He turned left into the alley behind the row of houses of which, he now remembered. Mr. and Mrs. Albert J. Monahan occupied the sixth from this corner.
He had gone perhaps fifty yards into the alley when a uniformed officer stepped into it and, somewhat warily, Wohl thought approvingly, motioned for him to stop.
Wohl braked and rolled down the window.
“Good evening, sir,” the cop began, and then recognized him. “Oh, it’s you, Inspector.”
“This way to the North Pole, right?” Wohl said, and offered his hand through the window. The cop laughed dutifully.
“Aside from frostbite, how’s things going?” Wohl asked with a smile.
“Quiet as a tomb, Inspector.”
An unfortunate choice of words, but I take your point.
“I guess everybody but cops are smart enough to stay inside, huh?”
“Sure looks that way. Anything I can do for you, Inspector?”
“No. I just thought I’d better check on what was going on. Mr. Monahan is very important.”
“Well, we’re sitting on him good. There’s either a Highway or a district RPC by here every fifteen to twenty minutes. Or a supervisor, or both. Sergeant Carter drove through the alley just a couple of minutes ago.”
“But nothing out of the ordinary?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well, then, I guess I can go. Good to see you. I’m sorry you have to march around in the snow and ice, but I think it’s necessary.”
“I’ve been telling myself the guys in Traffic do this for twenty years,” the cop said. “Good evening, sir.”
Wohl smiled, rolled up the window, and drove the rest of the way down the alley, looking at the rear of the Monahan house as he went past.
He turned left from the alley onto Sanger Street, and then left again onto Sylvester Street. He would stop and say hello to the two cops in the car.
Now there were two unmarked cars on Rosehill Street.
That’s probably Sergeant Carter.
The cop with the Renfrew of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police cap got—surprisingly quickly, Wohl thought—from behind the wheel and stepped into the street, signaling him to stop.
Christ, I hope they’re not stopping every car that comes down the street!
This time there was no recognition in the cop’s eyes when Wohl rolled the window down and looked up at him.
“Sir,” the cop said, “you’re going the wrong way down a one-way street. May I see your driver’s license please?”
Wohl took his leather ID folder from his pocket and passed it out the window.
“Maybe you could give me another chance, Officer,” he said. “I’m usually not this stupid.”
“Oh, Jesus, Inspector!”
“I honest to God didn’t see the one-way sign,” Wohl said. “Who’s that in the back of the RPC? Sergeant Carter?”
“Lieutenant Malone, sir.”
“Let me pull this over—turn it around, I guess—I’d like a word with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wohl turned the car around and parked it, and then went and got in the back of the unmarked car.
“We all feel a little foolish, Inspector,” Malone said when Wohl got in the backseat of the RPC. “We should have recognized you.”
Wohl saw that Malone was in civilian clothing.
“You don’t feel half as foolish as I do,” Wohl said. “If I had been doing ninety in a thirty-mile zone, that I would understand. But going the wrong way down a one-way street—”
“I’ll let you go with a warning this time, Inspector,” the cop who had stopped him said, “but the next time, right into Lewisburg!”
Everyone laughed.
“Something on your mind, Inspector?” Malone asked.
“Just wanted to check on Monahan, that’s all.”
“He’s been home about an hour and a half,” the cop who had stopped Wohl said. “I don’t think he’ll be going out again tonight in this weather.”
“How are you working this?” Wohl asked, and touched Malone’s knee to silence him when it looked like Malone was going to answer.
“Simple rotation,” the second cop answered. “One of us walks for thirty minutes—when the wind’s really blowing, only fifteen minutes—and then one of us takes his place. We do a four-hour tour, and then go on our regular patrols.”
“Your reliefs showing up all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does the man walking the beat have a radio?”
“We all have radios.”
“Can you think of any way to improve what we’re trying to do? Even a wild hair?”
“How about a heated snowmobile?”
“I’ll ask Commissioner Czernich in the morning about a snowmobile. Don’t hold your breath. But I meant it, anybody got any ideas about something we should, or should not, be doing?”
Both cops shook their heads.
“Well, I can see that I’m not needed here,” Wohl said. “I guess everybody understands how important Monahan is as a witness?”
“Yes, sir,” they said, nearly in unison.
“Can I have a word with you, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir, certainly.”
Wohl shook hands with both cops and got out of the car. Malone followed him to the Jaguar.
“Yes, sir.”
“You have anything else to do here?”
“No, sir.”
“Any hot plans for tonight? For dinner, to start with?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, Jack. Get in your car and follow me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere where it’s warm, and where, I suspect, there will be a more than adequate supply of free antifreeze.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Miss Martha Peebles had decided that it would be better to receive her and Captain Pekach’s guests in the family (as opposed to the formal) dining room of her home. For one thing, it had been her father’s favorite room. She had good memories of her father and his friends getting up from the dinner table and moving to the overstuffed chairs and couches at the far end of the room for cognac and cigars and coffee.
Tonight, she would more or less reverse that. She had had Evans and his nephew Nathaniel set up a little bar near the overstuffed furniture. Nathaniel would serve drinks first, before they moved to the dining table for the meal. Then, after they had eaten, they could move back.
