Men In Blue

EIGHT

Wohl walked out of Jerome Nelson's apartment and rode the elevator to the upper floor. There were two uniformed policemen there, a portly, red-faced man in his late thirties, and a pleasant-faced young man. He had his head against Louise Dutton's door and was trying, without success, to get her to talk back to him.

"What can I do for you?" the young one challenged when the elevator door opened.

"That's Inspector Wohl," the older one said.

"Hello," Peter said, and smiled. "I know Miss Dutton. I think I can get her to come out of there. Lieutenant DelRaye is going to move the press away, and have a car waiting downstairs. I'd like you guys to see that Miss Dutton gets in it without being hassled."

"Yes, sir," the young cop said.

"She's got a mouth, that one," the older one offered. "Even considering she's had too much to drink, and is upset by what she saw downstairs, you wouldn't think a woman would use language like that."

"Haven't you heard? That's what women's lib is all about," Peter said. "The right to cuss like a man."

The younger cop shook his head and smiled at him.

He waited until they had gone down in the elevator, and then knocked on the door.

"Go the fuck away!" Louise called angrily.

"Miss Dutton, it's Peter Wohl," he called.

There was no response for a long moment, and Peter was just about to raise his cigarette lighter to knock on the door when it opened to the width its burglar chain would permit; wide enough for Louise Dutton to look out and see Peter, and that he was alone.

Then it closed and he heard the chain rattle, and then the door opened completely.

"I wasn't sure you would come," she said, and pulled him into the apartment and closed the door again.

She was wearing a blue skirt and a high-ruffle-collared blouse. The body of the blouse was so thin as to be virtually transparent. Through it he could see quite clearly that she wore no slip, only a brassiere, and that the brassiere was no more substantial than the blouse; he could see her nipples.

Her eyes looked more frightened than drunk, he thought, and there was something about her it took him a moment to think he recognized, an aura of sexuality.

She looks horny,Peter Wohl thought.

"Here I am," Peter said.

She put a smile on her face; grew, he thought, determinedly bright.

"And what did Mrs. Wohl say when you were summoned from your bed at two in the morning, when the crazy lady from TV called for you?" Louise Dutton asked.

I know what it is. She hasn't really been going around in a transparent shirt, baring her breasts. That skirt is part of a suit; there's a jacket, and when she wears that, only the ruffles show at the neck. That's what she wore when she was on TV.

"Nobody summoned me," Peter Wohl said. "I heard about it, and came. And the only Mrs. Wohl is my mother."

"They didn't send for you?" Louise asked, surprised. "Then why did you come?"

"I don't know," he said. "Why did you ask for me?"

"I'm scared, and a little drunk," she said.

"So'm I," he said. "A little drunk, I mean. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Bullshit!Have you been downstairs? Did you see what those… maniacs… did to that poor, pathetic little man?"

"There's nothing for you to be afraid of," Peter said.

"The cops are here, right? My knight in shining armor has just ridden up in his prowl car?"

"Actually, I came in my Jaguar," Peter said. "My department car was in the garage and I wasn't sure I was sober enough to back it out."

"AJaguar? " she asked, starting to giggle. "To go with that ridiculous turtleneck? I'll bet you even have got one of those silly little caps with the buttons in the front."

"I had one, but it blew off on the Schuylkill Expressway," he said.

She snorted, and then suddenly stopped. She looked at him, and bit her lower lip, and then she walked to him.

"Goddamn, I'm glad you're here," she said, and put her hand to his cheek. "Thank you."

And then, without either of them knowing exactly how it happened, he had his arms around her, and she was sobbing against his chest. He heard himself soothing her, and became aware that he was stroking her head, and that her arms were around him, holding him.

He could not remember, later, how long they had stayed like that. What he was to remember was that as he became aware of the warmth of her body against him, the pressure of her breasts against his abdomen, he had felt himself stirring. And when what had happened to him became evident to her, she pushed herself away from him.

"Well," she said, looking into his eyes, "this has been a bitch of a day, Peter Wohl, hasn't it? For both of us."

"I've had better," he said.

"What happens now?" Louise asked.

"There's a car waiting downstairs," Peter said. "It'll take you down to the Roundhouse, where you can make your statement, and then they'll type it up, and you can sign it, and then they'll bring you back here."

