Special Agent Davis knew that Mr. Detweiler's change of heart had nothing to do with the cops having caught whoever had killed DeZego and seriously wounded his daughter. That was never going to happen. The DeZego murder and the Detweiler aggravated assault cases would almost certainly never be officially closed.
There had been a report from the FBI's Chicago office that a known contract hit man meeting the description of the DeZego killer had been found in the trunk of his car with three.45-caliber bullets having passed through his cranial cavity. There was little question in anyone's mind that the DeZego/Detweiler hit man had himself been hit, probably to shut his mouth, but knowing something and being able to prove it were two entirely different things.
Special Agent in Charge Davis had been meaning to have lunch with Peter Wohl, to chat, out of school, about these cases, even before he had learned, within the past forty-eight hours, that the Nelson case was not, in something of an understatement, over. It was in fact the reason he had asked Staff Inspector Wohl to break bread with him, preferably in some quiet restaurant, like Ristorante Alfredo, where they could talk in confidence.
Davis had been summoned to Washington two days before and informed that after a review of the facts, the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania had brought the case of the two Negro Males who had kidnapped Pierre St. Maury, taken him against his will across a state border, and then shot him to death before a federal Grand Jury and secured an indictment against them under the Lindbergh Act.
Davis had been informed that it behooved him to do whatever he could to assist the deputy attorney general in securing a conviction. He had been told that the case had attracted the interest of certain people high in the Justice Department. Davis did not need to be reminded that the deputy attorney general of the United States, before his appointment, had been a senior partner of the law firm that represented the Daye-Nelson Corporation.
Davis had been on the telephone when Wohl had appeared at his office, and Wohl consequently had had to cool his heels for fifteen minutes before Davis could come out of his office to greet him, and apologize for getting hung up.
This would have annoyed Peter Wohl in any case, when all things were going fine in his world. Today that wasn't the case. He had just come from the Roundhouse, where he had had a painful session with Mayor Carlucci and Commissioner Czernick, witnessed by Chief Inspectors Matt Lowenstein (Detective Division) and Dennis V. Coughlin concerning the inability of the Special Operations Division to come up with evenone fucking thing that might lead them to find whoever had put four.22 Long Rifle bullets into the chest, and one into the leg, of Police Officer Joseph Magnella.
He had not been in the mood to be kept waiting by anybody, and Special Agent Davis had seen this on his face.
It was unfortunate, Davis had thought, that Wohl first of all looked too young to be a staff inspector of police, (he was, in fact, Davis had recalled, the youngest staff inspector in the Department) and second, he seemed to have a thing about not introducing himself by giving his rank or even identifying himself as a police officer unless it was absolutely necessary.
If he had told the receptionist that he was "Staff Inspector Wohl, " Davis thought, she would certainly have taken him into the staff coffee room as a professional courtesy. But apparently, he had not done so; the receptionist had said, "There's a man named Wohl to see you." And so she had pointed out a chair in the outer office to him and let him wait.
And then, no sooner had Davis put on his topcoat and hat, as they were literally walking out of the reception room to the elevators, there had been another "must-take" telephone call.
"Peter, I'm sorry."
"Why don't we try this another time? You're obviously really too busy."
"Wait downstairs, I'll only be a minute."
It had been at least ten minutes. When he walked out onto the street, Wohl had been leaning against the fender of his official Plymouth, wearing a visibly insincere smile.
"Well, Walter, here you are!"
"You know how these things go," Davis replied.
"Certainly," Wohl said. "I mean, my God, FBI agents aren't expected to have to eat, are they?"
"How does Italian sound, Peter?"
"Italian sounds fine," Wohl replied and opened the back door of the car for him. Only then did Davis see the young man behind the wheel of the Ford.
A plainclothesman, he decided. He's too young to be a detective.
He realized that the presence of Wohl's driver was going to be a problem. He didn't want to talk about the murder-kidnapping case, especially the political implications of it, in front of a junior police officer.
Wohl slammed the door after Davis and got in the front seat.
"Shank amp; Evelyn's, Matt," he ordered. "Eleventh and Carpenter."
"Yes, sir," the young cop said.
"Officer Payne, this is Special Agent-Special Agentin Charge, excuseme, Davis."
"How do you do?" Payne said.
"Nice to meet you," Davis said absently, forcing a smile. He had begun to suspect that the luncheon was not going to go well. "Peter, I was thinking about Alfredo's-"
"That's a Mob-owned joint," Wohl said, as if shocked at the suggestion. "I don't know about the FBI, but we local cops have to worry about where we're seen, isn't that so, Officer Payne?"
"Yes, sir, we certainly do," the young cop said, playing straight man to Wohl.
"Besides, the veal is better at Shank amp; Evelyn's than at Ristorante Alfredo, wouldn't you say, Officer Payne?"
"Yes, sir, I would agree with that."
"Officer Payne is quite a gourmet, Walter. He really knows his veal."
"Okay, Peter, I give up," Davis said. "I'm sorry about making you wait. I really am. It won't happen again."
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Walter. Anyway, Officer Payne and I don't have anything else to do but wait around to buy the FBI lunch, do we, Officer Payne?"
"Not a thing, sir."
"I'm buying the lunch," Davis said.
"In that case, you want us to go back and stand around on the curb for a while?"
"So, how are things, Peter?" Davis said, smiling. "Not to change the subject, of course?"
"Can't complain," Wohl said.
Davis had seen that they had turned left onto South Broad and were heading toward the airport.
"Where is this restaurant?" Davis asked.
"In South Philly. If you want good Italian food, go to South Philly, I always say. Isn't that so, Officer Payne?"
"Yes, sir," Officer Payne replied. "You're always saying that, sir."
"So tell me, Officer Payne, how do you like being Inspector Wohl's straight man?"
Officer Payne turned and smiled at Davis. "I like it fine, sir," he said.
Nice-looking kid, Davis thought.
A few minutes later Payne turned off South Broad Street, and then onto Christian, and then south onto 11^th Street. A 3^rd District sergeant's car was parked in a Tow Away Zone at a corner.
"Pull up beside him, Matt," Wohl ordered, and, when Payne did so, rolled down the window.
What Davis thought of as a real, old-time beat cop, a heavy-set, florid-faced sergeant in his fifties, first scowled out of the window and then smiled broadly. With surprising agility, he got out of the car, put out his hand, and said, "Goddamn, look who's out slumming. How the hell are you, Peter-Inspector?"
He saw me, Davis thought, and decided he should not call Wohl by his first name in front of a stranger, who is probably a senior police official.
"Pat, say hello to the headman of the FBI, Walter Davis," Wohl said. "Walter, Sergeant Pat McGovern. He was my tour sergeant in this district when I got out of the Academy.