"Florian will help you, if he can," Sergeant DeConti said.
"Gallagher, Grady, something Irish," McFadden said. "There's only three or four thousand Gallaghers in there, I'm sure," Corporal Florian said. "But we can look."
"Help yourself to some coffee, Sergeant," DeConti said. Then, "Damned shame about Dutch."
"A rotten shame," Hobbs agreed. "Three kids." Then he looked at DeConti. "I'm sure McFadden is right," he said. "Lieutenant Pekach said he's smart, a good cop. Even if he doesn't look much like one."
"I'm just glad I never got an assignment like that," DeConti said. " Some of it has to rub off. The scum he has to be with, I mean."
Hobbs had the unkind thought that Sergeant DeConti would never be asked to undertake an undercover assignment unless it became necessary to infiltrate a group of hotel desk clerks, or maybe the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. If you put a white collar on DeConti, Hobbs thought, he could easily pass for a priest.
Across the room, McFadden, a look of satisfaction on his face, was writing on a yellow, lined pad. He ripped off a sheet and handed it to Corporal Florian. Then he walked across the room to Hobbs and DeConti.
"Gerald Vincent Gallagher," he announced. "I remembered the moment I saw her sheet. He got ripped off about six months ago by some AfroAmerican gentlemen, near the East Park Reservoir in Fairmount Park. They really did a job on him. She came to see him in the hospital."
"Good man, McFadden," DeConti said. "Florian's getting his record?"
"Yes, sir. Her family lives in Holmesburg," McFadden went on. "I went looking for her there one time. Her father runs a grocery store around Lincoln High School. Nice people."
"This ought to brighten their day," Hobbs said.
Corporal Florian walked over with a card, and handed it, a little uneasily, to McFadden. DeConti and Hobbs leaned over to get a look.
"That's him. He's just out on parole, too," McFadden said.
"He fits the description," Hobbs said, and then went on: "If you were Gerald Vincent Gallagher, McFadden, where do you think you would be right now?"
McFadden's heavily bearded face screwed up in thought.
"I don't think I'd have any money, since I didn't get to pull off the robbery," he said. "So I don't think I would be on a bus or train out of town. And I wouldn't go back where I lived, in case I had been recognized, so I would probably be holed up someplace, probably in North Philly, if I got that far. Maybe downtown. I can think of a couple of places."
"Make up a list," Hobbs ordered.
"I'd sort of like to look for this guy myself, Sergeant," McFadden said.
Hobbs looked at him dubiously.
"I don't want to blow my cover, Sergeant," McFadden went on. "I could look for him without doing that."
"You can tell Lieutenant Pekach that I said that if he thinks you could be spared from your regular job for a while, that you could probably be useful to Detective Washington," Hobbs said. "IfWashington wants you."
"Thank you," McFadden said. "I'll ask him as soon as I get back to the office."
"Jason Washington's got the job?" Sergeant DeConti asked.
"Uh-huh," Hobbs said. He picked up the telephone and dialed it.
"Detention Unit, Corporal Delzinski."
"This is Sergeant Hobbs, Homicide, Corporal. The next time a wagon from the Sixth District-"
"There's one just come in, Sergeant," Delzinski interrupted.
"As soon as they drop off their prisoner, send them up to Criminal Records," Hobbs said. "I've got a prisoner that has to be transported to Narcotics. They'll probably have to fumigate the wagon, afterward, but that can't be helped."
DeConti laughed.
"We have a lot of time and money invested in making you a credible turd, McFadden," Hobbs said. "I would hate to see it all wasted."
"I understand, sir," McFadden said. "Thank you." A civilian employee from the photo lab, a very thin woman, walked up with three four-byfive photographs of Gerald Vincent Gallagher.
"I wiped them," she said. "But they're still wet. I don't know about putting them in an envelope."
"I'll just carry them the way they are," Hobbs said.
"McFadden, you make up your list. When the Sixth District wagon gets here, Sergeant DeConti will tell them to transport you to Narcotics. I'll send somebody up to get the list from you."
"Yes, sir," McFadden said.
"Thank you, Brother DeConti," Hobbs said. "It's always a pleasure doing business with you."
"I just hope you catch the bastard," DeConti said.
The Wackenhut Private Security officer did not raise the barrier when the blue Ford LTD nosed up to it, nor even when the driver tapped the horn. He let the bastard wait a minute, and then walked slowly over to the car.
"May I help you, sir?"
"Raise the barrier," Wohl said.
"Stockton Place is not a public thoroughfare, sir," the security officer said.
Wohl showed him his badge.
"What's going on, Inspector?" the security officer said.
"Nothing particular," Wohl said. "You want to raise that thing?"
Louise Dutton's old yellow Cadillac convertible, the roof now up, was parked three-quarters of the way down the cobblestone street.
When the barrier was raised, Wohl drove slowly down the street and pulled in behind the convertible. Wohl looked around curiously. He hadn't even known this place was here, although his office was less than a dozen blocks away.
Stockton Place looked, he thought, except for the cars on the street, as it must have looked two hundred years ago, when these buildings had been built.
He got out of the car, then crossed to the nearest doorway. There was no doorbell that he could see, and after a moment, he saw that the doorway was not intended to open; that it was a facade. He backed up, smiled more in amusement than embarrassment, and looked at the doorways to the right and left. There were doorbells beside the doorway on the left.
There were three of them, and one of them read DUTTON.
He saw that the door was slightly ajar, and tried it, and then pushed it open.
There was a small lobby inside. To the right was a shiny mailbox, and more doorbell buttons, these accompanied by a telephone. Beside the mailboxes was a door with a large brass "C" fixed to it, and a holder for a name card. Jerome Nelson.
There were three identical doors against the other wall. They each had identifying signs on them: stairway, elevator, service.
If "C" was the ground floor, Wohl reasoned, "A" would be the top floor. He opened the door marked elevator and found an open elevator behind it. He pushed "A". A door closed silently, faint music started to play, and the elevator started upward. It stopped, and the door opened and the music stopped. There was another door in front of him, with a lock and a peephole, and a doorbell button. He pushed it and heard the faint ponging of chimes.
"Whoever that is, Jerome," Louise Dutton said, "send them away."
Jerome walked quickly and delicately to the elevator door, rose on his toes, and put his eye to the peephole. It was a handsome, rather well dressed, man.
Jerome pulled the door open.
"I'm very sorry," he said, "but Miss Dutton is not receiving callers."
"Please tell Miss Dutton that Peter Wohl would like to see her," Wohl said.
"Just one moment, please," Jerome said.