The Witness

ELEVEN

The building at Frankford and Castor Avenues, according to what was chiseled in stone over the front door and on a piece of granite to the left of the door, had been built in 1892 as the Frankford Grammar School.

Plywood had been nailed over the glass portion of the doors and many of the ground-floor windows, the ones from which, Matt Payne decided, the local vandals had been successful in ripping off the wire mesh window guards.

The front doors were locked with two massive padlocks and closing chains looped around the center posts of the door. When Matt finally managed to get one padlock to function, he turned to Lieutenant Jack Malone.

"Why don't we just stop here and go back and tell the inspector that a detailed survey of these premises has forced us to conclude they are unfit for human habitation?"

"They obviously are, but we are talking aboutpolice habitation," Malone said. "The standards for which are considerably looser."

Matt jerked the door open. It sagged and dragged on the ground; the top hinge had pulled loose from the rotten frame.

He bowed and waved Malone past him.

Malone chuckled. From what he had seen of Payne, he liked him. He was not only a pleasant kid, but he'd already proven he was a cop. And Malone had heard the gossip. He knew that Payne's father had been a sergeant, killed on the job, and that he had a very important rabbi in Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin.

Not that he needed one, Malone thought, as close as Payne was to Inspector Wohl. Wohl was a powerful man in the Department. In his present uncomfortable circumstances, that could mean he could get his career back on track, or begin thinking of leaving the Department as soon as he had his twenty in, or maybe even before.

And since Payne was close to Wohl, the same thing applied to him. He could help, or he could hurt. Malone had waked up wondering what kind of trouble he was already in, thanks to that zealous Highway cop who had spotted him keeping an eye on Holland's body shop.

Wohl hadn't said anything to him about keeping his nose out of Auto Squad's business now that he was assigned to Special Operations. Malone knew that he was supposed to be smart enough to figure that out himself. There was little chance that Wohl hadn't heard about it, however.

They didn't send me to Special Operations without talking to Wohl about Poor Jack Malone, who has personal problems, and who incidentally had somehow acquired the nutty idea that Robert L. Holland, respectable businessman and pal of everybody important from Mayor Jerry Carlucci down, was a car thief.

The smart thing for me to have done was just forget the whole damned thing and make myself useful around Special Operations. A good year on this job, and the word would get around that I had gotten through my personal problems and could now, again, be trusted not to make an ass of myself and the Department. That word, coming from Wohl, would straighten everything out.

The worst possible scenario would be for the Highway cop, McFadden, he said his name was, to tell his lieutenant that he had checked out a suspicious car parked near Holland's body shop and found the new lieutenant, Malone, in it. If that happened, there was a good chance that the lieutenant would "mention" that to either Sabara or Pekach. Or maybe to Inspector Wohl himself. In any event, Wohl would hear about it. At that point, Wohl would have to call me in and tell me to straighten up and fly right or find myself another home. Wohl was not about to put himself in a position where the brass would jump on his ass for letting Poor Jack Malone run around making wild accusations about a friend of the mayor's.

I think I could probably talk myself out of the first time.Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I realize I was wrong, sir. It won't happen again, sir.

And I couldn't let it happen again, which would mean that sonofabitch would continue to get away with it.

That's the worst possible scenario. That doesn't mean it will go down that way. For one thing, the odds are, because McFadden probably walked away thinking he had made a fool of himself, that he had walked into, and almost fucked up, a stakeout where he had no business, that McFadden won't mention what happened to anybody, least of all his lieutenant.

That, I suppose, is the best possible scenario. What will really happen is probably somewhere in between. Whatever it is, since I can't do a fucking thing about it, there's no point in worrying about it.

That puts me back to what I do next. The smart thing to do obviously, since I nearly got caught doing something that really threatens my career, is don't do that no more.

But I'm a cop, and Holland is a thief, and what cops are supposed to do is lock up thieves.

Maybe Wohl, if I went to him, would understand. He understands that some thieves are fucking pillars of the community. Christ, he locked up Judge Findermann, didn't he?

You're dreaming, Poor Jack Malone. You don't have anything to go on except a gut feeling, and if you said that to Wohl, you'd soon be commanding officer of the rubber-gun squad.

