The Assassin

RECEIPT NO. 107

"I wonder," Wohl said, and there was sarcasm and anger in his voice, "why no one thought I would be interested in this?"

"Maybe what you need is a good administrative assistant, to keep something like this from happening again," Matt said.

"No," Wohl said. "I've got an administrative assistant. Until I figure out what to do with you, you can work for Jason Washington."

Before the words were out of his mouth, Wohl had modified that quick decision. Matt would possibly wind up working for Jason somewhere down the line, he decided, but where he would go to work immediately was for Jack Malone.

Malone could use some help, certainly, in his new role in Dignitary Protection. And if Matt were working with him, he would not only learn something that would broaden his general education, but also just might keep Malone from doing something stupid. Malone was a good cop, but working with the feds was always risky.

Wohl decided this was not the time to tell Matt he had changed his mind. Instead, he changed the subject.

"We're invited to a party," he said.

"Oh?"

"Steak, you know, barbecue, at Martha Peebles's. Dave Pekach called up right after you did, invited me and, when I said you were coming over, said to bring you too."

"Fine," Matt said. "Maybehe'll glad to have me back."

"It is not nice to mock your superiors. Detective Payne. Make a note of that. Carve it in your forehead with a dull knife, for example."

Payne laughed, and Wohl smiled back at him.

I am glad he's back.

He remembered an insight he'd had about Matt Payne several months before, when Matt was still in Special Operations and had found himself in trouble not of his own making, and Wohl had jumped in with both feet in his defense before asking why. The reason, he had finally concluded, was that he thought of Matt as his younger brother.

"How is the Detweiler girl?" Wohl asked.

"She looks all right," Matt said.

"People do lick their drug problems, Matt."

"And I'll bet if you looked hard enough, you could find a pig who really can whistle."

"Is that a general feeling, or is there something specific?"

Matt looked at him and shrugged helplessly.

"She told me she was in love with Tony the Zee," Matt said.

"Have you considered that may be simple female insanity, not connected with narcotics?"

Matt laughed again.

"No," he said. "But isn't that a cheerful thought?"

Peter Wohl was not prepared to admit that Matt Payne's miracle auto polish was better in every way than his imported British wax, but there was no doubt that it went on and off faster, and with less effort.

For at least the last fifteen minutes, Detective Payne had been leaning on his gleaming Porsche, sucking on a bottle of beer and smiling smugly as he waited for Staff Inspector Wohl to finish waxing his Jaguar.

"Mine will last longer," Wohl said, when he had finally finished.

"We don't know that, do we?" Matt replied. "And you will notice thatI am not sweating."

"No one loves a smartass."

"It is difficult for someone like myself to be humble," Matt said.

"I wonder what a contract on the mayor would cost?"

Matt picked up on that immediately.

"You think he was responsible for sending me back to Special Operations?"

Wohl put the galvanized steel bucket, the car polish, and the rags into the garage, came out again, closed the door, and motioned for Matt to follow him into his apartment before replying.

"Who else? Not only does it smell like one of his friendly suggestions for general improvement of departmental operations, but who else would dare challenge the collective wisdom of Lowenstein and Coughlin-and my dad, by the way-that the best place for you to learn how to be a detective was to send you to East Detectives?"

He turned on the stairs and looked back at Payne.

"I'd say five thousand dollars," Matt said. "I understand the price goes up if the guy to be hit is known to go around armed."

Mayor Carlucci was known to never feel completely dressed unless he had a Smith amp; Wesson Chief's Special.38 caliber snubnose on his hip.

"Maybe we could take up a collection," Wohl said. "Put a pickle jar in every district."

He pushed open the door to his apartment and went inside.

"I need a shower," he said. "If you haven't already drunk it all, help yourself to a beer, and then call the tour lieutenant and tell him I'll be at Pekach's…Martha Peebles's."

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

He sat down on the white leather couch and pulled the telephone to him. There were lipstick-stained cigarette butts in the ashtray.

"You forgot to conceal the evidence," he called. "How did you do with whoever likes Purple Passion lipstick?"

"And clean the ashtrays," Wohl called back. "And not that it's any of your business, but she told me she was not that kind of girl. She was deeply annoyed that I thought she would do that sort of thing on the fifth date."

Matt chuckled and dialed, from memory, the number of the lieutenant on duty at Special Operations.

"Special Operations, Lieutenant Wisser."

Must be somebody new. I don't know that name.

"Lieutenant, Inspector Wohl asked me to call in that until further notice, he'll be at the Peebles's residence in Chestnut Hill. The number's on the list under the glass on his desk."

"Who is this?"

"My name is Payne, sir. Detective Payne."

"I've been trying to reach the inspector. Is he with you?"

Matt could hear the sound of the shower.

"No, sir. But I can get a message to him in a couple of minutes."

'Tell him that Chief Wohl has been trying to get him. That he's to call. He said it was important."

"Yes, sir, I'll tell him."

"Do I know you, Payne?"

"I don't think so, sir."

The phone went dead in Matt's ear.

He replaced the telephone in its cradle, carried the ashtray into the kitchen, emptied it, took another Ortlieb's beer from the refrigerator, and sat on the couch with it and the current copy ofPlayboy until Wohl reappeared.

"Your dad wants you to call," Matt reported. "Lieutenant Wisser said he said it was important."

Wohl sat on the couch beside him and dialed the telephone.

Matt could only guess at what the conversation was, but there was no mistaking that Wohl's attitude changed from concern to annoyance, and then resignation.

"Okay, Dad. Six-thirty, maybe a little later. Okay. Six-thirty,no later," he concluded, and hung up, and turned to Matt: "If you can find the hit man, tell him the mayor will probably be at 8231 Rockwell Avenue from about half past six."

"Oh?"

"It may just be for a friendly evening with old friends, and then again, it may not be," Wohl said.

Matt waited for more of an explanation, but none was forthcoming.