Larkin wrote down Young's home phone number, and repeated, "Let me get back to you, Frank. And thank you."
He hung up, and turned to the large man.
"Get on the phone to Washington. Have them send somebody over to the Pentagon. Tell them that Richard W. and Marianne might be parents' names. Tell them to get me anything with Wheatley."
"You don't think the FBI will be on that?"
"I think they will, but I don't know they will," Larkin said sharply. "Just do it."
He took out his notebook, found Peter Wohl's home telephone number, and dialed it.
****
Detective Matthew M. Payne thought that one of the great erotic sights in the world had to be a blonde wearing a man's white shirt, and nothing else, especially when, whenever she leaned forward to help herself to the contents of one of the goldfish boxes from the Chinese Take-out, it fell away from her body and he could see an absolutely perfect breastworks.
"Here," Penny said, putting an egg roll in his mouth. "This is the last one. You can have one bite."
"Your generosity overwhelms me," Matt said.
"I try to please."
"Are you going to tell my sister that you came here and seduced me?"
"Meaning what?"
"You told her what happened in the Poconos."
"She's my shrink," Penny said. "She said I seemed very happy, and wanted to know why, so I told her. I didn't think she'd tell you!"
"She is convinced that I'm taking advantage of you."
"I can't imagine where she got that idea."
"She was pretty goddamned mad," Matt said.
"I'm pretty goddamned mad that she told you I told her."
"She's afraid that… that this won't be good for you."
"That's my problem, not hers. How did we get on this subject?"
"Penny, the last thing I want to do is hurt you."
"Relax. I'm making no demands on you. But that does raise the question I've had in the back of my mind."
"Which is?"
"Have you got someone?"
"No," he said.
"I didn't think so," Penny said. "Otherwise you would have taken her to the Poconos."
She looked at him, and she was close enough to kiss, and he did so, tenderly.
The phone rang.
"Damn!" Penny said.
Please God, don't let that be Evelyn!
"Payne," Matt said to the telephone.
"We have a name," Peter Wohl said, without any preliminaries. " Just a name. Do you know where Tiny Lewis lives?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go pick him up, he'll be waiting, and then come to Chief Lowenstein's office in the Roundhouse."
"Yes, sir."
Wohl hung up.
Matt put the telephone down.
"I've been called."
"So I gathered."
He swung his legs out of the bed and went searching for underwear in his chest of drawers.
Penny watched him get dressed.
"You want to take me to the movies again, sometime?"
"Why not?" he asked.
"Would it be all right with you if I hung around here until the movie would be over?"
"Of course. There's anInquirer in the living room. Go look up what we saw, so we can keep our stories straight."
She got out of bed with what he considered to be a very attractive display of thighs and buttocks and went into the living room.
When he had tied his tie and slipped into a jacket he went after her.
"They're showingCasablanca for the thousandth time. How about us having seen that?"
"'Round up the usual suspects,'" he quoted. "Sure. Why not?"
He went to the mantelpiece and picked up his revolver and slipped it into a holster.
"I suppose that's what cops' wives go through everyday, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Watching their man pick up his gun and go out, God only knows where."
"You are not a cop's wife, and you are very unlikely to become a cop's wife."
"You said it," she said.
He went and bent and kissed her, intending that it be almost casual, but she returned it with a strange fervor that was somehow frightening.
"I'll call you," he said.
"Enjoy the movie," Penny said.
He went down the stairs.
Penny looked at the mantel clock and did the mental calculations. She had an hour and a half to kill, before she went home after an early supper and the movies.
She gave in to feminine curiosity and went around the apartment opening closets and cabinets, and when she had finished, she sat down in Matt's chair and read theInquirer.
The doorbell sounded.
"Damn!" she said aloud. "What do I do about that?"
She went to the solenoid button and pushed it and looked down the stairwell.
A woman came in, and looked up at her in surprise.
"Who are you?" Evelyn asked.
"To judge by the look on your face, I'm the other woman," Penny said. "Come on up, and we'll talk about the lying sonofabitch."
TWENTY-SIX
The commissioner's conference room in the Police Administration Building was jammed with people. Every seat at the long table was filled, chairs had been dragged in from other offices, and people were standing up and leaning against the wall. There were far too many people to fit in Lowenstein's office, which was why they were in the commissioner's conference room.
"You run this, Peter," Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein declared from his chair at the head of the commissioner's conference table. " Denny Coughlin and I are here only to see how we can help you, Charley, and Frank."
Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin of the Secret Service, and Assistant Special Agent in Charge (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young of the FBI were seated around him.
And if I fuck up, right, you're off the hook? "Wohl was running the show."
Peter Wohl immediately regretted the thought: While that might apply to some, most, maybe, of the other chief inspectors, it was not fair to apply it to either Lowenstein or Coughlin.
Worse, almost certainly Lowenstein had taken the seat at the head of the table to establish his own authority, and then delegating it to me. Lowenstein is one of the good guys. And I know that.
"Yes, sir. Thank you," Wohl said. He looked around the table. With the exception of Captain Jack Duffy, the special assistant to the commissioner for inter-agency liaison, only Captain Dave Pekach and Lieutenant Harry Wisser of Highway Patrol were in uniform.