Inside the outer doors was a small flight of stairs. Malone went up that, and then through a second set of doors. He heard scurrying noises that experience told him was the sound of rats.

I wonder what the hell they eat in here? It doesn't look like anybody has been in here in years.

He waited for a moment, to let his eyes adjust to the dim light, and then went left down a corridor. The ancient hardwood floor squealed and creaked under his weight. There was a sign with PRINCIPAL still lettered on a door. He pushed that open and looked inside.

There was a counter inside, and several open doors, through which he could see rooms that could be used as Wohl's and Sabara's office.

"We could put the boss in there, I suppose," he said.

"Jesus!"

"And you, Officer Payne," Malone said. "I can see your desk right there by the hole in the wall."

"Do they really think we can use this place?" Payne asked.

"I think the inspector is desperate," Malone said. "We're sitting in each other's laps at Bustleton and Bowler."

"Well, there's a big enough parking lot. Already fenced in. We could start with that, I suppose, and build on it."

"Where?" Malone asked, and then went to a window and looked out where Payne pointed.

"I was reading the grant, and there's-"

"What?"

"The Justice Department Grant," Payne said. "That's where we got the money for Special Operations. A.C.T. It stands for Augmented Crime Teams."

Interesting. He's probably the only guy in Special Operations besides Wohl and Sabara who ever heard of the grant, much less read it.

"You were saying?"

"There's money in there, available on application, for capital improvement. About a hundred grand, if I remember correctly. The question is, would fixing this dump up be considered a 'capital improvement'?"

"I don't know," Malone said. "It's a thought."

"I'll mention it to the inspector," Payne said. Malone went back in the corridor and down it and into another room. It was a boys' room.

"Well, there's something else we could start with and build on," Malone said. "I saw a Highway guy this morning who's small enough to use one of those urinals."

"Hay-zus," Payne chuckled.

"What?"

"Hay-zus-Jesus-Martinez. He's a quarter of an inch and maybe two pounds over Department minimums."

"How did he get in Highway? Most of those guys are six feet something?"

"He was one of the two of the inspector's first probationary Highway Patrolmen. He was a Narc. He and his partner were the ones who caught the guy who killed Dutch Moffitt. The inspector gave him a chance to see if he could make Highway, and he did."

"Oh, yeah. I remember that. The doer got himself run over by an elevated train, right?"

"Right."

"I remember Dutch Moffitt too. He was a real pisser. Big, goodlooking guy. He screwed everything in skirts. What did they say?-'that he'd screw a snake if he could get it to hold still.' Did you know him?"

So that's why I have not been wallowing in Episcopalian remorse for having taken someone else's wife into my bed! My Moffitt genes have overwhelmed all my moral training.

"Dutch was my uncle," Payne said.

"Oh, Christ!" Malone said. "Payne, I'm sorry. I meant no offense."

"None taken," Payne said. "Dutch was-Dutch."

"If I'd have known he was your uncle, I wouldn't have-"

"Lieutenant, it's all right," Matt said. "But I would like to make a suggestion."

"Shoot."

"I think we have seen enough of this ruin to know that without spending a hell of a lot of money on it, it's useless. Why don't we go back and tell the inspector that? Maybe there is money in the grant we could get."

"Agreed. I'm freezing."

"Presuming we can get the door to shut, let's go find a cup of coffee."

Inspector Wohl was walking to the door of the building at Bustleton and Bowler as Matt Payne and Jack Malone drove up. He saw them and waited for them to get out of their car.

"Well, if it isn't the real estate squad," Wohl greeted them. "How did that go?"

"Well, we cut it sort of short, sir," Payne said. "The building is falling down. Unless we can get the money to fix it from ACT Capital Improvement, I think we should tell the City 'thank you, but no thank you.'"

He did not get the smile he expected.

"How many rooms?" Wohl asked. "Did you find someplace that could be used as a holding cell? Will the roof take antennae?"

"We didn't get that far, sir," Payne said.

"Go that far this afternoon when you come back from the FBI," Wohl said. "I didn't send you over there for a casual look. The building is ours; and there is money in the ACT Grant."