Besides, she reasoned, the formal dining room was just too large for the few people who would be coming. When she was a little girl, for her eleventh birthday party, it had been converted into a roller-skating rink.
But her father had preferred the family dining room, and it seemed appropriate for tonight. And she thought that her father would appreciate the arrangements she had made. She was convinced that her father would have liked David, and vice versa. They were men. And if he liked David, her father would also like David’s friends, Inspector Wohl and Captain Sabara.
Daddy probably wouldn’t like Farnsworth Stillwell any more than I do, she thought, but she could clearly hear his voice telling her, “Like it or not, kitten, you are who you are, and from time to time, you have to go through the motions and put up with people of your own background.”
And, besides, now that Stillwell had entered politics, he might turn out to be useful to David.
Captain and Mrs. Michael J. Sabara were the first to arrive. As Evans led them into the family dining room, Martha had the thought—which she instantly recognized as unkind and regretted—that Mrs. Sabara was a trifle overdressed. Captain Sabara was dressed almost exactly as David was, that is to say in a blazer and gray slacks, and that pleased her.
“I’m Martha Peebles,” she said, offering her hand to Mrs. Sabara. “I’m so glad you could come on such short notice.”
“Your home is beautiful!” Mrs. Sabara said.
“David calls it the fortress,” Martha said. “But I grew up here, and I guess I’m used to it.”
Sabara and Pekach shook hands, although they had seen each other only two hours before.
“Why don’t you have Nathaniel make Captain and Mrs. Sabara something to chase the chill, David?”
As they approached the bar, Captain Sabara said, “I told you I didn’t need a tie. Dave’s not wearing one.”
“When you come to a house like this,” Mrs. Sabara said firmly. “You wear a necktie.” Then she turned to Pekach. “She’s beautiful, David.”
“Yeah,” Pekach said. “Look, Lois, don’t say anything about us being engaged. I think she wants to make an announcement.”
Lois Sabara put her index finger before her lips.
“You name it, we got it,” Dave said as they reached the bar.
“What are you drinking?” Mike Sabara asked.
“Scotch. Some kind her father liked. He bought it by the truckload.”
“I’ll have what Captain Pekach is drinking,” Sabara said. “Lois?”
“Wine, I think. Have you any red wine?”
“There’s a California Cabernet Sauvignon, madam, and a very nice Moroccan burgundy that Miss Martha likes,” Nathaniel said.
“I’ll have the burgundy, please.”
Staff Inspector Peter Wohl and Lieutenant John J. Malone entered the family dining room next.
“Who’s he?” Lois asked softly, as they walked toward the bar.
“Jack Malone. New lieutenant,” her husband told her.
“He’s the one with the wife trouble, right?”
“Jesus Christ, Lois!”
“Where’s the lady of the house?” Wohl asked.
“I guess she’s checking on the food,” Pekach said. “Thank you for coming, Inspector. And welcome, Jack.”
“The inspector said it would be all right,” Malone said.
“Absolutely.”
“You don’t know Mike’s wife, do you, Jack?” Wohl said. “Lois, this is Jack Malone.”
“How do you do?” Lois Sabara said.
Madam Sabara, Wohl thought, has obviously heard the gossip vis-à-vis Mrs. Malone. Her tone of voice would freeze a penguin.
“We just ran past Monahan’s house,” Wohl offered. “Things seem well in hand.”
“And Payne?” Sabara asked.
“Officer Payne is dining at the FOP,” Wohl said.
“Can he get around well enough for that?” Lois asked. “I thought he was shot in the leg?”
“He will not be the first young police officer to crawl into the FOP,” Wohl said. “For that matter, I’ve seen some pretty old ones crawl in there.”
“May I get you gentlemen a cocktail?” Nathaniel asked.
“I’ll have Scotch, light on the ice and water, please,” Wohl said.
He saw the hesitancy in Malone’s eyes, and made the quick decision that when Lois, as she certainly would, recounted her encounter with Lieutenant-Jack-Malone-the-Wife-Beater to her peers, it would be better if she could not crow, “Well, at least he wasn’t drinking,” from a position of moral superiority.
“Try the Scotch, Jack,” he said. “David’s been bragging about it.”
“Same for me, then,” Malone said.
Martha came through a door Wohl hadn’t noticed. He approved of what he saw, both sartorially—Martha was wearing a simple black dress with a double string of pearls—and on her face: She was a happy woman.
A wholesome one too, he thought. Dave’s going to have a hard time adjusting to life in the palace, and she’s going to have a hard time being a cop’s wife, but Dave is a decent human being, and I think he’s just what this poor little rich girl really needs.
“Good evening, Inspector,” she said. “I’m so glad you could come.”
“Thank you for asking me,” Wohl said. “And David said, when I told him I didn’t have a lady to bring, to bring somebody. This is somebody, Lieutenant Jack Malone.”
“David’s told me about you, Lieutenant,” Martha said, shaking his hand.
I wonder how much? Wohl thought.
