Dolan looked at Natali, and it was clear to Natali that he knew he had been watching the interview, and was surprised and annoyed that he had.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant," Sergeant Dolan said. "We're going to see if we can find Officer Payne's lady friend and his car, and finish this at Narcotics. I'll see that the both of them get back over here."
Natali nodded but didn't say anything.
He watched as they left the office and then went into Captain Henry C. Quaire's office and closed the door after him. He had called Quaire at home before going to the Penn Services Parking Garage, and Quaire had shown up there ten minutes after he had, and sent him back to the Roundhouse.
He went to the desk and, standing up, dialed a number from memory.
"Radio," Foster H. Lewis, Jr., answered.
"This is Lieutenant Natali, Homicide. Can you get word to WWilliam One to call me at 555-3343?"
"Hold One, Lieutenant," Foster H. Lewis, Jr., said, and then activated his microphone and threw the switch that would broadcast what he said over the command band.
W-William One was the radio call sign of the commanding officer, Special Operations Division. The private official telephone number of the commanding officer of the Homicide Division was 555-3343.
There were some official considerations-and some ethical and political ones-in what Lieutenant Natali was doing. Viewed in the worst light, Natali was violating Departmental policy by advising the commanding officer of the Special Operations Division that one of his officers was being interviewed by Narcotics officers. That was technically the business of the commanding officer of the Narcotics Division, who would probably confer with Internal Affairs before notifying him.
Ethically he was violating the unspoken rule that a member of one division or bureau kept his nose out of an investigation being conducted by officers of another division or bureau.
Politically he knew he was risking the wrath of the commanding officer of the Narcotics Division, who almost certainly would learn-or guess, which was just as bad-what he was about to do. And it was entirely possible that the commanding officer of the Special Operations Division, who was about as straight a cop as they came, would, rather than being grateful, decide that Natali had no right to break either the official or unofficial rules of conduct.
On the other hand, if he had to make a choice between angering the commanding officer of the Narcotics Division or the commanding officer of Special Operations, it was no contest. For one thing, the commanding officer of Special Operations outranked the Narcotics commanding officer. For another, so far as influence went, the commanding officer of Special Operations won that hands down too. He held his present assignment because the word to give it to him had come straight from Mayor Jerry Carlucci. And he was very well connected through the Department.
Peter Wohl's father was Chief Inspector August Wohl (retired). Despite a lot of sour-grapes gossip, that wasn't the reason Peter Wohl had once been the youngest sergeant in Highway, and was now the youngest staff inspector in the Department, but it hadn't hurt any, either.
But what had really made Louis Natali decide to telephone Staff Inspector Peter Wohl was his realization that not only did he really like him but thought the reverse was true. Peter Wohl would decide he had called as a friend, which happened to be true.
"Sorry, Lieutenant," Foster H. Lewis, Jr., reported, "W-William One doesn't respond. Shall I keep trying?"
"No. Thanks, anyway," Natali said, and hung up.
He left Captain Quaire's office and walked back to his desk and searched through it until he found Peter Wohl's home telephone number. He started to go back to Quaire's office for the privacy it would give him and then decided to hell with it. He sat down and dialed the number.
On the fourth ring there was a click. "This is 555-8251," Wohl's recorded voice announced. "When this thing beeps, you can leave a message."
Natali raised his wrist to look at his watch and waited for the beep.
"Inspector, this is Lieutenant Natali of Homicide. It's five minutes after nine. If you get this message within the next fortyfive-"
"I'm here, Lou," Peter Wohl said, interrupting. "What can I do for you?"
"Sorry to bother you at home, Inspector."
"No problem. I'm sitting here trying to decide if I want to go out for a pizza or go to bed hungry."
"Inspector, did you hear about Tony the Zee?"
"No. You are talking about Anthony J. DeZego?"
"Yes, sir. He got himself blown away about an hour and a half ago. Shotgun. On the roof of the Penn Services Parking Garage behind the Bellevue-Stratford. There's some suggestion it's narcotics-related."
"Those who live by the needle die by the needle," Wohl said, mockingly sonorous. "You got the doer?"
"No, sir. Not a clue so far."
"Am I missing something, Lou?" Wohl asked.
"Inspector, Narcotics is interviewing one of your men. He found the body and-"
"They think he's connected. Got a name?"
"Payne," Natali said.
"Payne?"Wohl parroted disbelievingly. "Matthew Payne?"
"Yes, sir. I thought you would like to know."
"Why do they think he was involved?"
"There was another victim, Inspector. A girl. Penelope Detweiler. A 9^th District wagon carried her to Hahneman. Payne knew her. And he removed his car from the crime scene right afterward. I think that's what made them suspicious."
There was a moment's silence on the line.
"Where do they have him?"
"They had him here, but they just left. Sergeant Dolan?"
"Don't know him."
"And another guy. Plainclothes or a detective. I don't know him. Dolan said they were going to get Payne's girlfriend and his car-she has the car-and finish the interview at Narcotics."
"Thank you, Lou. I owe you one. How many does that make now?"
Staff Inspector Peter Wohl hung up without waiting for a reply.
Peter Wohl put the telephone back in its cradle and stood up. He had been sprawled, in a light blue cotton bathrobe, on the white leather couch in his living room, dividing his attention between television (a mindless situation comedy but one that featured an actress with a spectacular bosom and a penchant for low-necked blouses) and a well-worn copy of a paperbound book entitledWiring Scheme, Jaguar 1950 XK120 Drophead Coupe.
Above the couch (which came with two matching armchairs and a plate-glass and chrome coffee table) was a very large oil painting of a voluptuous and, by current standards, somewhat plump, nude lady that had once hung behind the bar of a now defunct men's club in downtown Philadelphia. The service bar of the same club, heavy 1880s mahogany, was installed across the room from the leather furniture and the portrait of the naked, reclining, shyly smiling lady.
The decor clashed, as Peter Wohl ultimately had, with the interior designer who had gotten him the leather, glass, and chrome furniture at her professional discount when she had considered becoming Mrs. Peter Wohl. Dorothea was now a Swarthmore wife, young mother, and fading memory, but he often thought that the white leather had become a permanent part of his life. Not that he liked it. He had found out that the resale value of high-fashion furniture was only a small fraction of its acquisition cost, even if that cost had reflected a forty-percent professional discount.
He turned the television off and went into his bedroom. His apartment had once been the chauffeur's quarters, an apartment built over the slate-roofed, four-car garage behind a turn-of-the-century mansion on Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill. The mansion itself had been converted into luxury apartments.
He went to his closet, hung the bathrobe neatly on a hanger, and took a yellow polo shirt, sky-blue trousers, and a seersucker jacket from the closet. He put the shirt and trousers on, and then a shoulder holster that held a Smith amp; Wesson.38-caliber Chief's Special fiveshot revolver.