The investigators

TWENTY-ONE

"My arm is going to sleep," Officer Timothy J. Calhoun said to Detective Charles McFadden. He moved his right arm, which was held by handcuffs to the strap on the rear of the front seat of the unmarked Plymouth.

McFadden was sitting beside him. Martinez was driving. They were on U.S. 222, five miles out of Harrisburg, headed for the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

"What do you want me to do?" McFadden asked. "I can't take the risk of you doing something stupid, Timmy."

"He already did a lot stupid," Jesus said from the front seat.

"Like what?" Calhoun asked, trying to ignore Martinez.

McFadden went along with him. He felt a little sorry for him, and Jesus could be a real prick. Timmy had enough on his back without Jesus digging at him.

"Like jumping out of the car, for example," Charley said.

"I wouldn't do that, Charley," Calhoun said.

"I can't take that chance," McFadden said.

"Cuff me behind my back," Calhoun said.

"Fuck you, Calhoun," Martinez said. "Just sit there and shut up."

"Ease off, Jesus," Charley said.

"When they get you in the slam, Calhoun," Martinez said, "and some sweaty two-hundred-fifty-pound lifer starts shoving his schlong up your ass, you'll look back on your fucking arm going to sleep as the good old days."

"Just drive the car, will you, Jesus?" Charley said.

"I could be wrong," Martinez said. "Maybe he'll like getting fucked in the ass."

"Put your left hand behind your back, Timmy," Charley said. "Jesus, let me have your cuffs."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to cuff Calhoun behind his back."

"Fuck him, let his arm go to sleep. Let his arm turn black and fall off."

"Give me your goddamn cuffs, goddamn it!"

Martinez grunted as he shifted around on the seat trying to get his handcuffs out from where he carried them, in the small of his back. He finally succeeded and laid them on the back of the seat.

McFadden placed one of them on Calhoun's left wrist, and then freed his right wrist from the handcuff shackling him to the front seat. Then he put Calhoun's right wrist behind his back and clipped the handcuff to it.

Calhoun slumped back against the seat.

"Thanks, Charley."

"Okay," McFadden said.

Ninety seconds later, Calhoun announced: "Charley, I got to go to the toilet."

"Fuck you!" Martinez said. "Crap in your pants, you dirty cocksucker!"

"What the hell is the matter with you, Martinez?" Calhoun asked. "What did I ever do to you?"

"You were born, is what you did to me," Martinez said, and then seemed to warm to the subject. "I don't like dirty cops, is what's the matter with me," Martinez said. "And you know-you're a goddamn narc-what that shit does to people, and you were selling it. Stealing it from drug people, and then selling it! Probably to kids! You are the lowest of the fucking low, Calhoun!"

"Ease off, Jesus," Charley said.

"Fuck you, ease off! What I would like to do to this miserable shitheel is shoot him with a. 22 in both knees, and make him crawl to jail."

"I'm telling you to ease off, goddamn it!"

"With that damned Rolex watch shoved up his ass!" Martinez went on, undaunted.

"Charley, unless I get to go to the toilet, I'm going to crap in my pants!" Calhoun said plaintively.

"I don't give a shit!"

Two minutes later, Martinez turned off 222 into a Cities Service complex, a large service station with two rows of pumps, a store offering tires and other automotive accessories, and a restaurant.

He pulled the unmarked Plymouth up in front of the restaurant and jumped out of the driver's seat. He took his identification folder from his pocket and opened it so the shield was visible, then pushed his jacket aside so that his holstered pistol was visible. He waved his badge around at shoulder height.

"Nothing to worry about, folks. We are police officers! "

That, of course, caught the attention of everyone within fifty feet, including several people seated at tables inside the restaurant.

"Let him out, McFadden!" Martinez ordered.

Charley reached over Calhoun and opened the door.

Calhoun made his way awkwardly out of the backseat.

Charley slid across the seat and got out after him.

"You go set things up in the restaurant," Martinez ordered.

"I'm not going to leave you alone with him," McFadden said.

"You don't think I'd shoot him right here, do you?"

"I'm not going to leave him alone with you, Martinez," Charley repeated.

"Suit yourself," Martinez said, and walked into the restaurant, where, from the door, he repeated the "Nothing to worry about folks, we're police officers" routine.

By the time Charley marched the handcuffed former police officer Timothy J. Calhoun through the door of the restaurant, the eyes of everyone in the restaurant were on them, and Calhoun was so humiliated Charley thought he might actually cry.

Charley marched Calhoun past the fascinated restaurant customers to the men's room. Martinez preceded them, and ran a frightened-looking civilian out of the place before he would permit Charley to lead Calhoun inside.

Charley marched him up to a stall and turned him around.

"Aren't you going to take the cuffs off?" Calhoun asked.

"Timmy, I just can't take the chance," Charley said, sounding genuinely sorry.

He unfastened Calhoun's belt, unbuttoned the flap, pulled down his zipper, and pulled first his trousers and then his shorts down over his hips.

"Back in there," he ordered.

Calhoun, his trousers at his ankles, backed into the stall and finally managed to lower himself onto the toilet.

"How am I supposed to wipe myself?" Calhoun asked.

"When you're finished, I'll uncuff you to do that," Charley said.

It became evident to Officer Calhoun that Detective McFadden had no intention of closing the door, but instead was leaning on the frame, obviously intending to watch him.

"You're not even going to close the door?"

