"What's a cretin?"
"A high-level moron."
"Really?"
"Take my word for it, a cretin is a high-level moron. You want to hear this or not?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"So for the sake of argument, let's say Lanza is smart enough to know that people, especially other cops, are going to ask questions about that Cadillac of his. 'Where did he get the money?'"
"So?"
"He doesn't seem to give a damn, does he?"
"Howard, what are you talking about?"
"If I were dirty and had bought a Cadillac with dirty money, I wouldn't drive it to work."
"Maybe you're smarter than Lanza."
"And maybe he inherited the money and isn't dirty, and if somebody asks him, he can say 'I got it from my mother's estate,' or something."
"And what about those Guinea gangsters we saw at his house? What were they doing, selling Girl Scout cookies?"
"If I was dirty, I think I'd be smart enough to tell the Mob to stay away from my house. And the Mob, I think, is smart enough to figure that out themselves."
Sergeant Sanders grunted, but did not reply.
After a moment, Hansen said, "Well, what do you think?"
"I think I'm going to call Swede Olsen and tell him that after Lanza bought Girl Scout cookies from Paulo Cassandro, Jimmy the Knees, and Gian-Carlo Rosselli, he went to work, and does he want us to keep sitting on him or what."
He opened the door of the Pontiac and went looking for a telephone.
Officer Paul O'Mara stuck his head in Peter Wohl's office.
"Inspector," he said, "there's a Captain Olsen on 312. You want to talk to him?"
"Paul, for your general fund of useful knowledge," Wohl replied as he reached for his telephone, "unless the commissioner is in my office, or the building's on fire, I always want to talk to Captain Olsen."
He punched the button for 312.
"How are you, Swede? What's up?"
"Inspector, I put Bill Sanders and Howard Hansen on Lanza. You know them?"
"Hansen, I do. Good cop. Smart. What about them?"
"Sanders is a sergeant. Good man. He just called from the airport. Lanza just went to work. They picked him up at his house. Before he went to work, Paulo Cassandro paid him a visit at his house."
"Vincenzo Savarese's Paulo Cassandro?" Wohl asked, and then, before Olsen could reply, went on, "We're sure about that?"
"Sanders said he went in, was inside maybe five minutes, and while he was, Gian-Carlo Rosselli and Jimmy the Knees Gnesci rode around the block in Rosselli's Jaguar."
"I suppose it's too much to hope, Swede, that we have photographs?"
"We have undeveloped film," Olsen said. "But Hansen's pretty good with a camera."
"I know. How soon can we have prints?"
"As soon as I can get it to the lab in the Roundhouse. Our lab is temporarily out of business, which is really why I called. I'm out of people, Inspector, I was hoping maybe you could help me out."
"When are younot going to be out of people?"
"I had the feeling this was special, and that we should have good people on it. I'll be out ofgood people until about eight o'clock tonight:"
"This is special," Wohl interrupted without meaning to.
"…when I have two good people coming in. What I need between now and then is some way to get Hansen's film to the Roundhouse lab. And if possible to relieve them."
"They don't like overtime?"
"I like to change people. I don't want Lanza to remember seeing them on Ritner Street."
"Yes, of course," Wohl said, feeling more than a little stupid. " Swede, let me get right back to you. Where are you? Give me the number."
He wrote the number down, put the telephone in its cradle, and then sat there for a moment, thinking.
I need one, better two, good men from now until eight. Who's available? Jason Washington won't do. Every cop in the Department knows him. Tony Harris? Jerry O'Dowd?
He pushed himself out of his chair and walked quickly out of his office, stopping at O'Mara's desk.
"Call the duty lieutenant and find out what kind of an unmarked car we have that doesn't look like an unmarked car," he ordered, and then walked out without further explanation.
He walked quickly down the corridor to the door of the Special Investigations Section and pushed it open. Detective Tony Harris was there, and so were Sergeant Jerry O'Dowd, Officer Tiny Lewis, and Detective Matthew M. Payne. Only Lewis was in uniform.
'Tony," Wohl began without preliminaries, "do you know a cop named Vito Lanza, now a corporal at the airport?"
"Yeah, I know him. He's sort of an asshole."
"Damn! Jerry?"
"No," O'Dowd said, after a moment to think it over. "I don't think so."
"What's going on around here?" Wohl asked.
"We're waiting for the phone to ring," Matt Payne said.
"I'm beginning to suspect the mad bomber is not going to call," Tony Harris said.
"Spare me the sarcasm, please," Wohl snapped.
"Sorry," Harris said, sounding more or less contrite.
"I need somebody to surveil Lanza from right now until about eight," Wohl said. "O'Dowd, I think you're elected."
"Yes, sir."
"You know a Sergeant Sanders? Officer Hansen?"
"Both."
"Okay. They're sitting on Lanza, who went on duty at three at the airport. I presume they're parked someplace where they can watch Lanza's car."
"Yes, sir."
"I've got O'Mara looking for an unmarked car for you."
"I've got my car here, Inspector, if that would help."
"No. You might have to follow this guy, and you'd need a radio."
"Let him take mine," Harris said.
You have tried, Detective Harris, and succeeded in making amends, for letting your loose mouth express your dissatisfaction for being here, instead of in Homicide.
"Good idea. Thank you, Tony," Wohl said. "How are you with a camera, O'Dowd?"
"I can work one."
"Take Larsen's camera from him," Wohl ordered. "Payne, you follow him down there. On the way, unless there's some around here, get some film. I'm sure it's 35mm. Sergeant O'Dowd will have the rolls of film Hansen has shot. Take them to the Roundhouse, have them developed and printed. Four copies, five by seven. Right then. If they give you any trouble, call me. Take a look at the pictures. See if you recognize anybody from your trip to the Poconos. If you do, call me. In fact, call me in any case. Then take three copies of the prints to Captain Olsen, in Internal Affairs. Bring the fourth set out here, and leave them on my desk."
"Yes, sir."
"Could I help, sir?" Officer Lewis asked.
"Looking for a little overtime, Tiny? Or are you bored waiting for the phone to ring?"
The moment the words were out of his mouth, Wohl regretted them, and wondered why he had snapped at Lewis.
"More the bored than the overtime, sir," Tiny Lewis said. There was a hurt tone in his voice.
"When do you knock off here?"
"Five, sir."
"When your replacement comes, change into civilian clothing, and then go see if you can make yourself useful to Sergeant O'Dowd. You don't know Corporal Lanza, do you?"
"No, sir."
"Tony, you sit on the phone. I'll have the duty lieutenant send somebody to help you. Or maybe O'Mara?"
"O'Mara would be fine," Harris said.
Wohl had another thought.
"Let me throw some names at you two," he said, nodding at O'Dowd and Lewis. "Do you know Paulo Cassandro, Gian-Carlo Rosselli, or Jimmy the Knees Gnesci?"
Tiny Lewis shook his head, no, and looked embarrassed.
"Cassandro, sure," O'Dowd said. "The other two, no."
"Five sets of prints, Matt," Wohl ordered. "The first three to Captain Olsen, then take a set to the airport and give them to Sergeant O'Dowd, and then bring the last set here. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."