The red light on his telephone answering machine in the bedroom was flashing. That was probably Sabara, he decided. But even if it wasn't, if it was either business, or more likely his mother, who was not yet convinced that he was really eating properly living by himself that way, it would have to wait until he had his shower.
He showered and shaved in the shower, a trick he had learned in the army, and started to dress. After he pulled on a pair of DAK slacks, he stopped. He knew Mike Sabara- now the Acting Commander of Highway Patrol, until they made it official-but they were not close friends. That made it likely that what Sabara wanted was official; that he would have to meet him somewhere, and he could not do that in lemoncolored DAKs and a polo shirt.
Barefoot, wearing only the DAKs, he pushed thePLAY button on the answering machine. The tape rewound, and then began to play. He had had a number of calls while he was outside putting the seats back in the XK-120. But most of the callers had either hung up when they heard the recorded message, or cussed and then hung up. Finally, he heard Mike Sabara's voice:
"Inspector, this is Mike Sabara. I'd like to talk to you. Would you call Radio and have them give me a number where you can be reached? Thank you."
This was followed by his mother's voice ("I don't know why I call, you're never home") and three more beeps and clicks indicating his callers' unwillingness to speak to a damned machine.
He looked at his watch and decided he didn't want to hang around until Sabara called him. He dialed the number of Police Radio from memory.
"This is Isaac Seventeen," he said. "Would you get word to Highway One that I'm at 928-5923 waiting for his call? No. Five ninetwo three. Thank you."
He decided another beer was in order, and went to the refrigerator in the kitchen and got one. Then he went back into the living room and sat down on his long, low, white leather couch and put his feet on the plate-glass coffee table before it to wait for Sabara's call.
Peter Wohl had once had a girlfriend, now married to a lawyer and living in Swarthmore, who had been an interior decorator, and who had donated her professional services to the furnishing of the apartment when it had seemed likely they would be married. From time to time he recalled what the couch, two matching chairs, and the plate-glass coffee table had cost him, even with Dorothea's professional discount. Everytime he did, he winced.
His door chimes went off. They were another vestige of Dorothea. She said they were darling. They played the first few bars of "Be It Ever So Humble, There's No Place Like Home."They were "custom," and not only had cost accordingly, but were larger than common, ordinary door chimes, so that when, post-Dorothea, he had tried to replace them, he couldn't, without repainting the whole damned wall by the door.
It was Naomi Schneider. He was annoyed but not surprised.
"Hi," she said. "All cleaned up?"
"I hope so," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Mel, my husband, asked me to ask you something," she said.
The phone began to ring.
"Excuse me," he said, and went toward it. When he realized that she had invited herself in, he walked past the phone on the end table and went into his bedroom and picked up the bedside phone.
"Hello?"
"Tom Lenihan, Inspector," his caller said.
Sergeant Tom Lenihan worked for Peter's boss, Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin. He was sort of a combination driver and executive assistant. Peter Wohl thought of him as a nice guy, and a good cop.
"What's up, Tom?"
"The Chief says he knows you worked all weekend, and it's your day off, and he's sorry, but something has come up, and he wants to see you this afternoon. I've got you scheduled for three-thirty. Is that okay?"
"What would you say if I said no?"
"I think I'd let you talk to the Chief." Lenihan chuckled.
"I'll be there."
"I thought maybe you could fit the Chief into your busy schedule," Lenihan said. "You being such a nice guy, and all."
"Go to hell, Tom," Wohl said, laughing, and hung up. He wondered for a moment if the Chief wanting to see him was somehow connected with Lieutenant Mike Sabara wanting to talk to him.
Then he became aware that Naomi Schneider was standing in the bedroom door, leaning on the jamb, and looking at the bed. On the bed were his handkerchief, his wallet, his keys, the leather folder that held his badge and photo-identification card, and his shoulder holster, which held a Smith amp; Wesson "Chief's Special" five-shot.38 Special revolver, all waiting to be put into, or between layers of, whatever clothing he decided to wear.
"What are you, a cop or something?" Naomi asked.
"A cop."
"A detective, maybe?" Naomi asked, visibly thrilled.
"Something like that."
Christ, now it will be all over the House by tomorrow morning!
"What does that mean?" Naomi asked. "Something like that?"
"I'm a Staff Inspector," he said. "And, Naomi, I sort of like for people not to know that I am."
"What's a Staff Inspector? "
"Sort of like a detective."
"And that's sort of a secret."
The phone rang again, and he picked it up.
"Peter Wohl," he said.
"Inspector, this is Mike Sabara."
Wohl covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
"Excuse me, please, Naomi?"
"Oh, sure," she said, and put her index finger in front of her lips in a gesture signifying she understood the necessity for secrecy.
When she turned around, he saw that her red underpants had apparently gathered in the decolletage of her buttocks; her cheeks peeked out naked from beneath the white shorts.
"What's up, Mike?" Wohl asked.
"I'd like to talk to you, if you can spare me fifteen minutes."
"Anytime. Where are you?"
"Harbison and Levick," Sabara said. "Could I come over there?"
The headquarters of the Second and Fifteenth districts, and the Northeast Detectives, at Harbison and Levick Streets, was in a squat, ugly, two-story building whose brown-and-tan brick had become covered with a dark film from the exhausts of the heavy traffic passing by over the years.
"Mike, I've got to go downtown," Wohl said, after deciding he really would rather not go to Harbison and Levick. "What about meeting me in DaVinci's Restaurant? At Twenty-first and Walnut? In about fifteen minutes?"
"I'll be there," Lieutenant Sabara said. "Thank you."
"Be with you in a minute, Naomi," Wohl called, and closed the door. He dressed in a white button-down shirt, a regimentally striped necktie, and the trousers to a blue cord suit. He slipped his arms through the shoulder holster straps, shrugged into the suit jacket, and then put the wallet and the rest of the impedimenta in various pockets. He checked his appearance in a mirror on the back on the door, then went into the living room, where he caught Naomi having a pull at the neck of his beer bottle.
"Very nice!" Naomi said.
"Naomi, I don't want to sound rude, but I have to go."
"I understand."
"What was it Mr. Schneider wanted you to ask me?" he asked.
"He said I should see if I could find out if you would consider subletting one of your garages."
"I'm sorry, I can't do that. I need one for the Jaguar, and my other car belongs to the city, and that has to be kept in a garage."
"Why?" It was not a challenge, but simple curiosity.
"Well, there's a couple of very expensive radios in it that the city doesn't want to have boosted."
"Boosted? You mean stolen?"
"Right."
"That makes sense," she said. "I'll tell Mel."
She got off the couch, displaying a large and not at all unattractive area of inner thigh in the process.
"Well," she said. "I'll let you go."
He followed her to the door, aware that as a gentleman he should not be paying as much attention as he was to her nakedgluteus maximus, which was peeking out the hem of her shorts.