"Timmy, I just can't take the chance," Charley said. "If I was in your shoes, I think I'd eat my gun."

"Maybe that's what I should have done when I saw the cars outside."

"Too late for that, now, Timmy. You're going down."

"Shit!"

In Detective McFadden's professional judgment, Officer Calhoun was about to cry. Which meant that he had swallowed the good cop-bad cop routine hook, line, and sinker. He hadn't thought it would be this easy, but on the other hand, Calhoun had never had a reputation for being very smart, just a good guy.

"What are you going to do, Timmy?" Charley asked sympathetically.

Calhoun looked up at McFadden. There were tears in his eyes.

"What the hell can I do?"

"Timmy, how the hell did you ever get into this mess?" Charley asked. "Didn't you even think what would happen to Monica when you were caught?"

"We weren't supposed to get caught!" Calhoun said indignantly. "That fucking Phebus said there was no way in the fucking world we were going to get caught!"

Bingo! Former Sergeant Anton C. Phebus! I'll be damned!

"You're going to have to give them Phebus, Timmy. Before somebody else does. It's not like you'd be ratting on another cop. He's not a cop anymore, he's a lawyer, an assistant D.A., for Christ's sake! And he got you into this."

"We weren't supposed to get caught," Calhoun said. "Shit!"

"What we're going to do now, Timmy, is get on the phone to Sergeant Washington, who is my boss, and a good guy. You're going to tell him that as soon as we get to Philadelphia you're going to give him Phebus. He already knows about Phebus, of course, but with a little luck, you'll be giving him Phebus before anybody else on the Five Squad does. That should help you."

Calhoun nodded.

"I'll be right back, Timmy," Charley said.

"Where are you going?"

Charley didn't reply.

Detective Martinez was leaning on the wall just outside the men's room.

"Anything?"

"You remember good old Sergeant Anton C. Phebus?"

"Yeah. What about him?"

"He's the brains behind the whole thing."

"No shit?"

"No shit," Charley said. "See if you can borrow an office with a phone. I want to get Calhoun on the phone, talking to Washington, before he changes his mind."

Although he scanned the lobby for her carefully, Matt Payne did not see Susan Reynolds when he returned to the Penn-Harris Hotel a few minutes after twelve.

As he got on the elevator, he decided he would call her at the Department of Social Services. Even with her line tapped, it would raise no suspicions on the FBI's part if he telephoned and asked her if she was free for lunch.

As he put the key in the door of Suite 612, he sensed movement, and glanced down the corridor. Susan was trotting toward him, obviously distraught.

"Hi!" he said. "I was just about to call you."

"Where have you been?" she asked.

"Calm down," he said, opened the door, and waved her inside ahead of him.

He closed the door and put his arms around her.

"Where the hell were you?" she asked, her voice muf fled against her chest.

"I was out arresting a dirty cop," he said. "My boss just told me I was at the head of his good-guy list."

She pushed away from him and looked up into his face.

"Say what you're thinking," she said.

"I'm not thinking anything," he said.

"Yes, you are."

"There was a certain irony in that, wouldn't you think?"

"In other words, what you're going to do for Jennie makes you feel dirty?"

"Whatever I wind up doing, honey, it's not going to be for your pal Jennie."

"I could meet her by myself, Matt, and try to reason with her. I really hate what this is going to do to you."

"That's very tempting, but for several reasons, it wouldn't work," Matt said. "And I'm a big boy. I know what I'm doing."

"Why wouldn't it work?"

"Well, I think it's entirely possible that the FBI has got somebody on you-besides that woman in your office, I mean. If they see you leaving town, they'll follow you-keeping track of a Porsche isn't hard. And the minute you meet poor Jennie, surprise, surprise! Go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred bucks. I don't want you to go to jail, honey."

"You don't know the FBI is watching me. Watching me that close, I mean."

"They're tapping your phones twenty-four hours a day. Your pal keeps calling-it doesn't matter what name she gives, I told you that, they know who it is. They're under pressure to put the arm on Chenowith and Company. They may not have the manpower to do it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, but whenever they can find the people, they're on you, Susan. Believe me."

"Jennie called," Susan said. "This morning."

"And?"

"I told her I would meet her."

"She called you at your office?" Matt asked. Susan nodded. "And you went to some pay phone and called her back? Or she called you at a pay-phone number you gave her?"

"At a number I gave her."

"Okay. So the minute you left your office, we can count on your friendly coworker listening to what you and Jennie had to say to each other. We can also count on her reporting that, right then, to the Terrorist Unit. If they had somebody available, you might have been followed to the phone booth. Hell, they might have followed you here."

"And there's a microphone in the light fixture?" Susan said, pointing at the ceiling. "And they are listening to everything we're saying now?"

"I don't think so. They think I'm on their side. But there's no telling, really. I should have thought of that. I'm used to planting mikes, not having them planted on me."

"I was kidding," Susan said. "You really think they could have a microphone in here?"

"Well, if they do, we're all going to jail," Matt said.

"I never know when you're serious," Susan said.

"Tell me about poor Jennie," Matt said. "Softly. The FBI may be listening."

"She really wants to give me whatever it is she wants me to keep for her."

"The translation of that is that, to cover his ass, Chenowith wants to get rid of the bank loot," Matt said. "And what did you tell her?"

"That I would meet her the same place I met her last time," Susan said.

"The restaurant in Doylestown?" Matt asked. Susan nodded. "When?"