She looked at him, on the verge, he decided, of saying something, but not speaking.

"I'll go with you, if you'd like me to."

"I told that faded matinee idol everything I know," she said.

He chuckled, and she smiled back at him.

"I did the 'Nine's News' at eleven," Louise said. "And then I went with the producer for a drink. Okay, drinks. Three or four. Then I came home. I went into the lobby to check the mailbox. Jerome's door was open. I went in. I… saw what was in the bedroom. So I called the cops. That's all I know, Peter. And I told him."

"There's a procedure that has to be followed," Peter said. "The police department is a bureaucracy, Miss Dutton."

"'Miss Dutton'? " she quoted mockingly. "A moment ago, I thought we were at least on a first-name basis."

"Louise," Peter said, aware that his face was flushing.

"I'll be damned," she said. "A blushing cop!"

"Jesus Christ!" Peter said. "Do you always think out loud?"

"No," she said. "For some mysterious reason, I seem to be a little upset right now. But thinking out loud, I don't seem to be the only one around here who's a little off balance. Do you always calm down hysterical witnesses that way, Inspector?"

"Jesus H. Christ!" Wohl said, shaking his head.

"Don't misunderstand me," she said. "That wasn't a complaint. I just wondered if it was standard bureaucratic procedure."

"You know better than that," Peter said.

"Get me out of here, Peter," Louise said, softly, entreatingly.

"Where do you want to go?"

"I'm not that far yet," she said. "All I know is that I don't want to run the gauntlet of my professional associates outside, and that I can't,won't, spend the night here. I'mafraid, Peter."

"I told you, there's nothing to be afraid of," he said. "And I sent two officers downstairs to make sure you weren't hassled when you get in the car."

"There's an Arch Street entrance to the garage," she said. "I don't think the press knows about it."

"But you'd have to get past them to get to the garage," he said.

"There a passage in the basement," she said. "A tunnel. And even if they were on Arch Street, I could get down on the seat, or on the floor in the back, and they wouldn't see me."

"Take your car, you mean?" he asked.

"Please, Peter," she said.

Why not? She's calmed down. You can't blame her for wanting to avoid those press and TV bastards. I'll take her someplace and buy her a cup of coffee and then I'll go with her to the Roundhouse.

"Okay," he said. "Get your jacket."

"My jacket?" she asked, surprised, and then looked down at herself. " Oh, Christ!" She crossed her arms over her breasts and looked at him. "I wasn't expecting visitors."

"I'll be damned," he said. "A blushing TV lady."

"Fuck you, Peter," she flared.

"Promises, promises," he heard himself blurt.

"Youbastard! " she said, but she chuckled. She went farther into the apartment, and returned in a moment, shrugging into the jacket of her suit.

He waited until she had buttoned it, and then opened the door to the foyer. There was no one there. He pushed the elevator button, and he heard the faint whine of the electric motor. She stood very close to him, and her shoulder touched his. He put his arm around her shoulders.

"You're going to be all right, Louise," he said.

There was a uniform cop sitting on a wooden folding chair outside the elevator door in the basement. He got up quickly when he saw Wohl and Louise.

"I'm Inspector Wohl," Peter said. "I'm taking Miss Dutton out this way. Are you alone down here?"

"No, sir, a couple of guys are in the garage."

"Thank you," Peter said. He put his hand on Louise's arm and led her down the corridor. Halfway down the tunnel, she put a set of keys in his hand.

Two uniform cops walked quickly across the underground garage when they saw them. The eyes of one of them widened-a cop Wohl recognized, a bright guy named Aquila-when he recognized them.

"Hello, Inspector," Officer Aquila said.

"I'm going to take Miss Dutton out this way," Wohl said. "The press is all over the street."

"There's a couple of them outside, too," Aquila said. "But only a couple. You can probably get past them before they know what's happening. You want to use my car?"

"We'll take Miss Dutton's car," Wohl said. "When we're gone, would you tell Lieutenant DelRaye we've gone, and that I'm taking Miss Dutton to the Roundhouse?"

"Yes, sir," Office Aquila said. It was obvious that he approved of Wohl's tactics. He had certainly heard that DelRaye had sent for a wagon to haul a drunken and belligerent Louise Dutton off. This would be one more proof that Staff Inspector Peter Wohl knew how to turn an unpleasant situation into a manageable one.