"I'm sorry, sir," Matt said.

"It's my fault, Inspector," Malone said.

"No, it's not," Wohl said flatly. "Matt, for Christ's sake, do me the courtesy of listening carefully to what I'm saying in the future."

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

"We'll take care of it, sir," Malone said.

"No, 'we' won't," Wohl said, "Hewill.He will come in in the morning with a sketch of the building, including dimensions. Indicate on it where people might fit. See what shape the furnace is in.If there is a furnace. You get the idea, and I don't care if you're there all night, Matt."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't see Jason Washington's car. Did you get in touch with him?"

"Yes, sir. He said he would be here."

"I want you in on this, Malone," Wohl said, and walked ahead of them into the building.

Well, the kid fucked up, sorry about that was the first thing Malone thought. This was immediately followed by, Now he has to do it all himself, and finally with a sudden insight: If Wohl knows the kid can examine that building by himself, then there was no reason for him to send me over there in the first place. Except maybe to compare what the both of us had to say; in other words, to see if I am as smart as the kid. I'll be a sonofabitch.

Jason Washington was standing by the door to Wohl's office.

"Got a minute, Inspector?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," Wohl said. He looked over his shoulder. "You two go on in."

Captain Mike Sabara and Captain Dave Pekach were in Wohl's office, sitting on the couch in front of a small coffee table.

"Slide over, Dave, and make room for Malone," Sabara said, "otherwise we'll have Washington on here with us. Malone isn't nearly as broad in the beam."

"Your pal McFadden was looking for you, Payne," Pekach said as he made room for Malone. "Did he find you?"

"When was he looking?"

"Last night."

"Yeah. And he came looking for me again this morning. I am to be the best man at his wedding."

Christ, Malone thought, maybe I'll get the worst possible scenario. If McFadden and Payne are pals, that's just as dangerous as McFadden telling his lieutenant he saw me staking out Holland's body shop. Damn!

"Are you going to ask me to be your best man, David?" Sabara asked innocently.

"What?"

"Well, a nice Polish boy like you can't just go on living in sin indefinitely, can you?"

"Fuck you, Mike!" Pekach flared.

What the hell is that all about?

"If you feel that way, you can just get somebody else to be your best man," Sabara said.

"Goddammit, knock it off!"

"Play nice, children," Wohl said, coming into the room.

"He's always on my ass about Martha," Pekach said.

"Get off Captain Pekach's ass about Martha, Captain Sabara," Wohl said.

"Yes, sir," Sabara said, seemingly chastised. "What time is it, David?"

Without thinking, Pekach held up his wrist and opened his mouth.

"Nice watch, Dave," Sabara said innocently. "Where did you say you got it?"

"You sonofabitch!" Pekach flared.

It was too much for Wohl; he started to laugh, and when he did, Payne joined in.

Pekach looked like he was about to erupt, but finally started to laugh too, shaking his head.

"You bastards!"

"Show Malone your watch, Dave," Wohl said.

Pekach looked uncomfortable, but finally held up his wrist.

Around it was a heavy gold strap attached to a gold Omega chronograph.

Jesus, Malone thought, that's worth three, four thousand dollars!

"My-lady friend-gave it to me," he explained. There was a touch of pride in his voice. "These guys are just jealous."

"I certainly am," Jason Washington said. "That's worth thirty-nine ninety-five if it's worth a dime."

There was more laughter, and then Wohl ended it. "Recess is over, children," he said, "class has begun."

They all looked at him.

"I might as well start with that, and get it out of the way. We now have the school building at Frankford and Castor. We have it because the Board of Education no longer wants it, and the reason they no longer want it-confirmed by Malone and Payne who were over there this morning-is because it's falling down. The up side of that is that as part of the ACT Grant there is money for capital improvements. So as soon as possible, say day after tomorrow, we're going to start making it habitable-"

Malone had noticed that Captain Sabara had raised his hand-like a kid wanting the teacher's attention.

"Yes, Mike?" Wohl asked, interrupting himself.

"Figuratively speaking, you mean, Inspector?"

"No."

"Inspector, we're going to have to let the City put out specifications, get bids, open bids, all that stuff."