"I told her I couldn't take off from work without questions being asked," Susan said. "I told her I'd try to get there by seven."

"Speaking of work, you're on your lunch hour, right?"

She shook her head, "no."

"After I talked to Jennie, I didn't go back to work."

"Why not?"

"I was afraid to," Susan said.

"Did something happen? What were you afraid of?"

"I didn't like the way Veronica was looking at me."

"So, what did you do?"

"I came here, looking for you, and you weren't here, so I walked around the block, and came back, and walked around the block… The last time I came in the hotel, I saw you getting on the elevator."

"By now, Veronica is wondering where the hell you are. You didn't call up and say you were sick or anything? "

Susan shook her head, "no."

"Do it now. Tell her you felt dizzy and got sick to your stomach."

"I don't work for Veronica. I'd have to call my supervisor. "

"Whoever. Tell whoever that you got sick and felt dizzy, and are going to see your doctor at half past three, and that you'll probably be in after that."

"You want me to go back to work?"

"No. But that may stall them a little. They may-just may-decide to wait until after you don't show up at four, or four-thirty, before deciding that you've taken off."

"What are we going to do about Jennie?"

"What is she going to do, just wait for you in the restaurant? "

"There's an outside pay phone-actually, there's three of them-and she's going to start calling them at seven. When I answer, she'll know I'm there."

"Which one? You said three?"

"Whichever one rings," Susan said, and smiled. "I guess she has the numbers of all of them. If one of them is busy, she'll try another. She's good at this sort of thing."

"Call your supervisor," Matt said.

"And then what?"

"And then we go."

"Go where?"

"Ultimately to Doylestown. But right now, just out of here."

"I'm not due in Doylestown until seven."

"So we'll stop at Hershey and shoot a quick eighteen holes," Matt said.

"That would be nice, wouldn't it, if we could do things like that? Play some golf? Are you any good?"

"I'm very good, thank you for asking," Matt said. "Call your supervisor, Susan."

Armando C. Giacomo, Esq., had more than a little difficulty finding a place to park his Jaguar sedan in the parking lot shared by the 1st District and South Detectives. The three spots reserved for visitors outside the ancient, run-down building were occupied, which was not really surprising. But so were the two spots reserved for inspectors; and the two spots set aside for the two captains of the 1st District and South Detectives.

He finally figured to hell with it, and parked in an "Absolutely No Parking at Any Time" slot near the rear door of the old, shabby building. His car was subject to being towed away there, but he suspected that before his shiny new Jaguar was hauled off, inquiries would be made to establish its ownership, and he could then explain to whoever came asking, how hard he had looked for a place to park and how reluctant he was to leave it on the street, where some happy adolescent would write his initials in the shiny green lacquer with a key.

Most cops, he knew, bore him little ill will for defending individuals alleged to have a connection with organized crime. For one thing-which explained to Manny Giacomo why the cops didn't climb the walls and pull their hair out when a genuine bad guy walked on a legal technicality-most cops drew a line between what they did and the criminal justice system did.

They arrested the bad guys. That was their job. What happened with the lawyers and the district attorneys and juries wasn't their concern.

There were even a few cops who really believed-as Manny Giacomo did-that even the worst scumbag was entitled to the best defense he could get, that it was on this that Justice with a capital J was really based.

And just about every cop knew that if they were hauled before the bar of justice, lowercase J, on an excessive-brutality rap or the like, they could expect to hear, "Armando C. Giacomo for the defense, your honor," when they stood up to face the judge.

Just before he pushed open the door to the building, Manny Giacomo saw a new Buick coupe, bristling with an array of antennas, parked where no civilian vehicle was ever allowed to park, in one of the spots reserved for district radio patrol cars.

Mr. Michael J. O'Hara of the Bulletin is obviously up and about practicing his profession, Giacomo thought, and wondered if he could somehow put the power of the press to work defending the officers he had come to protect from the unjustified accusations of the police establishment.

Just inside the door, Lieutenant Daniel Justice of South Detectives, who had probably been waiting for him, stuck out his hand.

"Good morning, Counselor."

"Danny the Judge!" Giacomo said, shaking his hand.

Danny needed a shave, and looked as if he had been up all night. Giacomo remembered the last time he'd seen him, he'd told him he was working Last Out. He therefore should now be home asleep.

"I thought you were working Last Out," Giacomo said.

"You know what they say, 'no rest for the virtuous,' " Danny said. "Chief Inspector Coughlin would be most grateful if you could spare him a moment of your time."

"Before I talk to the unjustly accused police officers, you mean?"

"Now, is what I mean," Danny said. "I'll pass on agreeing that they're unjustly accused."

Danny the Judge guided Giacomo across the room to the office of the district captain and pushed open the door.

Dennis Coughlin and Michael O'Hara had apparently evicted the district captain from his office. O'Hara was sitting behind his desk. Coughlin was sitting in the one, somewhat battered, chrome-and-leather armchair.

"Mr. Giacomo, Chief," Danny announced. "Should I have his illegally parked car hauled away now, or wait awhile?"

"Declare it abandoned, have it hauled to the Academy, and tell them I said they should use it for target practice," Coughlin replied. "Good morning, Counselor."

"You heard him, Mickey," Giacomo said. "Blatantly and shamelessly threatening the desecration of a work of art."

O'Hara got up from behind the desk and walked toward the door.

"Somehow, I get the feeling that Denny would rather talk to you alone, Manny," he said, touching his shoulder as he walked past him.