They got in Louise's Cadillac.

"There's a thing in the floor that you run over, and the door opens," Louise said, and then, "What are you looking for?"

"How do you get the parking brake off?"

"It comes off automatically when you put it in gear," she said.

"Oh," he said.

As they approached the exit, she laid down on the seat with her head on his lap. The door opened as she said it would, and he drove through. A reporter and a couple of photographers moved toward the car, but without great interest. And then he was past them, heading up Arch Street.

"We're safe," Wohl said. "You can sit up."

She pushed herself erect.

"I am not going to the 'Roundhouse'!" Louise said. "Not tonight."

She had not moved away from him. When she spoke, he could feel and smell her warm breath.

"We can go somewhere and get a cup of coffee," Wohl said.

"Hey, Knight in Shining Armor, when I say something, I can't be talked out of it," Louise said.

"Where would you like to go, then?" Peter asked.

There was a perceptible pause before she replied.

"I don't want to go to a hotel," she said. "They smirk, when you check in without luggage. What would your mother say if you brought me home with you, Peter?"

"I don't live with my mother," he said, quickly.

"Oh, you don't? Then I guess you have an apartment?"

"I'm not so sure that would be a good idea," he said.

"I don't have designs on your body, if that's what you're thinking. I'm wide open to other suggestions."

"I'll make you some coffee," Peter said.

"I don't want coffee," she said.

"Okay, no coffee," Peter said.

Ten minutes later, as they drove up Lancaster Avenue, she said, " Where the hell do you live, in Pittsburgh?"

"It's not far."

"All of my life, my daddy told me, 'If you're ever in trouble, you call me, day or night,' so tonight, for the first time, after the matinee idol told me he was sending for a battering ram, I called him. And his wife told me he's in London."

"Your stepmother?"

"No, his wife," Louise Dutton said, as if annoyed at his denseness. He didn't press the question.

"But you came, didn't you?" Louise asked, rhetorically. "Even if you didn't know I'd sent for you?"

Peter Wohl couldn't think of a reply. She half turned on the seat and held on to his arm with both hands.

"Why did they do that to him? Keep stabbing him, I mean? My God, theyhacked him!"

"That's not unusual with murders involving sexual deviates," Peter Wohl said. "There's often a viciousness, I guess is the word, in what they do to each other."

She shuddered.

"He was such anice little man," she said. She sighed and shuddered, and added, "Bad things are supposed to come in threes. God, I hope that isn't true. I can't take anything else!"

"You're going to be all right," Peter said.

When they were inside the apartment, he turned the radio on, to WFLNFM, the classical music station, and then smiled at her.

"I won't ask you if I can take your jacket," he said. "How do you like your coffee?"

"Made in the highlands of Scotland," she said.

"All right," he said. "I'll be right with you."

He went in the kitchen, got ice, and carried it to the bar. He took his jacket off without thinking about it, and made drinks. He carried them to her.

"Until tonight, I always thought there was something menacing about a man carrying a gun," she said. "Now I find it pleasantly reassuring."

"The theory is that a policeman is never really off duty," he said.

"Like Dutch?" she said.

"You want to talk about Dutch?" he asked.

"Quickly changing the subject," Louise said. "This is not what I would have expected, apartment-wise, for a policeman," she said, gesturing around the apartment. "Or even for Peter Wohl, private citizen."

"It was professionally decorated," he said. "I once had a girl friend who was an interior decorator."

"Had?"

"Had."

"Then I suppose it's safe to say I like the naked lady and the red leather chairs, but I think the white rug and most of the furniture looks like it belongs in a whorehouse."

He laughed delightedly.

She looked at her drink.

"I don't really want this," she said. "What I really would like is something to eat."

"How about a world-famous Peter Wohl Taylor ham and egg sandwich?"

"Hold the egg," Louise said.

He went into the kitchen and took a roll of Taylor ham from the refrigerator and put it on his cutting board and began to slice it.

He fried the Taylor ham, made toast, and spread it with Durkee's Dressing.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"Milk?" she asked.

"Milk," he replied. He put the sandwiches on plates, and set places at his tiny kitchen table, then filled two glasses with milk and put them on the table.

Louise ate hungrily, and nodded her head in thanks when he gave her half of his sandwich.