"No. Matt read the small print and showed me where it says we don't have to go through that for 'emergency repairs.' 'Emergency repairs' was not more precisely defined. I have decided that it means anything but beautification and additions. Fixing broken windows, plumbing, getting a new furnace- that's emergency repairs because we can't use the building with no heat, or no plumbing, or broken windows. Okay?"

"Department of Public Buildings isn't going to like it. They have their list of friendly folks who do work like that."

"I can't help that. We have to get out of here. And Commissioner Czernick-not Public Buildings-has the authority to spend the ACT Grant money."

"And he knows what you're going to do?"

"He will when he gets the bills."

"Inspector, you're asking for trouble," Sabara said.

"The bottom line is that we have to get out of here, Mike. If it goes before the mayor, and I suppose it eventually will, I'm betting he'll decide that I did the right thing and will tell Public Buildings to shut up."

"And if he doesn't decide that?"

"Then the new commanding officer of Special Operations will have a heated and air-conditioned office in a building he would not have had if his predecessor hadn't screwed up."

"It's liable to cost you your promotion, Peter," Sabara said.

"I appreciate your concern, Mike. But (a) I'm not sure if I'm in line for promotion and (b) I've made this decision. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Item two," Wohl said. "Last night, Chief Inspector Lowenstein called one of our people-all right, Jason Washington- and asked him to do something he thought had to be done. Jason agreed to do it, then tried to find me to tell me, ask me, and couldn't-my fault, he should have been able to find me- and then went ahead and did it."

"What did Lowenstein want?" Pekach asked.

Wohl ignored the question and went on: "Okay. This is now official policy. As soon as Matt has the chance, he'll write it up, and I want it circulated to all supervisors. But I want this word passed immediately. Only three people, besides me, are authorized to take action when the assistance of Special Operations or Highway is asked for by anyone else. They are Captain Sabara for Special Operations, Captain Pekach for Highway, and Sergeant Washington for Special Investigations."

"Special Investigations?" Pekach asked, and then,"Sergeant Washington? When did that happen?"

"Washington made sergeant yesterday," Wohl said. "Special Investigations is a little younger. I thought it up about five minutes ago."

"Well, my God, Jason," Pekach said. "Congratulations. I didn't know you even took the examination."

He stood up and gave Washington his hand. The others followed suit.

"The word to be passed is that our supervisors don't-no matter who makes the request-do anything for anybody else unless, in your areas of responsibility, you know about it and approve. That means we have to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, to make the decision. And if you're not going to be available, you have to make sure I am. Okay?"

"Don't misunderstand me, Inspector," Captain Pekach said. "But there' s a reason for this, right?"

"Yes, of course there is," Wohl said impatiently. "I don't want Matt Lowenstein, or anyone else, thinking they can just call up here and give our people things to do."

"It's hard to tell Matt Lowenstein no, Inspector," Jason Washington said.

"Especially if you hope to go back and work for him, right?" Wohl responded.

Washington's face tightened.

"I thought it was important, Inspector," Washington said.

"Just don't forget where you work, Jason. For whom you work."

"I suppose that means I won't be going back to Homicide?"

"The question came up as soon as the commissioner got the exam results. He called me and said he thought Lowenstein and Quaire would like to have you back in Homicide and how did I feel about that? I told him over my dead body. He said, joking of course, that Chief Lowenstein could probably arrange that, and I replied, joking of course, that if he did, the funeral procession would make a detour through the mayor's office, where the corpse would make a final protest."

Sabara chuckled.

"I'm glad you're amused, Mike," Wohl said.

"What I was thinking was, you really don't want to get promoted, do you?"

"I would like to be commissioner, all right? And I think the way to get myself promoted is to do a good job here."

"Hey, take it easy. I'm on your side. I'm one of the good guys."

"If you say so," Wohl said, and then he went on, "Item three: the Islamic Liberation Army."

"Don't tell me they gave us that too?" Pekach asked.

"No. Right now, it's a Homicide job. And properly so. What Lowenstein wanted Jason to do, and what, for the record, Jason quite properly agreed to do, was get in touch with Arthur X to ask him, so to speak, if when the Islamic Liberation Army is picked up, the arresting officers will face the Fruit of Islam, screaming religious and/or racial persecution."