Danny the Judge pulled the door closed.

"There's coffee, Manny," Coughlin said, indicating a coffee machine.

Giacomo walked to it and helped himself.

"Being a suspicious character," he said as he looked with distaste at a bowl full of packets of nondairy creamer and decided he was not going to put that terrifying collection of chemicals into his coffee, "I suspect that there may be more here than meets the eye. Or, more specifically, what I was led to believe by the vice president of the FOP."

"What did he lead you to believe?" Coughlin asked.

"For one thing," Giacomo said, taking a sip from his coffee mug-which bore the insignia of the Emerald Society, the association of police officers of Irish extraction-and deciding the coffee was going to be just as bad as he was afraid it would be, "the last I heard, Chief Inspector Coughlin was not running Internal Affairs."

"What did they tell you at the FOP?" Coughlin repeated.

"That several all-around scumbags engaged in the controlled-substances distribution industry had made several outrageous allegations against a number of pure-as — freshly-fallen-snow police officers."

"Well, they got the 'scumbags' part right, at least," Coughlin said.

"I am now prepared to listen to-if you are inclined to tell me-the opposing view."

He sat down at the district captain's desk and looked at Coughlin.

"Off the record, if you'd rather, Denny," he added.

"Thank you for off-the-record, Manny," Coughlin said. "Okay. We have the entire Five Squad of the Narcotics Unit under arrest. The charge right now is misprision in office."

"The entire Five Squad? That's interesting. And so is 'misprision.' And what inference, if any, should I draw from 'right now'?"

"One of the charges that may be placed against one of these officers is rape," Coughlin said.

" 'May be placed'? Was there a rape? Can you prove it?"

"There was a rape. An oral rape. We have a witness to the rape."

" 'May be placed'? I don't understand that."

"I understand, Manny, that you took Vincenzo Savarese to Brewster Payne's office, where Savarese begged Brewster to lean on his daughter to treat Savarese's granddaughter? "

"What we're talking about here, Denny, is the Narcotics Five Squad," Giacomo said. "Not Vincenzo Savarese. "

"Shortly after Dr. Payne took Cynthia Longwood under her care," Coughlin went on, "a message was left for her at University Hospital-"

"I'm really disappointed in Dr. Payne. And/or Brewster Payne. If what you say is true, then either Payne told his son-which is the same thing as telling the police-or Dr. Payne clearly violated patient-physician-"

"Let me finish, Manny," Coughlin said.

"I'm about to say, Chief Coughlin, that we are back on the record."

"Give me another ninety seconds on that, Manny, please."

Giacomo considered that.

"Ninety seconds, no. We're still off the record. We go back on at my option."

"Thank you," Coughlin said.

Coughlin reached in his pocket and took out a sheet of paper and read from it, slowly:

" 'Miss Cynthia Longwood was stripped naked and orally raped, by a policeman under circumstances that were themselves traumatic.' "

"Jesus!" Manny Giacomo said, and was immediately furious with himself for letting his surprise show.

"Dr. Payne believes that having suffered a traumatic experience like that is consistent with Miss Longwood's condition, which is, in Dr. Payne's opinion, very close to serious schizophrenia. I'm not too good with medical terms, Manny, but what Amy means is that if the girl gets that far, she won't come back soon, or at all."

"You're saying that one of the Five Squad narcs did this to her?"

"Yes, I am. And does Savarese know? He knows. He doesn't have the name of the cop yet."

"Aren't you presuming a lot, Denny? How do you know Savarese knows?"

"We know that Joey Fiorello hired a private investigator-a retired detective-to see who the girl's boyfriend was. His name is Ronald R. Ketcham. The retired detective told Fiorello that Ketcham wasn't quite the respectable stockbroker he's supposed to be; that he's into selling drugs. He also told Fiorello that it was logical to presume that Ketcham's girlfriend was also into 'recreational' drugs.

"Shortly after that happened, Ketcham was snatched from the garage of his apartment. They took him to a deserted NIKE site in South Philadelphia, took his clothes away from him, and left him there in the dark overnight. The next day, they came back and asked him questions. He had no idea he was keeping company with Savarese's granddaughter. He thought that the people who had snatched him were in the drug business."

"I don't understand what you're telling me."

"Last Thursday night, Ketcham went to the Howard Johnson motel on Roosevelt Boulevard to do a drug deal with a guy named Amos Williams. He had Savarese's granddaughter with him. The Five Squad was apparently onto both of them. They busted Williams, and the people he had with him. One of the cops went into Ketcham's room, stole twenty thousand dollars from him, handcuffed him to the toilet, and raped Savarese's granddaughter."

"You can prove all that, I suppose?"

Coughlin ignored the question.

"Ketcham told Savarese's thugs what happened. His assumption was that Williams thought he had given Williams to the Five Squad, and that Williams had sent the people to snatch him. You with me?"

"I don't know, keep talking."

"So Savarese left Ketcham in the NIKE site…"

That I don't believe. If Savarese thought this guy was responsible for his granddaughter getting raped-or just for getting her on "recreational" drugs-he just wouldn't walk away and leave it at that.

But the rest of this is probably true. Savarese wanted me to get an investigator for him. Jesus Christ, I'm glad I didn't do that!

"… and told Joey Fiorello to have the private investigator find out what cops were at the Howard Johnson motel when they busted Amos Williams. They gave the guy a bullshit story why they wanted to know, and the guy went to Mike Sabara and told him he smelled something fishy."

