The Assassin

TWELVE

Peter Wohl was only mildly surprised when he turned onto Rockwell Avenue and saw a gleaming black Cadillac limousine parked before the comfortable house in which he had grown up. He didn't have to look at the license plate to identify it as the official vehicle provided by the City of Philadelphia to transport its mayor; the trunk was festooned with shortwave antennae, and the driver, now leaning on the front fender conversing with two other similarly dressed, neatappearing young men, was obviously a police officer. There were two other cars, almost identical to Wohl's, parked just beyond the Cadillac.

He didn't recognize the drivers, but there was little doubt in his mind that the cars were those assigned to Chief Inspectors Matt Lowenstein and Dennis V. Coughlin.

I am about to get one of three things, good news, bad news, or a Dutch Uncle speech. I don't know of anything I've done, or anyone else in Special Operations has done, that should have me on the carpet, but that simply means I don't know about it, not that there is nothing. And the reverse is true. I can't think of a thing I've done that would cause the mayor to show up to tell me what a good job I've been doing.

He pulled the Jaguar to the curb behind the limousine and got out.

The two drivers who had been leaning on the Cadillac pushed themselves erect.

"Good evening, Inspector."

"I guess the party can start now," Wohl said, smiling, "I'm here."

"They been in there the better part of an hour, Inspector," one of the drivers said.

That was immediately evident when his mother opened the door to his ring. There was hearty laughter from the living room, and when he walked in there, the faces of all four men were unnaturally, if slightly, flushed.

There were liquor and soft drink bottles and an insulated ice bucket on the coffee table, and the dining-room table was covered with cold cuts and bowls of potato salad.

"Well, here he is," Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, retired, said. "As always, ten minutes late and a dollar short."

"Mr. Mayor," Wohl said, and then, nodding his head at Lowenstein and Coughlin in turn, said "Chief."

"Always the fashion plate, aren't you, Peter?" the mayor said as he shook Wohl's hand. "Even when you were a little boy."

"I've been out hobnobbing with the hoi polloi, Mr. Mayor."

"Which hoi polloi would that be?" the mayor asked, chuckling.

"Captain Pekach's fiancee."

"Oh, yes, Miss Peebles."

"And Miss Penelope Detweiler was there too," Wohl said.

"Is Pekach doing a little matchmaking?" the mayor said, and then went on without waiting for a reply. "You could do worse, Peter. It's about time you found a nice girl and settled down."

"Miss Peebles is doing the matchmaking, but her target, I think, is Detective Payne. The Detweiler girl is a little young for me."

"He was there too?"

"He was at my place when Dave Pekach called. He said to bring him along. He came to tell me he had been reassigned to Special Operations."

"Oh, yeah. That was one of the things I was going to mention to you. I heard the commissioner was thinking of sending him back over there."

Do you really expect me to believe that was Czernick 's idea, and you knew nothing about it?

And "one of the things" you were going to mention to me? What else, Mr. Mayor?

Wohl's father handed him a drink.

"Thank you," Peter said, and took a sip.

"Jerry was just telling me that Neil Jasper's going to retire," Chief Wohl said.

It took a moment for Wohl to identify Neil Jasper as an inspector working somewhere in the Roundhouse bureaucracy.

Christ, is he going to tell me "the commissioner is thinking " of making me Jasper's replacement?

"A lot of people, Peter, including the commissioner," the mayor said, looking directly at him, "think Special Operations is getting too big to be commanded by a staff inspector."

"I'm sorry the Commissioner feels that way," Wohl said.

"Well, I'm afraid he's right," the mayor said.

Oh, shit! I have just been told that I'm going to lose Special Operations. That's what this is all about. Jerry Carlucci is softening the blow by letting me know ahead of time, and is about to throw me a bone: Pick a job, Peter, any job. I owe your father.

"Do I read you correctly, Peter? You don't want to work in the Roundhouse?"

"I would rather not work in the Roundhouse, Mr. Mayor."

"That's what I told Czernick," the mayor said. "That I didn't think you'd like that."