She drained her glass of milk, then wiped her lips with a gesture Peter thought was exquisitely feminine.

"Aren't you going to ask me about me and Dutch?"

"Dutch is dead," Peter said.

"I never slept with him," Louise said. "But I thought about it."

"You didn't have to tell me that," he said.

"No," she said, thoughtfully. "I didn't. I wonder why I did?"

"I'm your friendly father figure," he said, chuckling.

"The hell you are," she said. "Now what?"

"Now we see if we can find you a pair of pajamas or something-"

"Have you a spare T-shirt?"

"Sure, if that would do."

"And then we debate who gets the couch, right? And who gets the bed?"

"You get the bed," he said.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"I don't know," he said.

"No pass, Peter?" she asked, looking into his eyes.

"Not tonight," he said. "Maybe later."

He walked into his bedroom, took sheets and a blanket from a chest of drawers, carried them into the living room, and tossed them on the couch. Then he went back into the bedroom, found a T-shirt and handed it to her, wondering what she would look like wearing it.

"I'll brush my teeth," he said. "And then the place is yours. I shower in the morning."

Brushing his teeth was not his major priority in the bathroom, with all he'd had to drink, and as he stood over the toilet trying to relieve his bladder as quietly as possible, the interesting fantasy that he would return to the bedroom and find her naked in his bed, smiling invitingly at him, ran through his head.

When he went back in the bedroom, she was fully dressed, and standing by the door, as if she wanted to close it, and lock it, after him as soon as possible.

"Good night," he said. "If you need anything, yell."

"Thank you," she said, almost formally.

As if, he thought, I am the bellhop being rushed out of the hotel room.

He heard the lock in the door slide home, and remembered that both Dorothea and Barbara were always careful to make sure the door was locked; as if they expected to have someone burst in and catch them screwing.

He took off his outer clothing, folded it neatly, and laid it on the armchairs.

Then he remembered that he had told the cop in the basement garage to tell Lieutenant DelRaye that he was taking her to the Roundhouse. He would have to do something about that.

He tiptoed around the living room in his underwear until he found the phone book. He had not called Homicide in so long that he had forgotten the number. He found the book, and then sat down on the leather couch and dialed the number. The leather was sticky against his skin and he wondered if it was dirty, or if that's the way leather was; he had never sat on his couch in his underwear before.

"Homicide, Detective Mulvaney."

"This is Inspector Wohl," Peter said.

"Yes, sir?"

"Would you please tell Lieutenant DelRaye that I will bring Miss Dutton there, to Homicide, at eight in the morning?"

"Yes, sir. Is there any place Lieutenant DelRaye can reach you?"

Wohl hung up, and then stood up, and started to spread sheets over the leather cushions.

The telephone rang. He watched it. On the third ring, there was a click, and he could faintly hear the recorded message: "You can leave a message for Peter Wohl after the beep."

The machine beeped.

"Inspector, this is Lieutenant DelRaye. Will you please call me as soon as you can? I'm at the Roundhouse."

It was evident from the tone of Lieutenant DelRaye's voice that he was more than a little annoyed, and that leaving a polite message had required some effort.

Peter finished making a bed of the couch, took off his shoes and socks, and lay down on it. He turned off the light, and went to sleep listening to the sound of the water running in his shower, his mind's eye filled with the images of Louise Dutton's body as she showered.

When Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernick, trailed by Sergeant Jank Jankowitz, walked briskly across the lobby of the Roundhouse toward the elevator, it was quarter past eight. He was surprised therefore to see Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson hurrying to catch up with him. He would have laid odds that Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson never cracked an eyelid before half past nine in the morning.

"How are you, Colonel?" Czernick said, smiling and offering his hand. "What gets you out of bed at this unholy hour?"

"Actually, Ted," J. Dunlop Mawson said, "I'm here to see you."

They were at the elevator; there was nothing Commissioner Czernick could do to keep Mawson from getting on with him.

"Colonel," Czernick said, smiling and touching Mawson's arm, "you have really caught me at a bad time."

"This is important, or else I wouldn't bother you," Mawson said.

"I just came from seeing Arthur Nelson," Commissioner Czernick said. "You heard what happened to his son?"

"Yes, indeed," Mawson said. "Tragic, shocking."

"I wanted to both offer my personal condolences," Commissioner Czernick said, and then interrupted himself, as the elevator door opened. "After you, Colonel."