"How did you know that person or persons unknown had left the boyfriend in the NIKE site?"

"We're still off the record, right, Manny?"

"I'll tell you when we go back on."

"Amy Payne called Peter Wohl and told him about the message at the hospital. Peter brought it to me. I put out a Locate, Do Not Detain on Ketcham. Danny the Judge read it. When a South detective went to Justice and told him he had found a guy named Ketcham wearing only an overcoat locked up in the NIKE site, Danny called me."

"That's why everything is going on here?"

Coughlin nodded.

"You don't have any authority in one of those sites, you know. They're federal property."

Coughlin ignored that.

"Ketcham positively identified one of the Five Squad as the guy who raped the granddaughter, and gave us a sworn statement to the effect. Plus, that the same guy had stolen twenty thousand dollars from him."

"I wonder how convincing a witness Mr. Ketcham would be," Giacomo said.

"I went to Hanging Harriet McCandless-Tony Callis did-and got her to overturn the magistrate's decision to grant bail to Amos Williams and one of his thugs, a scumbag named Baby Brownlee. Jason Washington got them to give statements saying they had more cocaine at the time of their arrest than Five Squad turned in as evidence, and more cash, and in the case of Brownlee, a gold Rolex that until a couple of hours ago seemed to have disappeared. "

"Same question, Denny. I wonder what sort of witnesses Mr. Williams and Mr. Brownlee would make against fine police officers? Frankly, I would be prone to ask them, several times, so the jury would be sure to hear their answer, whether the police or the district attorney had offered them anything-like immunity from prosecution-in exchange for their agreeing to say these terrible things about these fine police officers."

"Baby Brownlee's gold Rolex showed up this morning in a safe-deposit box in Harrisburg, the only key to which was in the hands of another fine pure-as-the-driven-snow police officer assigned to the Narcotics Unit's Five Squad. And there was some fifty thousand-plus in cash in the same box."

"I presume you think you can prove the watch in question is actually Mr. Brownlee's?"

"He bought it at Bailey, Banks and Biddle. They made a record of the serial number."

"Very interesting story, Denny. Is that all of it?"

"Not quite," Coughlin said. "I had breakfast with Savarese this morning."

"Did you really?"

"I told him that we didn't want to subject his granddaughter to the humiliation of having to testify against her rapist, and that what we proposed to do was have him plead guilty to enough charges of violating the civil rights-"

"Violating somebody's civil rights? Whose civil rights?" Giacomo interrupted.

"Williams's and Brownlee's, for sure. Probably some others. We picked up everybody they arrested within the last ten days when their bail was revoked, and reinterviewed them. We're prepared to go further back, if necessary. "

"Why would you believe that an attorney would recommend that this guy cop a plea like that? It seems to me that, in this case, there is very little chance that the victim would ever testify against him."

"Savarese put it another way," Coughlin said. "He said he didn't think there could be a trial if there was no one around alive to try."

"He has a point," Giacomo said. "You didn't think that simple observation about life in general could in any way be construed as a threat against anyone, did you?"

"Manny, he as much as told me he's going to kill this guy just as soon as he finds out who he is."

"Not in so many words, right?"

"Not in so many words."

"If Mr. Savarese is, in your opinion, so prepared to cause the unlawful deaths of others, in particular those who have in some way caused harm to members of his family, why do you suppose he didn't do something dreadful to Mr.-Ketcham, you said?-"

"Ronald R. Ketcham," Coughlin furnished.

"— when he had the opportunity?"

"Peter Wohl thinks Savarese wanted him to starve to death," Coughlin said.

My God, that's probably exactly what Savarese intended to do.

"What do you want from me, Denny?"

"I want-what the hell, you'd have his name in a couple of minutes anyway-Officer Herbert Prasko to roll over on the Five Squad. In exchange for which, he'll get a twenty-year plea bargain, which means probably seven years in a federal prison."

"Why should I encourage him to do that?"

"Because otherwise you know that Savarese will have him killed."

"I know nothing of the kind!"

Who do I think I'm fooling?

"Come on, Manny!" Coughlin said.

"You've got the deal lined up?"

"The U.S. Attorney has been very helpful."

"Why?"

"Because-I'm guessing-he thinks he'd have a hard time convicting Savarese on an unlawful-abduction charge. And maybe because he thinks he'll look good in Washington if he put a local cop away on a civil rights charge. And the FBI will get the credit for uncovering that travesty of justice."

"Very interesting," Giacomo said.

"That's it, Manny," Coughlin said.

The two men looked at each other. First Coughlin shrugged, and then Giacomo.

"Let's go back on the record, Counselor," Coughlin said

Giacomo shrugged again.

"I presume, Mr. Giacomo," Coughlin said, "that you are here to represent one or more of the police officers we arrested last night and this morning on charges of misprision in office?"

"That's right, Chief Coughlin."

"I advise you herewith that I am about to arrest one of those officers, specifically Officer Herbert J. Prasko, Badge Number 5292, on additional charges."

"What would those charges be?"

"That Officer Prasko, at gunpoint, stole twenty thousand dollars, more or less, from Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham, of Philadelphia, who then occupied Room 138 at the Howard Johnson motel on Roosevelt Boulevard in this city, such acts constituting armed robbery in the first degree."

"Anything else, Chief Coughlin?"