"So they know who they are?" Pekach said.

"Yes, they do. What Chief Lowenstein told the district attorney was going to happen was that Highway would pick all these people up first thing tomorrow morning. They will be run through a lineup, lineups, so that they can be positively identified by the one good witness Homicide has. By then, the DA will have made sure that the municipal court judge doesn't turn these thugs loose on their own recognizance. He will then arrange to get them before the Grand Jury for indictment, and then on the docket. The district attorney has assigned Assistant District Attorney Farnsworth Stillwell to the case."

"What did Arthur X say?" Sabara asked.

"I don't think he considers the gentlemen in question to be bona fide coreligionists," Washington said. "The phrase he used was 'punk niggers.'"

There was a moment's silence.

"Inspector," Pekach said thoughtfully, "I get the feeling that there' s something about this that bothers you. I guess I'm just dense-"

"As I was saying to Officer Payne just a few minutes ago, Captain Pekach, listening carefully to what I say may be the thing to do."

Jesus, Wohl can be a sarcastic prick! Jack Malone thought. Then, Why am I surprised? He's no older than I am, and a staff inspector, a division commander. You don't get to be either as Mr. Nice Guy.

This was followed by: If he finds out that I'm still after Bob Holland, which now seems even more likely, with Payne and McFadden being pals, Christ only knows what he'll do.

"Chief Lowenstein also told the district attorney," Wohl went on, " that Highway will conspicuously protect his one witness, with the idea being that the other witnesses, perhaps counseled by Sergeant Washington, may suddenly have their memories unfogged by coming to realize that the only way they can really cover their asses is to help put the Islamic Liberation Army away, by testifying."

"But Chief Lowenstein did not, I gather, confer with you before he decided what Highway was going to do, right?" Jason Washington asked.

"Sergeant Washington has just won the Careful Listener of the Week Award," Wohl said.

"But he's like that, you know that," Sabara said.

"He may be like that with other people, but he's not going to be like that with me," Wohl said.

"That puts me in the same boat with Dave. I'm lost."

"Special Operations is going to make the arrests," Wohl said. "And Special Operations is going to protect Homicide's one witness. Not Highway."

"And if Special Operations blows it?" Sabara asked.

"We have here an armed robbery, during which a murder occurred. We know who the doers are. The suspects are under surveillance at this moment by Homicide detectives. At five o'clock tomorrow morning, they will tell Sergeant Washington where these people are. At that point, police officers, with warrants, will be sent to assist the Homicide detectives in arresting them. If the police officers in question cannot accomplish this without difficulty, then perhaps they shouldn't be cops, and their supervisors, by whom I mean you and me, Mike, shouldn't be supervisors."

Sabara didn't reply.

"Two things," Wohl said. "I don't want anybody in Highway, or anywhere else, hearing about this before it happens. And I don't want a big deal made of it. I'm not putting Highway down or Special Operations up. I'm treating the robbery and shooting at Goldblatt's like any other robbery where things got out of hand and somebody got killed. The Homicide Bureau found out who did it, and uniformed officers are going to help them make the arrests. I don't want to dignify a bunch of thugs by calling them an army."

"What about the press?"

"We owe Mickey O'Hara one. Actually, we owe Mickey O'Hara a couple of dozen. When you decide where this thing will start, Mike, call Mickey and suggest he might find it interesting to be there."

"Just Mickey?"

"Just Mickey."

"Do we know where these guys are? I mean are they all in one area, or all over the city?" Sabara asked.

"Mostly in Frankford, the Whitehall area," Jason Washington said. " One of them is in West Philadelphia."

"Where'd you get that?" Wohl asked.

Washington met his eyes and then said, "I talked to Joe D'Amata."

"One of Sergeant Washington's responsibilities as head of the Special Investigations Section will be to keep in touch with the Detective Division, and especially Homicide," Wohl said. "Matt, make sure you put that in when you write the job description."

"Yes, sir. Sir, can I say something?"

"At your peril, Officer Payne."