They walked down the curving corridor together. There were smiles and murmurs of "Commissioner" from people in the corridor. They reached the commissioner's private door. Jankowitz quickly put a key to it, and opened it and held it open.

Commissioner Czernick looked at Mawson.

"I can give you two minutes, right now, Colonel," he said. "You understand the situation, I'm sure. Maybe later today? Or, better yet, what about lunch tomorrow? I'll even buy."

"Two minutes will be fine," Mawson said.

Czernick smiled. "Then come in. I'll really give you five," he said. "You can hardly drink a cup of coffee in two minutes. Black, right?"

"Thank you, black."

"Doughnut?"

"Please."

Commissioner Czernick nodded at Sergeant Jankowitz and he went to fetch the coffee.

"I have been retained to represent Miss Louise Dutton," Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson said.

"I don't understand," Czernick said. "You mean by WCBL-TV? Has something happened I haven't heard about?"

"Ted, that seems to be the most likely answer," Mawson said.

"Take it from the beginning," Czernick said. "The last I heard, we had arranged to have Miss Dutton taken home from the Waikiki Diner, so that she wouldn't have to drive. Later, as I understand it, we picked her up at her home, brought her here for the interview, and then took her home again."

"You didn't know she was the one who found young Nelson's body?" Mawson asked.

Jankowitz handed him a cup of coffee and two doughnuts on a saucer.

"Thank you," Mawson said.

"No, I didn't," Commissioner Czernick said. "Or if somebody told me, it went in one ear and out the other. At half past six this morning, they called me and told me what had happened to Arthur Nelson's boy. I went directly from my house to Arthur Nelson's place. I offered my condolences, and told him we would turn the earth upside down to find who did it. Then I came here. As soon as we're through, Colonel, I'm going to be briefed on what happened, and where the investigation is at this moment."

"Well, when that happens, I'm sure they'll tell you that Miss Louise Dutton was the one who found the body, and called the police," Mawson said.

"I don't know where we're going, Colonel. I don't understand your role in all this. Or why WCBL-TV is so concerned."

"I've been retained to represent Miss Dutton," Mawson said. "But not by WCBL. I've been told that the police intended to bring her here, to interview her-"

"Well, if she found Nelson's body, Colonel, that would be standard procedure, as I'm sure you know."

"No one seems to know where she is," Mawson said. "She's not at her apartment, and she's not here. And I've been getting sort of a runaround from the people in Homicide."

" 'A runaround'?" Czernick asked. "Come on, Colonel. We don't operate that way, and you know we don't."

"Well, then, where is she?" Mawson asked.

"I don't know, but I'll damned sure find out," Czernick said. He pulled one of the telephones on his desk to him and dialed a number from memory.

"Homicide, Lieutenant DelRaye."

"This is the commissioner, Lieutenant," Taddeus Czernick said. "I understand that Miss Louise Dutton is the citizen who reported finding Mr. Nelson's body."

"Yes, sir, that's true."

"Do you know where Miss Dutton is at this moment?"

"Yes, sir. She's here. Inspector Wohl just brought her in. We've just started to take her statement."

"Well, hold off on that a minute," Czernick said. "Miss Dutton's legal counsel, Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, is here with me in my office. He wants to be present during any questioning of his client. He'll be right down."

"Yes, sir," DelRaye said.

Commissioner Czernick hung up and looked up at Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson.

"You heard that?" he asked, and Mawson nodded. "Not only is she right here in the building, but Staff Inspector Peter Wohl is with her. You know Wohl?"

Mawson shook his head no.

"Very bright, very young for his rank," Czernick said. "When I heard that Miss Dutton was a witness to Captain Moffitt's shooting, I asked Wohl to make sure that she was treated properly. We don't want WCBLTV's anchor lady sore at the police department, Colonel. I'm sure that Wohl showed her every possible courtesy."

"Then where the hell has she been? Why haven't I been able to see her, even find out where she is, until you got on the phone?"

"I'm sure she'll tell you where she's been," Czernick said. "There's been some crossed wire someplace, but whatever has been done, I'll bet you a dime to a doughnut, has been in your client's best interest, not against it."

Mawson looked at him, and decided he was telling the truth.

"We still friends, Colonel?" Commissioner Czernick asked.