"That Officer Prasko, in Room 138 of the Howard Johnson motel on Roosevelt Boulevard in this city, forced Miss Cynthia Longwood, of Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania, by threatening her life, to disrobe, and thereafter did force Miss Longwood to take his penis into her mouth, where he therein ejaculated, such acts constituting Involuntary Deviate Sexual Intercourse."

They looked at each other.

"Do I understand, Mr. Giacomo, that you are representing Officer Prasko?"

"I am willing to represent Officer Prasko if that is his desire. I have not yet had the chance to confer with Officer Prasko."

"I will take you to him now, Counselor," Coughlin said.

He pushed himself out of the armchair, walked to the door, and opened it.

"Where's Prasko, Danny?"

"In the interview room, upstairs," Danny said.

Coughlin waved Giacomo ahead of him toward the stairs that led up to South Detectives.

Officer Prasko, who was handcuffed to the metal chair in the interview room, smiled when he saw Armando Giacomo come into the room.

"Boy, am I glad to see you, Mr. Giacomo," he said.

"Officer Prasko, I am Chief Inspector Coughlin," Coughlin said. "I am placing you under arrest for armed robbery and rape."

"What?"

"Before we go any further, Officer Prasko, this is Mr. Armando C. Giacomo, who is an attorney, and who has been sent by the Fraternal Order of Police to render such assistance to you as may be mutually agreeable."

"I know Mr. Giacomo," Officer Prasko said.

"Chief, may I have a minute alone with Officer Prasko?" Giacomo asked.

"Certainly," Coughlin said.

He walked to the door.

"Chief Coughlin!" Giacomo called. Coughlin turned.

Very discreetly, Manny Giacomo indicated the one-way mirror on the wall, and shook his head, "no."

"When we're through, I'll knock at the door," Giacomo said.

Denny Coughlin, very discreetly, signaled-by holding his balled fist, thumb extended upward, at waist level-that he understood Mr. Giacomo did not wish anyone looking into the room through the one-way mirror, and that he agreed to grant the wish.

Coughlin closed the door to the interview room and walked into the adjacent room. Captain David Pekach, Sergeant Jason Washington, and Detective Tony Harris were sitting on chairs looking through the mirror.

"Out," Coughlin ordered.

Captains, sergeants, and detectives do not question the orders of chief inspectors.

They left the room.

"I'm a little disappointed to see Giacomo," Captain Pekach said. "I thought even he drew a line someplace."

"Would you like me to represent you on the charges that have been laid against you, Officer Prasko?" Giacomo asked.

"Yes, sir. Very much. Thank you."

"You understand that we now have an attorney-client privilege? Everything that you tell me in confidence will not go any further than me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Just a quick answer. We can get into details later. What about the original charge? Essentially that you diverted evidence to your personal use?"

"That's bullshit, Mr. Giacomo. What that is is a couple of nigger drug dealers trying to take me down, take the whole Five Squad down."

"And the second charge, that you robbed a man of twenty thousand dollars at gunpoint?"

"I don't know what the hell that's all about."

"And the rape?"

"Jesus, I'm a married man, Mr. Giacomo."

"Now, listen to me carefully, Officer Prasko," Giacomo said. "I'm a pretty good attorney, and with just a little luck, I could probably convince a jury that what you are is an honest cop with a good record."

"Thank you."

"And that the allegations made by the drug dealers-who would believe a drug dealer against someone like yourself? — were simply an attempt by them to get back at you for arresting them."

"That's what it is, Mr. Giacomo."

"Even though the police have in their possession the gold Rolex one of your crooked pals stole from Baby Brownlee."

"Excuse me?"

"Let me talk," Giacomo said reasonably. "Please don't interrupt my chain of thought."

"Yes, sir. Sorry."

"I could probably even manage to convince a jury-especially after we marched all your character witnesses to the stand-your parish priest would stand up for you, wouldn't he, Officer Prasko?"

"Absolutely. I'm sure Father-"

Giacomo held up his hand to silence him.

"I could probably convince a jury that Mr. Ketcham was doing the same thing the drug dealers were doing. I mean, after all, what's the difference between them except the color of their skin, right?"

"Ketcham is the man they say I stole money from?"

"Yes, he is. They say you stole twenty thousand dollars from him. So does he. He also says you handcuffed him to the toilet in his motel room and then raped his girlfriend. "

"That's absolute bullshit!"

"Well, you don't have to worry about that. I'm sure I could convince a jury that an outstanding police officer such as yourself isn't capable of committing the crimes the police say you did."

"That's a weight off my shoulders to hear you say that, Mr. Giacomo."

"What you have to worry about, you despicable asshole, is what Vincenzo Savarese is going to do to you."

"Huh?"

"The girl you made suck your cock, you contemptible pervert, is Vincenzo Savarese's granddaughter. The only reason you're alive at this moment is that the cops got lucky and got to you before Savarese did."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Giacomo. "

"You stupid piece of shit!" Giacomo, his face red with fury and disgust, shouted. "You're not even smart enough to know when to stop lying, are you?"

Armando C. Giacomo stormed out of the interview room, slamming the door behind him.

He walked directly to the Coke machine against the wall and fed it some money.

Coughlin walked over to him.

"That was quick," Coughlin said.

"I'm very good, Denny. You know that. I presume you have a stenographer on call?"

"Over there, reading the Daily News," Coughlin said, nodding toward a middle-aged Latin woman sitting in a chair.

"I'm going to give that piece of slime a couple of minutes to ruminate on what his alternatives are, and then I will go in and offer him your deal. I would be very surprised if he declined it."