"There's a parking lot, actually a playground, behind the school building. You could use that as a place to meet."

"We're going to need-" Sabara said, pausing to do the mental arithmetic, "-space to park fifteen, sixteen cars, plus what, four wagons and a couple of stakeout trucks. That big?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't want stakeout acting like the 2^nd Armored Division invading Germany," Wohl said. "They should be available, but-"

"I understand," Sabara said.

"Matt, on your way to the FBI," Wohl said, "swing past the school building and make sure the parking lot will be big enough. And then call Captain Sabara and tell him."

"Yes, sir."

"Jesus," Wohl said angrily. "I haven't looked at this stuff yet."

He flipped through the photocopied documents for the FBI quickly and then looked up at Payne.

"You'd better leave now," Wohl said. "I wouldn't want the FBI to think I had forgotten them. And we won't need you in on this. Get the building dimensions, and whatever other information about that place you think we can use, and be here at eight in the morning." He paused and looked at the others. "By that time, we should have eight thugs, more or less, on their way, without fuss, to the Roundhouse. Then we can turn to important things, like making our new home habitable."

"Yes, sir," Matt said, and got up and started to leave.

"Matt!" Wohl called after him.

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't you think it would be a good idea to take this stuff with you?" Wohl asked innocently, pointing at the stack of copies of the Jerome Nelson job.

"Yes, sir," Matt said. His face flushed. He took the documents from Wohl's desk and walked out.

As he closed the door, he heard Wohl say, "If I didn't know better, I might suspect Young Matt's in love."

"How about 'in rut'?" Sabara said. Matt closed the door on their laughter.

"May I help you, sir?" Miss Lenore Gray, who was twenty-six, tall, slim, auburn-haired, and the receptionist at the FBI office, asked, smiling a bit more brightly than was her custom at what she judged to be a very well-dressed, nice-looking young man.

"My name is Payne," Matt said. "I'm a police officer. I have some documents for Mr. Davis."

Lenore had been told to be on the lookout for a Philadelphia cop named Payne, and to call SAC Davis (or, if he was out of the office, A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young, or if he was out too, one of the other A-SACs) when he showed up.

She had expected a cop in uniform, not a good-looking young man like this in a very nice blue blazer.

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Davis is not in the office," she said. "Just a moment, please."

She pushed buttons on her new, state-of-the-art telephone system that caused one of the telephones on the desk of A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young to ring. She did not want to go through the hassle of telling A-SAC Young's secretary why she wanted to talk to him.

"Frank Young."

"This is Miss Gray at reception, Mr. Young. Officer Payne of the police is here."

"Tell him I'll be right out," Young said.

"Mr. Young will be out in a moment," Lenore said with a smile. "Mr. Young is our A-SAC, Criminal Affairs."

"As opposed to romantic?" Matt asked. He was obviously making a joke, but it took Lenore a moment to search for and find the point.

"Oh, aren't you terrible!" she said.

"Youdo have an A-SAC, Romantic Affairs?"

"No," Lenore said. "But it sounds like a marvelous idea."

"I'm Frank Young," Young announced, coming into the reception area with his hand out. "The chief had to leave, I'm afraid, and you're stuck with me. Come on in."

Matt was surprised. He had considered himself an errand boy, delivering a package, and errand boys are not normally greeted with a smile and a handshake.

"Thank you," Matt said.

Young led him into the brightly lit, spacious interior, and then into his own well-furnished office, through the windows of which he could see Billy Penn atop City Hall. He could not help but make the comparison between this and Inspector Wohl's crowded office, and then between it and the new home of Special Operations at Frankford and Castor.

In the icy cold, dark recesses of which, I will now spend the next three or four hours, with my little tape measure.

"I'm sure this is just what we asked for," Young said, "but I think it would be a good idea if I took a quick look at it. Can I have my girl get you a cup of coffee?"

"Thank you," Matt said. "Black, please."

The coffee was served in cups and saucers, with a cream pitcher and a bowl of sugar cubes on the side, which was certainly more elegant, Matt thought, than the collection of chipped china mugs, can of condensed milk, and coffee can full of little sugar packets readingMcDonald's andRoy Rogers andPeking Palace in Peter Wohl's office coffee service.