"Don't be silly," Mawson said. "Of course we are."

"Then can I ask you a question?" Czernick asked, and went ahead without waiting for a response. "Why is Philadelphia's most distinguished practitioner of criminal law involved with the routine interview of a witness to a homicide?"

"Homicides," Mawson said. "Plural. Two cases of murder in the first degree."

"Homicides," Commissioner Czernick agreed.

"Okay, Ted," Mawson said. "We're friends. At half past three this morning, I had a telephone call. From London. From Stanford Fortner Wells III."

Commissioner Czernick shrugged. He didn't know the name.

"Wells Newspapers?" Mawson asked.

"Okay," Czernick said. "Sure."

"He told me he had just been on the telephone to Jack Tone, of McNeel, Tone, Schwartzenberger and Cohan, and that Jack had been kind enough to describe me as the… what he said was 'the dean of the Philadelphia criminal bar.' "

"That seems to be a fair description," Commissioner Czernick said, smiling. He was familiar with the Washington, D.C., law firm of McNeel, Tone, Schwartzenberger and Cohan. They were heavyweights, representing the largest of theFortune 500 companies, their staff larded with former cabinet-level government officials.

"Mr. Wells said that he had just learned his daughter was in some kind of trouble with the police, and that he wanted me to take care of whatever it was, and get back to him. And he told me his daughter's name was Louise Dutton."

"Well, that's interesting, isn't it?" Czernick said. "Dutton must be a TV name."

"We're friends, Ted," Mawson said. "That goes no farther than these office walls, right?"

"Positively," Commissioner Czernick said.

"Presuming your Inspector Wohl hasn't had her up at the House of Correction, working her over with a rubber hose, Ted," Mawson said, " asking him to look after her was probably a very good idea."

Commissioner Czernick laughed, heartily, and shook his head, and walked to Mawson and put his hand on his arm. "Can you find Homicide all right, Colonel? Or would you like me to have Sergeant Jankowitz show you the way?"

"I can find it all right," Mawson said. "Thank you for seeing me, Commissioner."

"Anytime, Colonel," Czernick said. "My door's always open to you. You know that."

The moment Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson was out the door, Commissioner Czernick went to the telephone, dialed the Homicide number, and asked for Inspector Wohl.

When Wohl came on the line, Commissioner Czernick asked, "Anything going on down there that you can't leave for five minutes?"

"No, sir."

"Then will you please come up here, Peter?"

There are four interview rooms in the first-floor Roundhouse offices of the Homicide Division of the Philadelphia Police Department. They are small windowless cubicles furnished with a table and several chairs. One of the chairs is constructed of steel and is firmly bolted to the floor. There is a hole in the seat through which handcuffs can be locked, when a suspect is judged likely to require this kind of restraint.

There is a one-way mirror on one wall, through which the interviewee and his interrogators can be observed without being seen. No real attempt is made to conceal its purpose. Very few people ever sit in an interview room who have not seen cop movies, or otherwise have acquired sometimes rather extensive knowledge of police interrogative techniques and equipment.

When Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson walked into Homicide, Miss Louise Dutton was in one of the interview rooms. Mawson recognized her from television. She was wearing a suit, with lace at the neck. She was better-looking than he remembered.

With her were three people, one of whom, Lieutenant DelRaye, Mawson had once had on the witness stand for a day and a half, enough time for them both to have acquired an enduring distaste for the other. There was a police stenographer, a gray-haired woman, and a young man in blue blazer and gray flannel slacks who looked like a successful automobile dealer, but who had to be, Mawson decided, Staff Inspector Wohl, "very bright; very young for his rank."

"Miss Dutton, I'm J. Dunlop Mawson," he said, and handed her his card. She glanced at it and handed it to Inspector Wohl, who looked at it, and handed it to Lieutenant DelRaye, who put it in his pocket.

"Lieutenant, I intended that for Miss Dutton," Mawson said.

"Sorry," DelRaye said, and retrieved the card and handed it to Louise.

"The station sent you, I suppose, Mr. Mawson?" Louise Dutton asked.

"Actually, it was your father," Mawson said.

"Okay," Louise Dutton said, obviously pleased. She looked at Inspector Wohl and smiled.

"Gentlemen, may I have a moment with my client?" Mawson asked.

