"I've been transferred back to Special Operations, Dad," Matt said.
"When did that happen?"
"Yesterday."
"What are you going to do over there, as a detective?"
"Well, for one thing," Penny said proudly, "he's going to protect the Vice President when he comes to Philadelphia."
Jesus, you have ears like a fox, don't you?
"What I'm going to do," Matt said quickly, "is meet theSecret Service guy who is going to protect the Vice President at 30^th Street Station."
And that gives me my excuse to get out of here.
"I don't understand," Brewster Payne said.
"He and Wohl are playing King of the Mountain," Matt said. "He wanted our guy to go to the Secret Service office. Wohl wanted him to come to his. Wohl won. I pick up this guy at 30^th Street Station in the morning, and drive him to see Wohl." He looked at his watch. " Which means I have to leave now if I am to have a nice clean suit to wear to meet this guy."
"Oh, finish your drink," H. Richard Detweiler said. "And are you sure you don't want something to eat?"
"I had a steak an hour ago that must have weighed three pounds," Matt said. "Thank you, no."
He drained his drink and set it on the table.
"I know you're busy, dear," his mother said, "but if you could try to find time in your schedule to come see your frail and aged mother, I would be so grateful."
H. Richard Detweiler stood up and shook Matt's hand in both of his.
"Thank you, Matt. Don't be a stranger."
"Thank you, sir."
"I think I left my scarf in your car," Penny said. "I'll walk you out."
When they got to the Porsche, she said, "I didn't have a scarf. I just wanted to thank you for being so nice to me."
"No thanks necessary," he said, and then his mouth ran away with him. "Whenever I'm with a pretty blonde, I automatically shift into the seduce mode. Nothing personal."
She seemed startled for a moment, but only for a moment.
"Just to clear the air," Penny said. "It worked."
And her hand, ever so lightly, but obviously intentionally, grazed his crotch.
"I'd let you kiss me, but they're watching."
She stepped away from him, and said, loud enough for their parents to hear, "You heard what Daddy said, don't be a stranger."
He got quickly into the Porsche and drove away.
TWELVE
Peter Wohl was only mildly surprised when he turned onto Rockwell Avenue and saw a gleaming black Cadillac limousine parked before the comfortable house in which he had grown up. He didn't have to look at the license plate to identify it as the official vehicle provided by the City of Philadelphia to transport its mayor; the trunk was festooned with shortwave antennae, and the driver, now leaning on the front fender conversing with two other similarly dressed, neatappearing young men, was obviously a police officer. There were two other cars, almost identical to Wohl's, parked just beyond the Cadillac.
He didn't recognize the drivers, but there was little doubt in his mind that the cars were those assigned to Chief Inspectors Matt Lowenstein and Dennis V. Coughlin.
I am about to get one of three things, good news, bad news, or a Dutch Uncle speech. I don't know of anything I've done, or anyone else in Special Operations has done, that should have me on the carpet, but that simply means I don't know about it, not that there is nothing. And the reverse is true. I can't think of a thing I've done that would cause the mayor to show up to tell me what a good job I've been doing.
He pulled the Jaguar to the curb behind the limousine and got out.
The two drivers who had been leaning on the Cadillac pushed themselves erect.
"Good evening, Inspector."
"I guess the party can start now," Wohl said, smiling, "I'm here."
"They been in there the better part of an hour, Inspector," one of the drivers said.
That was immediately evident when his mother opened the door to his ring. There was hearty laughter from the living room, and when he walked in there, the faces of all four men were unnaturally, if slightly, flushed.
There were liquor and soft drink bottles and an insulated ice bucket on the coffee table, and the dining-room table was covered with cold cuts and bowls of potato salad.
"Well, here he is," Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, retired, said. "As always, ten minutes late and a dollar short."
"Mr. Mayor," Wohl said, and then, nodding his head at Lowenstein and Coughlin in turn, said "Chief."
"Always the fashion plate, aren't you, Peter?" the mayor said as he shook Wohl's hand. "Even when you were a little boy."
"I've been out hobnobbing with the hoi polloi, Mr. Mayor."
"Which hoi polloi would that be?" the mayor asked, chuckling.
"Captain Pekach's fiancee."
"Oh, yes, Miss Peebles."
"And Miss Penelope Detweiler was there too," Wohl said.
"Is Pekach doing a little matchmaking?" the mayor said, and then went on without waiting for a reply. "You could do worse, Peter. It's about time you found a nice girl and settled down."
"Miss Peebles is doing the matchmaking, but her target, I think, is Detective Payne. The Detweiler girl is a little young for me."
"He was there too?"
"He was at my place when Dave Pekach called. He said to bring him along. He came to tell me he had been reassigned to Special Operations."
"Oh, yeah. That was one of the things I was going to mention to you. I heard the commissioner was thinking of sending him back over there."
Do you really expect me to believe that was Czernick 's idea, and you knew nothing about it?
And "one of the things" you were going to mention to me? What else, Mr. Mayor?
Wohl's father handed him a drink.
"Thank you," Peter said, and took a sip.
"Jerry was just telling me that Neil Jasper's going to retire," Chief Wohl said.
It took a moment for Wohl to identify Neil Jasper as an inspector working somewhere in the Roundhouse bureaucracy.
Christ, is he going to tell me "the commissioner is thinking " of making me Jasper's replacement?
"A lot of people, Peter, including the commissioner," the mayor said, looking directly at him, "think Special Operations is getting too big to be commanded by a staff inspector."
"I'm sorry the Commissioner feels that way," Wohl said.
"Well, I'm afraid he's right," the mayor said.
Oh, shit! I have just been told that I'm going to lose Special Operations. That's what this is all about. Jerry Carlucci is softening the blow by letting me know ahead of time, and is about to throw me a bone: Pick a job, Peter, any job. I owe your father.
"Do I read you correctly, Peter? You don't want to work in the Roundhouse?"
"I would rather not work in the Roundhouse, Mr. Mayor."
"That's what I told Czernick," the mayor said. "That I didn't think you'd like that."
So what does that leave? Back to Staff Investigations? Probably not. If Carlucci is throwing the dog a bone, and tells Czernick not to give me a job in the Roundhouse, there's not really much left for a staff inspector. Maybe as an assistant to Lowenstein in the Detective Bureau, or to Coughlin in Special Patrol. Why else would they be here?
"May I ask who the commissioner's thinking of sending in to take over Special Operations?"
"That's pretty much up to you, Peter," the mayor replied.
What the hell does he mean by that?
"Unless, of course, you'd like to stay there," the mayor said.
"You just said that it had been decided Special Operations should have a full inspector…"
"And so it should," the mayor said. "You were what, when you took the Inspector's exam."