"One of Sergeant Washington's responsibilities as head of the Special Investigations Section will be to keep in touch with the Detective Division, and especially Homicide," Wohl said. "Matt, make sure you put that in when you write the job description."
"Yes, sir. Sir, can I say something?"
"At your peril, Officer Payne."
"There's a parking lot, actually a playground, behind the school building. You could use that as a place to meet."
"We're going to need-" Sabara said, pausing to do the mental arithmetic, "-space to park fifteen, sixteen cars, plus what, four wagons and a couple of stakeout trucks. That big?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't want stakeout acting like the 2^nd Armored Division invading Germany," Wohl said. "They should be available, but-"
"I understand," Sabara said.
"Matt, on your way to the FBI," Wohl said, "swing past the school building and make sure the parking lot will be big enough. And then call Captain Sabara and tell him."
"Yes, sir."
"Jesus," Wohl said angrily. "I haven't looked at this stuff yet."
He flipped through the photocopied documents for the FBI quickly and then looked up at Payne.
"You'd better leave now," Wohl said. "I wouldn't want the FBI to think I had forgotten them. And we won't need you in on this. Get the building dimensions, and whatever other information about that place you think we can use, and be here at eight in the morning." He paused and looked at the others. "By that time, we should have eight thugs, more or less, on their way, without fuss, to the Roundhouse. Then we can turn to important things, like making our new home habitable."
"Yes, sir," Matt said, and got up and started to leave.
"Matt!" Wohl called after him.
"Yes, sir?"
"Don't you think it would be a good idea to take this stuff with you?" Wohl asked innocently, pointing at the stack of copies of the Jerome Nelson job.
"Yes, sir," Matt said. His face flushed. He took the documents from Wohl's desk and walked out.
As he closed the door, he heard Wohl say, "If I didn't know better, I might suspect Young Matt's in love."
"How about 'in rut'?" Sabara said. Matt closed the door on their laughter.
"May I help you, sir?" Miss Lenore Gray, who was twenty-six, tall, slim, auburn-haired, and the receptionist at the FBI office, asked, smiling a bit more brightly than was her custom at what she judged to be a very well-dressed, nice-looking young man.
"My name is Payne," Matt said. "I'm a police officer. I have some documents for Mr. Davis."
Lenore had been told to be on the lookout for a Philadelphia cop named Payne, and to call SAC Davis (or, if he was out of the office, A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young, or if he was out too, one of the other A-SACs) when he showed up.
She had expected a cop in uniform, not a good-looking young man like this in a very nice blue blazer.
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Davis is not in the office," she said. "Just a moment, please."
She pushed buttons on her new, state-of-the-art telephone system that caused one of the telephones on the desk of A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young to ring. She did not want to go through the hassle of telling A-SAC Young's secretary why she wanted to talk to him.
"Frank Young."
"This is Miss Gray at reception, Mr. Young. Officer Payne of the police is here."
"Tell him I'll be right out," Young said.
"Mr. Young will be out in a moment," Lenore said with a smile. "Mr. Young is our A-SAC, Criminal Affairs."
"As opposed to romantic?" Matt asked. He was obviously making a joke, but it took Lenore a moment to search for and find the point.
"Oh, aren't you terrible!" she said.
"Youdo have an A-SAC, Romantic Affairs?"
"No," Lenore said. "But it sounds like a marvelous idea."
"I'm Frank Young," Young announced, coming into the reception area with his hand out. "The chief had to leave, I'm afraid, and you're stuck with me. Come on in."
Matt was surprised. He had considered himself an errand boy, delivering a package, and errand boys are not normally greeted with a smile and a handshake.
"Thank you," Matt said.
Young led him into the brightly lit, spacious interior, and then into his own well-furnished office, through the windows of which he could see Billy Penn atop City Hall. He could not help but make the comparison between this and Inspector Wohl's crowded office, and then between it and the new home of Special Operations at Frankford and Castor.
In the icy cold, dark recesses of which, I will now spend the next three or four hours, with my little tape measure.
"I'm sure this is just what we asked for," Young said, "but I think it would be a good idea if I took a quick look at it. Can I have my girl get you a cup of coffee?"
"Thank you," Matt said. "Black, please."
The coffee was served in cups and saucers, with a cream pitcher and a bowl of sugar cubes on the side, which was certainly more elegant, Matt thought, than the collection of chipped china mugs, can of condensed milk, and coffee can full of little sugar packets readingMcDonald's andRoy Rogers andPeking Palace in Peter Wohl's office coffee service.
There were more surprises. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Young was more than complimentary about the completeness of the Nelson files Matt had brought him. They would be very helpful, he said, and the FBI was grateful.
Then, with great tact, he asked Matt all sorts of questions about himself, why he had joined the cops, how he liked it, whether he liked law enforcement in general-"I don't really know why I asked that. You seem to have proven that you take to law enforcement like a duck to water. I think everybody with a badge in Philadelphia was delighted when you terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher's criminal career."-and what his long-term career plans were.
"I intend to work myself up through the ranks," Matt said solemnly, " to police commissioner. And then I will seek an appropriate political office."
Young laughed heartily. "Jerry Carlucci's going to be a tough act to follow. But why not? You've got the potential."
If I didn't know better, Matt thought, I'd think he was about to offer me a job.
Then came the question: I am being charmed. Why should they bother to charm me? All I am is an errand-boy-by-another-name to Wohl.
Young then offered to give him a tour of the office, which Matt, after a moment's indecision, accepted. For one thing, he was curious to see what the inside of an FBI office looked like. And maybe they would actually ask him for something. In any event, the school building could wait.
He was introduced to another A-SAC, whose name he promptly forgot, and to a dozen FBI agents, some singly and some in groups. Every time, A-SAC Young used the same words, "This is the Philadelphia plainclothesman who terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher's criminal career."
And everyone seemed pleased to have the opportunity to shake the hand that held the gun that terminated the criminal career of Mr. Warren K. Fletcher.
I really don't know what the hell is going on here, but there is some reason I'm being given the grand tour. It may be that Young is being nice to Wohl through his errand boy; or that he is genuinely impressed with the guy who shot Fletcher-if he knew the circumstances, of course, he would be far less impressed-or, really, that they are going to offer me a job. But it's damned sure they don't give the grand tour to every cop from the Department who shows up here with a pile of records.
The subject of employment with the FBI did not come up. A-SAC Young walked him to the elevator, shook his hand, and said that he was sure he would see Matt again and looked forward to it.
When he was on the street again, Matt saw that the skies were dark. It was probably going to snow.