So what does that leave? Back to Staff Investigations? Probably not. If Carlucci is throwing the dog a bone, and tells Czernick not to give me a job in the Roundhouse, there's not really much left for a staff inspector. Maybe as an assistant to Lowenstein in the Detective Bureau, or to Coughlin in Special Patrol. Why else would they be here?

"May I ask who the commissioner's thinking of sending in to take over Special Operations?"

"That's pretty much up to you, Peter," the mayor replied.

What the hell does he mean by that?

"Unless, of course, you'd like to stay there," the mayor said.

"You just said that it had been decided Special Operations should have a full inspector…"

"And so it should," the mayor said. "You were what, when you took the Inspector's exam."

"Seventh," Wohl replied, without thinking.

"And they promoted five people off the list, right? That's what Czernick said."

"I think that's right," Wohl replied.

You know damned well it's right. Why are you being a hypocrite? You watched the promotions off the list like a hawk, until the twoyear life of the list ran out and you knew you weren't going to get promoted from it.

"Commissioner Czernick came to me with an idea," the mayor said. " He said that Marty Hornstein was number six, in other words next up, on the last Inspector's List, and said that it would be a pretty good idea if I could ask the Civil Service Board to extend the life of the list, so that Hornstein could be promoted and take Jasper's place."

Wohl was aware that the mayor was pleased with himself, and exchanging glances with Chiefs Wohl, Lowenstein and Coughlin.

What the hell is that all about?

"Now you have been around long enough, Peter, to know that I don't like to go to the Civil Service Board and ask them for a favor. They do something for you, you got to do something for them. But, on the other hand, I try to oblige commissioner Czernick whenever I can. So I thought it over, and what I decided was that if I had to go to all the trouble of going to the Board to ask them to extend the life of the Inspector's List so that we could promote one guy off it, why not promote two guys off it?"

Jesus H. Christ!

The last board made it pretty clear to me that they didn't think I was old enough to be a captain, much less a staff inspector trying for inspector. I squeezed by that one only because they believed the list would be long expired before I got anywhere near the top of it, and that I would spend the next five years or so as a staff inspector investigator. If they had known I'd be given command of Special Operations after eighteen months, they would have found some reason to keep me off the list, or at least put me near, or at, the bottom.

"If you can find time in your busy schedule, Peter," the mayor said. "Why don't you drop by the commissioner's office next Tuesday at say nine-thirty? Wear a nice suit. They'll probably want to take your picture. Yours and Hornstein's. But keep this under your hat until then."

I have just been promoted. By mayoral edict, screw the established procedure.

A massive arm went around his shoulders, and then Peter felt his father's stubbly cheek against his as he was wrapped in an affectionate embrace.

"You better have another drink, Peter," the mayor said. "You look as shocked as if you'd just been goosed by a nun."

The telephone was ringing when Matt climbed the narrow stairway to his apartment. He walked quickly to it, but at the last moment decided not to pick it up. On the fifth ring, there was a click, and then his voice, giving theI'm Not Home message. There was a beep, and then a click. His caller had elected not to leave a message.

The redYou Have Messages light was blinking. He pushed the PLAY button. There were four buzz and click sounds, which meant that four other people had called, gotten hisI'm Not Home message, and hung up.

Evelyn, he thought. It has to be her.

Why are you so sure it's her? Because the gentle sex, contrary to popular opinion, does not have an exclusive monopoly on intuition, and also because everybody, anybody, else would have left a message.

If you call her back, there is a very good chance that you can wind up between, or on top of, the sheets with her. Why doesn't that fill you with joyous anticipation?

The answer came with a sudden, very clear mental image of Professor Harry Glover outside the house in Upper Darby, specifically of the look in his eyes that said, "I know you have been fooling around with my wife."

Jesus Christ, could it be him? "Stay away from my wife, you bastard!"

Conclusions: You did the right thing, Matthew, my boy, because God takes care of fools and drunks, and you qualify on both counts, in not picking up the telephone. You neither want to discuss with Professor Glover your relationship with his wife, or diddle the lady.