There were more surprises. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Young was more than complimentary about the completeness of the Nelson files Matt had brought him. They would be very helpful, he said, and the FBI was grateful.

Then, with great tact, he asked Matt all sorts of questions about himself, why he had joined the cops, how he liked it, whether he liked law enforcement in general-"I don't really know why I asked that. You seem to have proven that you take to law enforcement like a duck to water. I think everybody with a badge in Philadelphia was delighted when you terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher's criminal career."-and what his long-term career plans were.

"I intend to work myself up through the ranks," Matt said solemnly, " to police commissioner. And then I will seek an appropriate political office."

Young laughed heartily. "Jerry Carlucci's going to be a tough act to follow. But why not? You've got the potential."

If I didn't know better, Matt thought, I'd think he was about to offer me a job.

Then came the question: I am being charmed. Why should they bother to charm me? All I am is an errand-boy-by-another-name to Wohl.

Young then offered to give him a tour of the office, which Matt, after a moment's indecision, accepted. For one thing, he was curious to see what the inside of an FBI office looked like. And maybe they would actually ask him for something. In any event, the school building could wait.

He was introduced to another A-SAC, whose name he promptly forgot, and to a dozen FBI agents, some singly and some in groups. Every time, A-SAC Young used the same words, "This is the Philadelphia plainclothesman who terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher's criminal career."

And everyone seemed pleased to have the opportunity to shake the hand that held the gun that terminated the criminal career of Mr. Warren K. Fletcher.

I really don't know what the hell is going on here, but there is some reason I'm being given the grand tour. It may be that Young is being nice to Wohl through his errand boy; or that he is genuinely impressed with the guy who shot Fletcher-if he knew the circumstances, of course, he would be far less impressed-or, really, that they are going to offer me a job. But it's damned sure they don't give the grand tour to every cop from the Department who shows up here with a pile of records.

The subject of employment with the FBI did not come up. A-SAC Young walked him to the elevator, shook his hand, and said that he was sure he would see Matt again and looked forward to it.

When he was on the street again, Matt saw that the skies were dark. It was probably going to snow.

Not only is it going to be bitter cold in that goddamn building, it's going to be dark.

Shit!

He drove back to Bustleton and Bowler, and turned in the Department car. He couldn't keep it overnight without permission, and he didn't want to ask Wohl for permission, so it was either turn it in now or when he was finished with the measuring job, and now seemed to be better than later.

On the way to the Frankford and Castor building, he remembered thinking that it was going to be dark, as well as cold, inside the building. He would need more than a flashlight. He could go back and draw a battery-powered floodlight from supply, but he didn't want to go back.

He drove down Frankford Avenue until he found a hardware store, and went in and bought the largest battery-powered floodlight they had, plus a spare battery. Then he bought a fifty-foot tape measure.

It then occurred to him that he would need something that provided more space than his pocket notebook. He found a stationery store and bought a clipboard, two mechanical pencils, and a pad of graph paper.

He was carrying all this back to his car when a Highway car suddenly pulled to the curb, in the process spraying his trousers and overcoat with a mixture of snow, soot, grime, and slush.

The driver's door opened and the head and shoulders of Officer Charles McFadden appeared.

"I thought those were your wheels," McFadden said, nodding up the street toward where Matt had parked his Porsche. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm on a scavenger hunt. The next thing on my list is the severed head of an Irishman."

McFadden laughed.

"No shit, Matt, what are you doing?"

"Would you believe I am going to measure the school building at Frankford and Castor?"

"I heard we were getting that," McFadden said. "And Inspector Wohl's making you measure it?"

"Right."

"All by yourself?"

"Right."

"Have fun," McFadden said, and got behind the wheel again.

Matt could see in the car. Officer McFadden was explaining to Officer Quinn why Officer Payne was wading through the slush with a floodlight, a tape measure, and a clipboard. To judge by the look on Officer Quinn's face, he found this rather amusing.

Officer McFadden put the Highway RPC in gear and stepped on the accelerator. The rear wheels spun in the dirty slush, spraying same on Officer Payne.