Farnsworth and Helene Stillwell appeared in the room.
“I don’t know him well,” Martha said, quickly and softly to Wohl, “but my father knew her father. And I thought that since you’re working together, having them would be appropriate.”
“Absolutely,” Wohl said.
What she’s doing—good for her—is trying to foster Dave’s career. If she’s as smart as I think she is, I will be working for Dave in a couple of years.
He next had a somewhat less upbeat thought when he took a good look at Helene Stillwell.
That one has had a couple of little nips to give her courage to face the party.
“Small world, Peter, eh?” Stillwell greeted him.
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“You remember my wife, of course?”
“Yes, of course. Nice to see you, Mrs. Stillwell.”
“Oh, please call me Helene.”
Helene Stillwell was wearing a black dress, almost an exact duplicate of Martha’s, and a similar string of pearls.
The necessary introductions were made and drinks offered and comments about the foul weather exchanged.
I wonder why Martha Peebles doesn’t talk that way, using the teeth-clenched diction Stillwell’s wife does? Peter Wohl wondered.
According to Matt Payne, Martha has more money than God, and this house makes it rather obvious that she didn’t make it last week. Ergo, she too should talk through her nose and as if she has lockjaw.
But she doesn’t. Martha sounds, if not like Lois Sabara, at least like my mother, and Stillwell’s wife sounds exactly like the horny married lady from Bala Cynwyd on Matt’s answering machine.
“And how, Inspector Wohl, is Officer Payne?” Helene asked.
Jesus H. Christ! Don’t let your dirty imagination run away with you!
“It’s quarter to eight, Helene. By now I’d say he’s on the third pitcher of beer and convinced, given the chance, he could solve all the problems of the Police Department.”
“I don’t quite follow you?”
“He’s on the town, more or less.”
“I thought he was—that you had him under protection in some mysterious place. And he’s on the town?”
“No mysterious place. He’s in his apartment. And tonight he’s at the FOP—the Fraternal Order of Police building, on Spring Garden Street. Jack Malone, who is in charge of his security, decided that if there was any place more secure than Matt’s apartment, it would be downstairs in the FOP, where there are generally at least a hundred armed cops.”
“Yes, of course,” Helene said through clenched teeth and sounding exactly like the horny lady from Bala Cynwyd on Matt’s answering machine.
Except, of course, we don’t know that she’s from Bala Cynwyd. Warren Lomax said she sounded like she was from Bala Cynwyd.
“I’m going to drop in on him tomorrow morning,” Wohl said. “I’ll tell him you were asking about him.”
“Yes, please. He’s such a nice young man.”
And such a comfort to a bored teeth clencher to boot? And that is a martini you’re drinking, Helene, isn’t it?
“Peter,” Farnsworth Stillwell said, walking up. “I really do have to have a word with you.”
“Certainly.”
“Martha, I need a few minutes alone with Inspector Wohl. Is there somewhere?”
“David, darling, would you take them into the library?”
“Sure,” Pekach said.
“Thank you, David darling,” Wohl said softly as he followed Pekach out of the room.
Pekach glared at him, and then smiled and shook his head.
“Do I detect a certain element of jealousy, Inspector?”
“Absolutely, David.”
Do I really think that Matt is fucking Stillwell’s wife? And presuming for the sake of argument that I do, am I annoyed because that’s a pretty fucking dumb thing for him to be doing? Or because he’s getting in where Peter Wohl ain’t?
“No problem,” Pekach said. “Martha’s father never liked to get far from the sauce.”
He heaved on what looked like a chest. It unfolded upward into a bar.
“There’s even a refrigerator and running water in this thing,” Pekach said, demonstrating.
“How nice,” Stillwell said.
And thank you, Farnsworth Stillwell. I was just about to say, “It must be nice to be rich,” and that would have been a dumb thing to say.
“I think Martha’s about to serve dinner,” Pekach said.
“This won’t take long,” Stillwell said.
Wohl went to the bar, poured more Scotch into his glass, and added a little water. By then Pekach had left the library and closed the door after himself.
“Now there’s a man who knows what to do with an opportunity,” Stillwell said, nodding toward the door through which Pekach had left.
“How do you mean?”
“Unless she is smart enough to get an airtight premarital agreement, and floating on the wings of love as she is at the moment, I rather doubt if she will be, your man Pekach is shortly going to be co-owner of half the anthracite coal in Northeast Pennsylvania.”
I will be on my good behavior. I will not get into it with this cynical wiseass sonofabitch.
“It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Peter,” Stillwell said. “I like Dave Pekach, and I admire people who take advantage of opportunities that come their way.”
Wohl smiled and nodded.
What is this sonofabitch up to?
“Tomorrow morning, Peter, the governor will hold a press conference at which he will appoint a new deputy attorney general for corporate crime. Nice ring to that, isn’t there? ‘Corporate crime.’ Everybody knows that the men in corporate boardrooms are robbing the poor people blind. I thought it was one of the governor’s brighter moves recently, figuring out for himself that there are more poor people voting than people in corporate boardrooms. I told him so.”
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