And why not? Because he knows? Or because Precious Penny has made it quite clear that she would be willing, indeed pleased, to roll around on the sheets with you?

Oh, shit!

He turned on the television, sat down in his armchair, flicked through the channels, got up, and went to the refrigerator for a beer.

The telephone rang again.

He walked to the chair-side table, looked down at the telephone, and picked it up on the third ring.

"Payne."

"This is your friendly neighborhood FBI agent," a familiar voice said. "We have a report of a sexual deviate living at that address. Would you care to comment?"

"The word is 'athlete,' not 'deviate.' Guilty. What are you up to, Jack?"

Jack Matthews, a tall, muscular, fair-skinned man in his late twenties, was a special agent of the FBI. When Matt had been wounded by a member of the so-called Islamic Liberation Army, Jack had shown up to express the FBI's sympathy, and, Matt was sure, to find out what the Philadelphia Police knew about the Islamic Liberation Army and might not be telling the FBI. In addition, Lari Matsi, a nurse in the hospital who had raised Matt's temperature at least four degrees simply by handing him an aspirin, had suddenly found Matt invisible after a thirty-second look at the pride of the Justice Department.

Despite this, however, Matt liked Jack Matthews. He watched what he said about police activity when they were together, but they shared a sense of humor, and he had become convinced that there was a certain honest affection on Jack's part for him and Charley McFadden, whose fiancee and Lari Matsi were pals.

"I'm sitting at the FOP bar with a morose Irish detective," Jack said. "Who is threatening to sing, 'I'll take you home again, Kathleen.' McFadden wants you to come over here and sing harmony."

"You sound like you've been there for a while."

"Only since it opened," Jack said. "The girls are working."

"Did you call before, Jack?"

"No. Why?"

"No reason. Yeah, give me twenty minutes."

"Bring some of that Las Vegas money with you," Jack said, and hung up.

Matt went into his bedroom and changed into khakis and a sweatshirt. As he was reclaiming his pistol from the mantelpiece, the telephone rang again. He looked at it for a moment, and then went down the stairs.

Jack Matthews and Charley McFadden, a very large, pleasant-faced young man, were sitting at a table near the door of the bar in the basement of the Fraternal Order of Police Building on Spring Garden Street, just off North Broad Street, when Matt walked in.

There was a third man at the table, Jesus Martinez, in a suit Matt thought was predictably flashy, and whom he was surprised to see, although when he thought about it, he wondered why.

Charley McFadden and Jesus Martinez had been partners, working as undercover Narcs. When their anonymity had been destroyed when they ran to earth the junkie who had shot Captain Dutch Moffitt, they had been transferred to Special Operations. Charley and Martinez had been friends and, more important, partners, since before Matt had come on the job.

"How are you, Hay-zus?" Matt said, offering his hand and smiling at Officer Jesus Martinez of the Airport Unit.

"Whaddaya say, Payne?" Jesus replied.

Both our smiles are forced, Matt thought. He doesn't like me, for no good reason that I can think of, and I am not especially fond of him. We are on our good behavior because Charley likes both of us, and we both like Charley.

Matthews and McFadden were dressed much like Matt. Charley was wearing a zippered nylon jacket and blue jeans, and Matthews was wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt with the legend PROPERTY OF THE SING-SING ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT. A loose-fitting upper garment of some sort is required to conceal revolvers.

They both had their feet up on chairs, and were watching the dancers on the floor, at least a half dozen of whom appeared to have their slacks and blouses painted on.

"We have a new rule," Jack said. "People who win a lot of money gambling have to buy the beer."

"Right," McFadden said.

They're both plastered. I think Jack is here because he wants to be, not because the FBI told him to hang around the cops with his eyes and ears open.

"Does that apply to guys who can tell certain females that their boyfriends spent Saturday night ogling the broads in the FOP bar?"

"You have a point, sir," Jack said. "I will buy the beer."

"Sit down," Matt said. "Ortlieb's, right? What are you drinking, Hay-zus?"

Martinez picked up a glass that almost certainly held straight