"You're coming back?" Louise Dutton asked Inspector Wohl.

"Absolutely," Wohl said. "I'll just be a couple of minutes."

"Let's step out in the corridor a moment, Miss Dutton, shall we?" Mawson asked.

"What's wrong with here?"

"I meant alone," he said, gesturing at the one-way mirror. "And I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was a microphone in here that someone might inadvertently turn on."

She got up and followed him out of the room, and out of the Homicide office into the curved corridor. Mawson saw her eyes following Inspector Wohl as he walked down the corridor.

"How far did the interview get?" Mawson asked.

"Nowhere," she said. "The stenographer just got there."

"Good," he said. "I've been looking for you since four this morning, Miss Dutton. Where have they had you?"

"Since four?"

"Your father called from London at half past three," Mawson said.

"Okay," she said.

"I went to your apartment, and they said you had been taken here, and when I came here, no one seemed to know anything about you. Where did they have you?"

"What exactly are you going to do for me here and now, Mr. Mawson?" Louise replied.

"Well, I'll be present to advise you during their interview, of course. To protect your rights. You didn't answer my question, Miss Dutton?"

"You can't take the hint? That I didn't want to answer it?They didn't have me anywhere. Where I was, I don't think is any of your business."

"Your father is going to be curious, I'm sure of that."

"It's none of his business, either," Louise said.

"We seem to have somehow gotten off on the wrong foot, Miss Dutton," Mawson said. "I'm really sorry. Let's try to start again. I'm here to protect your interests, your rights. To defend you, in other words. I' m on your side."

"My side? The cops are the bad guys? You've got that wrong, Mr. Mawson. I'm on their side. I'll tell the cops anything they want to know. I want them to catch whoever butchered Jerome Nelson."

"You misunderstand me," Mawson said.

"I want to be as helpful and cooperative as I can," Louise said. "I just wasn't up to it last night… or early this morning, and that's what that flap was all about. But I've had some rest, and now I'm willing to do whatever they want me to."

"What 'flap'?"

"There was some disagreement last night about when I was to come here," she said. "But Inspector Wohl took care of that."

"All I want to do, Miss Dutton, is protect your rights," Mawson said. "I'd like to be there when they question you."

"I can take care of my own rights," she said.

"Your father asked me to come here, Miss Dutton," Mawson said.

"Yeah, you said that," Louise said. She looked at him thoughtfully, obviously making up her mind. "Okay. So long as you understand how I feel."

"I understand," Mawson said. "You were close to Mr. Nelson?"

She didn't respond immediately.

"He was a friend when I needed one," she said, finally.

Mawson nodded. "Well, why don't we go back in there and get it over with?"

The door from the curving third-floor corridor to the commissioner's office opens onto a small anteroom, crowded with desks. The commissioner's private office is to the right; directly ahead is the commissioner's conference room, equipped with a long, rather ornate table. Its windows overlooked the just-completed Metropolitan Hospital on Race Street.

When Peter Wohl walked into the outer office, he saw the conference room was crowded with people. He recognized Deputy Commissioner Howell, Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, Captain Henry C. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Bureau, Captain Charley Gaft of the Civil Disobedience Squad, Captain Jack McGovern of the Second District, and Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein before someone closed the door.

"He's waiting for you, Inspector," Sergeant Jank Jankowitz said, gesturing toward the commissioner's office door.

"Thank you," Peter said, and walked to the open door and put his head in.

"Come on in, Peter," Commissioner Czernick said. "And close the door."

"Good morning, sir," Peter said.

"I've got a meeting waiting. This will have to be quick," Czernick said. "I want to know what happened with that TV girl from the time I asked you to keep a lid on things. If something went wrong, start there."

"Nothing went wrong, sir," Peter said. "I had her taken from the scene by two cops I borrowed from Jack McGovern. She went to WCBL, and the cops stayed with her until she was finished. Then they took her home. I later went to her apartment and brought her to Homicide." He smiled, and went on: "Jason Washington put on his kindly uncle suit, and the interview went very well. She told me afterward she thought he was a really nice fellow."

Commissioner Czernick smiled, and went on: "But you did get involved with what happened later? With the Nelson murder?"

"Yes, sir. I was on my way home from dinner-"

"Did you go by the Moffitt house? I didn't see you. I saw your dad and mother."

