"Sometimes, Charley," Frank F. Young of the FBI said, "it's a good idea to let the taxpayers know where their money is going."
"Let me bring everybody up-to-date on where we stand," Lowenstein said, cutting off what could have been an argument about dealing with the press.
He went on: "We had ninety-six Wheatleys on the list. Eighty-nine of them have been contacted, and are off the list, which means we are down to seven. These are Wheatleys who were not at home when we rang doorbells. Or didn't answer the doorbell.
"We have detectives in unmarked cars sitting on the seven, backed up by Highway RPCs. If anyone leaves those seven houses, we will talk to them.
"Of the seven, two look more promising than the others. One is listed under the name of Wheatley, Stephen J., in the 5600 block of Frazier Avenue, and the other is Wheatley, M. C, in the 120 block of Farragut. Both these houses are in middle class neighborhoods, which fits in both with somebody owning property in the sticks in Jersey and with the psychological profile we have of this guy. He's well educated, and it would figure he's making a decent living.
"Inspector Wohl believes, and Chief Coughlin and I agree, that taking either of these doors tonight would probably be counterproductive."
"Can I ask why?" Inspector Jenks asked.
"Worst case scenario, Inspector," Wohl said. "He's in there. He's got explosives. He sets them off, and takes half the neighborhood with him."
"Next worse case scenario, Wally," Chief Coughlin said. "He's not in there. He's the editor of theCatholic Messenger. On his way to complain to the cardinal archbishop that while he and wife were having a retreat at Sacred Heart Monastery, the cops took his front and back doors and scared hell out of his cat, he stops by the PhiladelphiaLedger to tell Arthur Nelson what Carlucci's Commandos have done to him."
That produced more outright laughter than chuckles.
"And Jerry Carlucci, Wally," Lowenstein added, "said he wants to be there if we take anybody's door."
"I agree with Inspector Wohl too," H. Charles Larkin said. "I don' t think, if our man is in one of these houses, that he's liable to do anything tonight. Unless, of course, we panic him. Then all bets are off."
"So what Peter has come up with is this," Lowenstein went on. "At half past seven tomorrow morning, it gets light at six-fifty, we are going to send detectives to the houses adjacent to the houses in question and see what the neighbors know about Wheatley, Stephen J., and Wheatley, M. C. If it looks at all that there's a chance he's our guy, we evacuate the houses in the area, and then we take the door. Stakeout will take the door, backed up by Highway and Ordnance Disposal."
"And what if he's not our man?" Inspector Jenks asked.
"Then we take a look at the other five houses where nobody was home. There will be people still on them, of course."
And if we shoot blanks there too, Wohl thought, we're back to square one.
"So what happens now?" Inspector Jenks asked.
"I don't know about you, Wally," Coughlin said, "but I'm going to go home and go to bed."
"You each, you and Chief Lowenstein, are going to take one of these houses?" Jenks asked.
"That's up to Inspector Wohl," Lowenstein said. "Peter?"
"I'm going to be between the two houses," Wohl said. "Which door we take first, if we take any at all, will depend on what the detectives come up with when they talk to the neighbors. We'll do them one at a time."
"And the mayor's going to be there?"
"Yes, sir. That's what he said."
"And we'll be with Peter and the mayor," Lowenstein said. "Denny's going to pick him up at his house in Chestnut Hill at seven."
Lowenstein put a match to a large black cigar, then turned to Wohl.
"Is that about it, Peter?"
"Yes, sir. All that remains to be done is to pass the word."
"Then I'm going home," Lowenstein said, and walked out of the room.
The meeting was over.
TWENTY-SEVEN
As Mr. Ricco Baltazari walked down the corridor to the door of Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer's apartment, at quarter to one in the morning, he was aware that several things were bothering him.
There was the obvious, of course, that he was between the rock (Mr. Savarese) and the hard place (Mssrs. Gian-Carlo Rosselli and Paulo Cassandro) about this goddamned cop. If the cop either didn't look like he could handle what was required of him or, worse, that he was maybe setting them up, he would have to tell Mr. S. that he thought so, or risk winding up pushing up grass in the Tinnicum Swamps out by the airport, if something went wrong.
But if he did that, it was the same thing as saying that GianCarlo and Paulo were a couple of assholes who were going to get Mr. S. in trouble. They would be insulted, and they both had long memories.
And that wasn't all. There was the business between the goddamned cop and Tony. He was having trouble remembering that all she was, was a dumb Polack who he liked to screw and nothing more. That had been possible as long as he hadn't actually seen what was going on.
But now he was going to be in her apartment, actuallytheir apartment, where they'd had some really great times in the sack, and where she was now fucking the goddamned cop.
Well, shit, there's nothing I can do about it.
He pushed her doorbell and in a moment Tony answered it, wearing a fancy nightgown he'd bought her, and which he now clearly remembered taking off her.
"Whaddaya say, Tony?"
"Hello, Ricco."
"Your boyfriend here? I'd like a word with him."
"Come on in, Ricco," Tony said, and then raised her voice. "Vito, honey, it's Mr. Baltazari. He wants to talk to you."
"It's who?"
"I'm a friend of Mr. Rosselli, Vito," Ricco said.
The goddamned cop came into the living room in his underwear.
My living room, I'm paying the freight. And my girl, I'm paying the freight there too. And here's this sonofabitch in his underwear.
"Vito," Ricco said, putting out his hand, "Mr. Rosselli got tied up. He had to go to the Poconos, as a matter of fact, and he asked me to drop by and pass a little information to you."
"What did you say your name was?"
"Baltazari, Ricco Baltazari. I run the Ristorante Alfredo."
"Oh," the goddamned cop said. He did not offer to shake hands. " You know Tony?"
"We seen each other around, right, Tony?"
"You could put it that way, I guess," Tony said.
"So what's the message?"
"Tony, could you give us a minute alone? Get yourself a beer or something?"
"Whatever you say, Mr. Baltazari," Tony said and went into the bedroom. She turned as she closed the door and gave him a look.
"That shipment you and Mr. Rosselli was talking about?" Ricco began.
"What about it?"
"It's coming in tomorrow night. I mean tonight, it's already today, ain't it? On Eastern Flight 4302 from San Juan. At nine fortyfive."
Vito Lanza nodded.
"It's going to be in a blue American Tourister suitcase, one of the plastic ones, and there will be two red reflective strips on each side of the suitcase," Ricco went on.
Vito nodded again.
"That going to pose any problems for you, Vito?"
"What kind of problems?"
"You're not going to write that down, or anything?"
"I can remember Eastern 4302 at nine forty-five."
"From San Juan."
"Eastern 4302 is always from San Juan," Vito said. "Every day but Sunday."
He's a wiseass. He's an asshole who gambles with money he doesn't have, a fucking cop too dumb to know he's being set up, or that the only reason he's fucking Tony is because I told her to fuck him, and he's a wiseass.
"I'm going to ask you again, Vito. Is that going to pose any problems?"