"Thank you, Manny."

"Between you, me, and the Coke machine, Denny, it posed a problem of personal morality for me."

"How's that?"

"My personal inclination was to get him off-and I really think I could have-and then let Vincenzo… what would almost certainly have transpired, transpire. Six years in a federal country club doesn't strike me as a fair payback for what he did to that girl. I know her."

"Do me one more favor, Manny. Reason with… the grandfather. Convince him that this is the way, that this is enough."

"I'll try," Giacomo said. "But don't, as they say, hold your breath."

Susan Reynolds and Matt Payne had a very late lunch in Trainer's Restaurant outside Allentown.

Neither of them had had any appetite in the Penn-Harris, and they had ridden most of the way down U.S. 222 to Allentown in silence. In his mind, Matt was going over all of the things that could go wrong with the scheme, all the things that had to be done, and trying very hard to ignore a feeling of impending doom. He wondered, idly, once or twice, what Susan was thinking about, but didn't ask.

By the time they got to Allentown, however, they were both hungry, and Susan directed them to Trainer's, which she said was on the way to Doylestown.

"What are we going to do now?" Susan asked when they had finished their coffee and were waiting for the check.

"First thing, you're going to show me where your friend Chenowith lives," Matt said.

He knew that she wasn't going to like this announcement at all, and waited for what he was sure would be an angry reaction. He didn't get it.

"He's not my friend, Matt. I've told you that and told you that."

"I still want to see where he lives."

"Why?"

"So, when this is over, I can take the cops there," Matt said. "You may be in jail."

The waitress appeared with the check in time to hear the last part of the sentence.

Matt smiled at her in what he hoped was a disarming way.

"Or married, or have entered a convent," he added.

The waitress smiled. Susan shook her head at Matt.

When they got back in the car, Matt asked, "How do I get to Chenowith's house?" again expecting a negative response, and being surprised when he didn't get one.

"Go into Doylestown, turn right at the Crossroads Diner," Susan said.

"Is that where you're going to meet her?"

"That's where I met her the last time," Susan said. "She may change her mind this time."

"But she is going to call you there, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to cut over through Quakertown and go down Route 611," he said.

"Any special reason?"

"No."

"I'm a little afraid of showing you the house," Susan said a minute or two later.

"Don't start now," Matt said. "I want to be in a position where I can truthfully tell the FBI that you led me to the place."

"What if she leaves the baby in the house when she comes to meet me?" Susan asked.

"The FBI is not going to go after him with guns blazing if they know there's a baby around," Matt said.

"He's crazy, Matt, you know that. What's the FBI going to do if he starts shooting his machine gun?"

"The way that happens is that they will surround the place. Then somebody will get on a bullhorn and tell him-hell, you've seen the movies-'This is the FBI. We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands on your head, and no harm will come to you.' "

"And what if he starts shooting his machine gun? The both of them start to shoot their machine guns?"

"They'll look out the window and they won't see anything to shoot at. The FBI's not going to stand there in the open where they can get shot. They're not stupid."

"And if Bryan doesn't come out with his hands on his head?"

"Probably nothing. They don't want to start shooting unless they have to. With or without knowing there's a baby inside. After a long time-a long, long time-they might shoot some tear gas into the place. But that's it. Once they have the place surrounded, that's it. They can wait; time is on their side."

She didn't reply.

"And with that thought in mind, probably the smartest thing we could do right now would be to call Jack Matthews, have him meet us, you show him where Chenowith is, and let the FBI do their thing."

"If I show you where the house is, you'll have to promise you won't tell the FBI until after we meet with Jennie. "

"Jesus!"

"Promise!"

"Okay, okay."

Several minutes later, moving down a narrow, winding road, Matt said:

"You know what worries me the most? That your friend Jennie, once I put the arm on her, is not going to listen to one goddamn word you say to her about keeping her mouth shut until she sees a lawyer. You're not going to be the friend trying to save her ass, trying to keep her baby from getting hurt, but the traitorous bitch who turned her in to the cops."

"And?"

"She starts screaming that you were in on this whole thing from the beginning. If she and Chenowith are going down, I think it's entirely likely they'll want to take you down with them."

"I was, more or less," Susan said. "I'll just have to take that risk."

"Another option, of course, is for me to stop the car and start slapping you around until you tell me where the bastard is."

"Oh, stop it!"

"That's the best idea I've had all day," he said. "I really have no idea at all why I'm going along with this bullshit idea just to try to save your friend, who, I am growing more and more convinced, is just as dangerous as her boyfriend."

"You could slap me around all day, and I'd never tell you where the house is," Susan said.

She believes that. She's probably never been slapped in her life.

Could I slap her?

Yes, I could.

And get her to tell me where this goddamn house is?

Yes, I could.

And the FBI takes the house, and the asshole shoots off his homemade terrorist machine gun, and the FBI blows him, his girlfriend, and the baby away.

And whose fault would that be?

For the rest of her life, for the rest of our life, I would be the son of a bitch responsible for poor Jennie and/or her precious child getting blown away.

Not Jennie herself. Not even Chenowith. He's crazy, so it's not even his fault, no matter what the son of a bitch does.

Me. I would be the son of a bitch.

He looked over at Susan.

Moot point. No, I never could slap the information out of her. Not for any gentlemanly reasons, but because I could not stand the way she would look at me for having betrayed her.

