Payne, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I’m free,” Wohl said. “The way things are going, that may be a while.”
“Yes, sir,” McFadden and Martinez said, having found their voices.
Wohl then walked across the room and through the door to his outer office. Three people were in it: a Highway Sergeant, who had been Dutch Moffitt’s Sergeant, then Mike Sabara’s, and was not Dave Pekach’s; Sergeant Eddy Frizell, in uniform, and looking a little sloppy compared to the Highway Sergeant; and Michael J. O’Hara, of the Bulletin.
The Highway Sergeant got to his feet when he saw Wohl, and after a moment, Frizell followed suit.
“Good morning, Inspector,” the Highway Sergeant said.
“Good morning,” Wohl said. “What do you say, Mickey? You waiting to see somebody?”
“You,” O’Hara said.
“Well, then, come on in,” Wohl said. “You can watch me drink a cup of coffee.” He turned to look at the Highway Sergeant. “There is coffee?”
“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said. “Sir, Chief Coughlin wants you to phone as soon as you get in.”
“Get me and Mickey a cup of coffee, and then get the Chief on the line,” Wohl ordered.
Captains Sabara and Pekach were in what until yesterday had been the office of the Commanding Officer of Highway Patrol, and what was now, until maybe other accommodations could be found, the office of the Commanding Officer of Special Operations Division. Sabara, who was wearing black trousers and plain shoes, and not the motorcyclist’s boots of Highway, was sitting in an armchair. Petach, who was wearing Highway boots, and a Sam Browne belt, was sitting across from him on a matching couch.
They both started to get up when they saw Wohl. He waved them back into their seats.
“Good morning,” Wohl said.
“Good morning, Inspector,” they both said. Wohl wondered if that was, at least on Mike Sabara’s part, intended to show him that he was pissed, or whether it was in deference to the presence of Mickey O’Hara.
“Chief Coughlin wants you to call him as soon as you get in,” Sabara said.
“The sergeant told me,” Wohl said. “Well, anything new?”
“No van and no woman,” Sabara said.
“Damn!” Peter said.
“I called the hospital just a moment ago,” Pekach said. “We have two still on the critical list, one of ours and the wife. The other two, the husband and our guy, are ‘stabilized’ and apparently out of the woods.”
The Highway Sergeant came in and handed first Wohl and then Mickey O’Hara a china mug of coffee.
“Nothing on the woman? Or the van? Nothing?” Wohl asked.
“All we have for a description is a dark van, either a Ford or a Chevy,” Sabara said. “That’s not much.”
One of the two telephones on Wohl’s desk buzzed. He looked at it to see which button was illuminated, punched it, and picked up the handset.
“Inspector Wohl,” he said.
“Dennis Coughlin, Peter,” Chief Coughlin said.
“Good morning, sir.”
“You got anything?”
“Nothing on the van or the woman,” Peter said. “Pekach just talked to the hospital. We have one civilian, the wife, and one police officer on the critical list. The husband and the other cop are apparently out of danger.”
“Have you seen the paper? The Ledger, especially?”
“No, sir.”
“You should have a look at it. You’ll probably find it interesting,” Coughlin said. “Keep me up to date, up to the moment, Peter.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said.
He heard Coughlin hang the phone up.
“Has anybody seen the Ledger?” Peter asked.
Pekach picked up a folded newspaper from beside him on the couch, walked across the room to Wohl’s desk and laid it out for him.
There was a three-column headline, halfway down the front page, above a photograph of the wrecked cars.
* * *
SPEEDING HIGHWAY PATROL CAR KILLS FOUR-YEAR-OLD
* * *
Below the photograph was a lengthy caption:
* * *
This Philadelphia Highway Patrol car, racing to the scene of a reported abduction, ran a red light on Second Street at Olney Ave. and smashed into the side of a 1970 Chevrolet sedan at 8:45 last night, killing Stephen P. McAvoy, Jr., aged four, of the 700 block of Garland Street, instantly. His father and mother, Stephen P., 29, and Mary Elizabeth McAvoy, 24, were taken to Albert Einstein Northern Division Hospital, where both are reported in critical condition. Both policemen in the police car were seriously injured.
The tragedy occurred the day after Peter Wohl, a Police Department Staff
Inspector, was given command of the Highway Patrol, in a move widely believed to be an attempt by Commissioner Taddeus Czernick to tame the Highway Patrol, which has been widely criticized in recent months.
(More photos and the full story on page 10A. The tragedy is also the subject of today’s editorial.)
* * *
Peter shook his head and looked around the office.
“We didn’t run the stop light,” David Pekach said. “The guy in the Ford ran it.”
Peter met his eyes.
“Hawkins told me the light had just turned green as he approached Olney Avenue,” Pekach said. “I believe him. He was too shook up to lie.”
“He was driving?” Peter asked.
“Nobody’s going to believe that,” Mickey O’Hara said. “You guys better find a witness.”
“I hope we’re working on that,” Wohl said.
“I’ve got guys ringing doorbells,” Pekach said.
“How’s the Bulletin handling this story, Mickey?” Wohl asked.
“It wasn’t quite as bad as that,” Mickey O’Hara said. “Cheryl Davies wrote the piece. But I’m here for a statement.”
“We deeply regret the tragedy,” Wohl said. “The incident is under investigation.”
O’Hara shrugged. “Why did I suspect you would say something like that?” he said.
“It’s the truth,” Wohl said. “It’s all I have to give you.”
“What about the abducted female? The Northwest Philly rapist? On or off the record,” O’Hara said.
Wohl’s phone buzzed again, and he picked it up.
“Inspector Wohl,” he said.
“Taddeus Czernick, Peter. How are you?”
“Good morning, Commissioner,” Peter said.
Both Pekach and Sabara got up, as if to leave.
Probably, Peter thought, because they figure if they leave, Mickey O’Hara will take the hint and leave with them.
He waved them back into their seats.
“Fine, sir. How about yourself?”
“It looks as if we sent you over at just the right time,” Czernick said. “You’ve seen the papers?”
Special Operations Page 16
