Matt started to say,Damned inconsiderate of old Precious Penny, what? but stopped himself in time to convert what came out of his mouth to "Damned shame."
Even that got him a dirty look from Amanda.
"What do you think, Matt?" Soames T. Browne said.
"It's none of my business," Matt said.
"Yes it is, you're Chad's best man."
"Chad's on his way to Okinawa," Matt said. "It's not as if you could postpone it for a month or so."
"Right," Daffy Browne said. "I hadn't thought about that. Wecan't postpone it."
"I think Matt is absolutely right, Soames," Mrs. Browne said.
"That's a first," Matt quipped.
"What did you say, Matthew?" Mrs. Browne asked icily.
"I said, you're going to have to excuse me, please. I have to go to work."
"You will be there tonight?" Daffy asked.
"As far as I know."
"I wanted to ask you, Matt, what happened last night," Soames T. Browne said.
"I don't really know, Mr. Browne," Matt said.
And then he walked out of the kitchen. Amanda's eyes found his and for a moment held them.
Peter Wohl leaned forward, pushed the flashing button on one of the two telephones on his office coffee table, picked it up, said " Inspector Wohl" into it and leaned back into a sprawling position on the couch, tucking the phone under his ear.
"Tony Harris, Inspector," his caller said. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"First things first," Wohl said. "You got anything?"
"Not a goddamn thing."
"You need anything?"
"How are you fixed for crystal balls?"
"How many do you want?"
Harris chuckled. "I really can't think of anything special right now, Inspector. This one is going to take a lot of doorbell ringing."
"Well, I can get you the ringers. I had Dave Pekach offer overtime to anybody who wants it."
"I don't have lead fucking one," Harris said.
"You'll find something," Wohl said. "The other reason I asked you to call is that I have sort of a problem."
"How's that?"
"You know a lieutenant named Lewis? Just made it? Used to be a sergeant in the 9^th?"
"Black guy? Stiff-backed?"
"That's him."
"Yeah, I know him."
"He has a son. Just got out of the Police Academy."
"Is that so?" Harris said, suspicion evident in his voice.
"He worked his way through college in the radio room," Wohl said.
"You don't say?"
"The commissioner assigned him to Special Operations," Wohl said.
"You want to drop the other shoe, Inspector?"
"I thought he might be useful to you," Wohl said.
"How?"
"Running errands, maybe. He knows his way around the Department."
"Is that it? Or don't you know what else to do with him?"
"Frankly, Tony, a little of both. But I won't force him on you if you don't want him."
Harris hesitated, then said, "If he's going to run errands for me, he'd need wheels."
"Wheels or a car?" Wohl asked innocently.
Harris chuckled. "Wheels" was how Highway referred to their motorcycles.
"I forgot you're now the head wheelman," he said. "Acar. "
"That can be arranged."
"How does he feel about overtime?"
"I think he'd like all you want to give him."
"Plainclothes too," Harris said. "Okay?"
"Okay."
"When do I get him?"
"He's supposed to report here right about now. You get him as soon as I can get him a car and into plainclothes."
"Okay."
"Thanks, Tony."
"Yeah," Harris said, and hung up.
Detective Jason Washington was one of the very few detectives in the Philadelphia Police Department who was not indignant or outraged that the murders of both Officer Joseph Magnella and Tony the Zee DeZego had been taken away from Homicide and given to Special Operations.
While he was not a vain man, neither was Jason Washington plagued with modesty. He knew that it was said that he was the best Homicide detective in the department (and this really meant something, since Homicide detectives were the creme de la creme, so to speak, of the profession, the best detectives, period) and he could not honestly fault this assessment of his ability.
Tony Harris was good, too, he recognized-nearly, but not quite as good as he was. There were also some people in Intelligence, Organized Crime, Internal Affairs, and even out in the detective districts and among the staff inspectors whom Washington acknowledged to be good detectives; that is to say, detectives at his level. For example, before he had been given Special Operations, Staff Inspector Peter Wohl had earned Washington's approval for his work by putting a series of especially slippery politicians and bureaucrats behind bars.
Jason Washington had, however, been something less than enthusiastic when Wohl had arranged for him (and Tony Harris) to be transferred from Homicide to Special Operations. He had not only let Wohl know that he didn't want the transfer, but also had actually come as close as he ever had to pleading not to be transferred.
There had been several reasons for his reluctance to leave Homicide. For one thing, he liked Homicide. There was also the matter of prestige and money. In Special Operations he would be a Special Operations detective. Since Special Operations hadn't been around long enough to acquire a reputation, that meant it had no reputation at all, and that meant, as opposed to his being a Homicide detective, he would be an ordinary detective. And ordinary detectives, like corporals, were only one step up from the bottom in the police hierarchy.
As far as pay was concerned, Washington's take-home pay in Homicide, because of overtime, was as much as a chief inspector took to the bank every two weeks.
Washington and his wife of twenty-two years had only one child, a girl, who had married young and, to Washington's genuine surprise, well. As a Temple freshman Ellen had caught the eye of a graduate student in mathematics and eloped with him, under the correct assumption that her father would have a really spectacular fit if she announced that she wanted to get married at eighteen. Ellen's husband was now working for Bell Labs, across the river in Jersey, and making more money than Washington would have believed possible for a twentysix-year-old. Recently they had made him and Martha grandparents.
Mrs. Martha Washington (she often observed that she had nearly not married Jason because of what her name would be once he put the ring on her finger) had worked, from the time Ellen entered first grade, as a commercial artist for an advertising agency. With their two paychecks and Ellen gone, they lived well, with an apartment in a high rise overlooking the Schuylkill River, and another near Atlantic City, overlooking the ocean. Martha drove a Lincoln, and one of his perks as a Homicide detective was an unmarked car of his own, and nothing said about his driving it home every night.
Wohl, who had once been a young detective in Homicide, understood Washington's (and Tony Harris's) concern that a transfer to Special Operations would mean the loss of their Homicide Division perks, perhaps especially the overtime pay. He had assured them that they could have all the overtime they wanted, and their own cars, and would answer only to him and Captain Mike Sabara, his deputy. He had been as good as his word. Better. The cars they had been given were brand-new, instead of the year-old hand-me-downs from inspectors they had had at Homicide.
They had been transferred to Special Operations after the mayor had "suggested" that Special Operations be given responsibility to catch the Northwest Philly serial rapist. After the kid, Matt Payne, had stumbled on that scumbag and put him down, Washington had gone to Wohl and asked about getting transferred back to Homicide.