"No, I didn't," Peter said. "I'm going to go to the wake. I went and had dinner… damn!"

"Something wrong?"

"I had dinner in Alfredo's," Peter said. "Vincenzo Savarese came by the table, with his wife and sister, and said he was sorry to hear about Dutch Moffitt, and left. When I called for the bill, they told me he'd picked up the tab. I forgot about that. I want to send a memo to Internal Affairs."

"Who were you with?"

"A girl named Barbara Crowley. She's a nurse at the Psychiatric Institute."

"That's the girl you took to Herman Webb's retirement party?"

"Yes, sir."

"I admire your taste, Peter," Commissioner Czernick said. "She seems to be a very fine young woman."

"So my mother keeps telling me," Wohl said.

"You should listen to your mother," Czernick said, smiling.

"When I got home, I called Homicide to see if anything had happened, if they'd found Gerald Vincent Gallagher, and they told me what had happened at Stockton Place, and I figured I'd better go, and I did."

That, Peter thought, wasn't the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but it wasn't a lie. So why do 1 feel uncomfortable?

"What happened there?"

"Can I go off the record?" Wohl asked.

The commissioner looked at him with surprise, thought that over, and then nodded.

"Lieutenant DelRaye had rolled on the job, and with his usual tact, he'd rubbed Louise Dutton the wrong way. When I got there, she was locked in her apartment, and DelRaye was about to take down her door. He had a wagon waiting to bring her over here."

"Jesus!" Czernick said. "So what happened?"

"I talked to her. She'd found the body, and was understandably pretty upset. She said she was not going to come over here, period. And she meant it. She asked me to take her out of there, and I did."

"Where did you take her?"

"To my place," Peter said. "She said she didn't want to go to a hotel. I'm sure she felt she would be recognized. Anyway, it was half past two in the morning, and it seemed like the thing to do."

"You better hope your girl friend doesn't find out," Czernick said.

"So I calmed her down, and gave her something to eat, and at eight o' clock, I brought her in. I just got to Homicide when you called down there."

"How do you think she feels about the police department?" Czernick asked.

"DelRaye aside, I think she likes us," Peter said.

"She going to file a complaint about DelRaye?" Czernick asked.

"No, sir."

"You see Colonel Mawson downstairs?"

"Yes, sir. I guess WCBL sent him over?"

"No," Czernick said. "The name Stanford Fortner Wells mean anything to you, Peter?"

Wohl shook his head no.

"Wells Newspapers?" Czernick pursued.

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

"He sent the colonel," Czernick said.

Peter suddenly recalled, very clearly, what he'd thought when he'd first seen Louise Dutton's apartment; that she couldn't afford it; that she might be a high-class hooker on the side, or some rich man's "good friend." That certainly would explain a lot.

"He's her father," Czernick went on. "So it seems the extra courtesies we have been giving Miss Dutton were the thing to do."

"She told me she had tried to call her father, but that he was out of the country," Peter said. "London, she said. She didn't tell me who he was."

He realized that he had just experienced an emotional shock, several emotions all at once. He was ashamed that he had been so willing to accept that Louise was someone's mistress, which would have neatly explained how she could afford that expensive apartment. His relief at learning that Stanford Wells was her father, not her lover, was startling. And immediately replaced with disappointment, even chagrin. Whatever slim chance there could be that something might develop between him and Louise had just been blown out of the water. The daughter of a newspaper empire was not about to even dally with a cop, much less move with him into a vine-covered cottage by the side of the road.

"Peter, I want you to stay with this," Commissioner Czernick said. " I'm going to tell J. Arthur Nelson that I've assigned you to oversee the case and that you'll report to him at least daily where the investigation is leading."

"Yes, sir," Peter said.

"Find out where things stand, and then you call him. Better yet, go see him."

"Yes, sir."

"Make sure that he understands what you're telling him is for him personally, not for theLedger. Tell him as much as you think you can. I don't want theLedger screaming about police ineptitude. And stay with the Dutton woman, too. I don't want the Philadelphia Police Department's federal grants cut because Stanford Fortner Wells III tells his politicians to cut them. Which I think he damned sure would have done if we had brought his daughter here handcuffed in the back of a wagon."

"Yes, sir," Peter said.

"That's it, Peter," Commissioner Czernick said. "Keep me advised."