Susan seemed to be able to read his mind.

She looked at him.

"Could you really slap me around?"

"Absolutely," he said.

"You are really terrible," she said, but she took his hand.

He saw a sign reading "Doylestown 8 Miles."

He freed his hand and reached across and punched the button opening the glove compartment. Then he reached in and took out the microphone.

"Radio check, please," he said into it.

There was no answer.

"I keep forgetting this is a police car," she said.

"Well, if we had come in your red Porsche, we would have been a lot easier to spot, wouldn't we, especially if someone-for example, the FBI-was trying to keep tabs on the owner of a red Porsche?"

He reached across her again and changed frequencies. He again asked for a radio check, and again there was no answer.

He tried it on every frequency he had available. There was a reply on the last one.

"Who wants a radio check?" a female voice responded.

"I'm a Philadelphia unmarked passing through Doylestown. I wanted to see if there was anyone I could talk to."

"You got the Bucks County sheriff's administrative channel, Philadelphia."

"Well, thank you very much," Matt said. "Nice to talk to you."

He reached across Susan a final time, turned off the radio, put the microphone in the glove compartment, and slammed the door.

"Satisfied?" Susan asked.

"Now I know I can call the cops-or at least the sheriff-if I need to."

"What's the administrative channel?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Matt confessed. "But whatever it is, that operator can talk to other people."

Two or three minutes later, he saw what he thought must be the Crossroads Diner up ahead on the left.

"That it?"

"That's it."

"I've been in there," he said. "I once took Penny to a gambling hell in the Poconos and we stopped in there on the way back."

"A gambling hell?"

"A mob-run joint outside Stroudsburg."

"What for?"

He didn't reply as he turned into the parking lot of the Crossroads Diner. He drove slowly through the complex. Susan showed him where the telephones were. He stopped the car, told Susan to wait, and went inside the restaurant. He took a good look around, found three places from which he could see the bank of telephones, and then left. He got back in the car and started up.

"Okay, show me the house," he said.

She gave him directions.

Twenty minutes later, they were almost there.

"About a hundred yards ahead is the driveway," she said. "The house is a couple of hundred yards down the drive. If you go in, they're liable to see you."

He drove past the driveway, around the next curve in the road, and then stopped.

"What I want you to do," he said, "is slide over and drive. When we're fifty yards from that driveway, stop. I'll get out. Then you drive down the road, turn around again, go back where I turned around, wait until"-he stopped and looked at his watch-"quarter after five, and then come back to where you dropped me off. I'll get in the back, and you head down the road."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to walk through the woods and take a look at the house."

"If Bryan sees you sneaking through the woods, he'll shoot you."

"I don't intend to let him see me," Matt said, and got from behind the wheel and walked around the front of the car.

Susan had not moved.

"Slide over," he said. "I have to do this."

"Oh, God!" she said, but she moved.

"Not to worry, fair maiden, I am a graduate-summa cum laude-of the U.S. Marine Corps how-to-sneak-through — the-woods course offered by the Camp LeJeune School for Boys."

"I don't want you to get hurt," she said.

"Neither do I," Matt said. "And I don't intend to. Drive, please, Susan."

She started up.

He opened the glove compartment again and turned on the radio.

"However," he said as they neared the drop-off point, "to cover every possible eventuality, if you hear gunshots, or I do not come out of the woods by twenty after five, you pick up the microphone and push the thing on the side, and say-pay attention: 'Officer needs assistance. 4.4 miles East on Bucks County 19 from intersection of Bucks County 24.' If you hear shots, say: 'Shots fired.' If they come on and ask you who you are, say you are a civilian in Philadelphia Special Operations, car William Eleven."

"Matt, I can't remember all that," Susan wailed. "Please don't do this!"

"Do your best," he said. "If you have to. I don't think you will."

"Don't do this!"

"Stop the goddamned car!" he said.

She looked at him, then slammed on the brakes.

"Start back down the road to pick me up at quarter after five," Matt said, and got out of the car.

He ran across the street into the woods.

Susan didn't move the car for a long time. He was on the verge of running back toward it when she finally started off. He could see that there were tears on her cheeks.

What's going to happen now is that this asshole Chenowith is going to spot me out here, fill me full of holes, then take off for parts unknown. And I will have seen the love of my life for the last time, without even thinking to kiss her good-bye!

It didn't happen that way.

Aside from tearing the pocket of his suit jacket on a protruding limb, he made it through the woods to the house, got a good look at it-it was an ancient, run-down, fieldstone farmhouse with diapers and underwear drying on a line on the narrow front porch; and an old Ford station wagon and a battered Volkswagen parked next to it-saw that it would not only be fairly easy to surround without being detected but that the woods would offer all the cover the FBI would need, and made it back to the road with plenty of time to spare before Susan, on schedule, came down the road.

He jumped in the car and she drove off.

"I think I hate you," Susan said. "God, that was stupid! "

"Nothing happened. I saw what I had to see, and everything 's all right."

"You're as bad as Bryan," she said, on the edge of hysterics. "He's playing revolutionary, and you're playing heroic policeman."

"There's a difference, Susan," he said, and he fought back the wave of anger he felt growing inside him. "I am a policeman, not a heroic one, but a policeman. I don't know if your fucking friend is a revolutionary or not, but he kills people, and my job is to put the son of a bitch away."

"I don't want you to die!" she said.

"Look for a telephone," he said. "It's time to call Jack Matthews."