"Indulge me for a minute, please," Wohl began. "I really don't know who knows what, so let me recap it. An ATF agent from Atlantic City, in response to a 'furnish any information' teletype from the Secret Service, came up with evidence of high-explosive destruction of a bunch of rental lockers. We're still waiting for the lab report, but the ATF explosives expert says he's pretty sure the explosive used was Composition C-4, and the detonators were also military. He also said that whoever rigged the charges knows what he's doing.
"Mr. Larkin went down there. There is a house, a cabin, on the property. Mr. Larkin feels that the unusual neatness, cleanliness, of the cabin fits in with the psychological profile the psychiatrists have given us of this guy.
"The FBI has come up with the names of the people who own the property. Richard W. and Marianne Wheatley. No address. I don't know how many Wheatleys there are in Philadelphia…"
"Ninety-six, Inspector," Detective Payne interrupted. Wohl looked at him coldly. He saw that he had a telephone book open on the table before him.
"None of them," Matt went on, "either Richard W. or Marianne. Not even an R. W."
"I was about to say a hell of a lot of them," Wohl said, adding with not quite gentle sarcasm, "Thank you, Payne. If I may continue?"
"Sorry," Matt said.
"And of course we don't know if these people live in Philadelphia, or Camden, or Atlantic City."
"Pete
r," Frank Young said. "Our office in Atlantic City has already asked the local authorities for their help."
"I'll handle Camden," Denny Coughlin announced. "I'm owed a couple of favors over there."
"What about Wilmington, Chester, the suburbs?" Wohl asked him.
"I'll handle that," Coughlin said.
"Then that leaves us, if we are to believe Detective Payne, ninety-six people to check out in Philadelphia. It may be a wild goose chase, but we can't take the chance that it's not."
"How do you want to handle it, Peter?"
"Ring doorbells," Wohl said. "I'd rather have detectives ringing them."
"Done," Lowenstein said.
"What I think they should do, Chief," Wohl said, "is ring the doorbell, ask whoever answers it if their name is Wheatley, and then ask if they own property in the Pine Barrens. If they say they do, they'll either ask why the cops want to know, and the detective will reply-or volunteer, if they don't ask-that the Jersey cops, better yet, the sheriff has called. There has been a fire in the house. The people have to be notified, and since Richard W. and Marianne Wheatley are not in the book, they are checking out all Wheatleys."
"What if it's the guy?" Captain Duffy asked.
"I don't really think," Wohl said, aware that he was furious at the stupidity of the question, and trying to restrain his temper, " that the guy is going to say, 'Right, I'm Wheatley, I own the garbage dump, and I've been using it to practice blowing up the Vice President' do you, Jack?"
"If I may, Peter?" Larkin asked.
"Certainly."
"We have to presume this fellow is mentally unstable. And we know he's at least competent, and possibly expert, around explosives, If we find him, we have to be very careful how we take him."
"Yes, sir," Captain Duffy said. "I can see that."
"Let me lay this out as I see it," Wohl said. "The reason I want detectives to ring the bell, Chief Lowenstein, is that most people who answer the doorbell are going to say 'No, I don't own a farm in Jersey' and any detective should be able to detect any hesitation. For the sake of argument, they find this guy. There will have to be a reaction to a detective showing up at his door. The detective does his best to calm him down. There was a fire, he's simply delivering a message. The detective goes away. Then we figure how to take him."
"We'd like to be in on that, Peter," Frank F. Young of the FBI said.
"How do you want to handle it, Peter?" Chief Lowenstein said.
"Depends on where and what the detective who's suspicious has to say, of course," Wohl replied. "But I think Stakeout, backed up by Highway."
"We've got warrants," Chief Coughlin said. "We just take the door, is that what you're saying?"
"It'd take us up to an hour to set it up," Wohl said. "Ordnance Disposal would be involved. And the district, of course another field Detective Division. By then, I hope, he would relax. And taking the doors would be, I think, the way to do it."
Coughlin grunted his agreement.
"And in the meantime, sit on him?" Lowenstein said.
"Different detectives," Wohl said, "in case he leaves."
"And what if nobody's home?" Mike Sabara asked.
"Then we sit on that address," Wohl said. "An unmarked Special Operations car, until we run out of them, and then, if nothing else, a district RPC." He looked at Lowenstein and Coughlin, and then around the table. "I'm open to suggestion."
"I suggest," Lowenstein said, breaking the silence, "that Detective Payne slide that phone book down the table to me, and somebody get me a pen, and we'll find out where these ninety-six Wheatleys all live."
The telephone book, still open, was passed down the table to Chief Lowenstein. Sergeant Tom Mahon, Chief Coughlin's driver, leaned over him and handed Chief Lowenstein two ballpoint pens.
As if they had rehearsed what they were doing, Chief Lowenstein read aloud a listing from the telephone directory, the whole thing, name, address, and telephone number, then said, "North Central" or " West" or another name of one of the seven Detective Divisions.
Most of the time, Coughlin would either grunt his acceptance of the location, or repeat it in agreement, but every once in a while they would have a short discussion as to the precise district boundaries. Finally, they would be in agreement, and Lowenstein would very carefully print the name of the Detective Division having jurisdiction over that address in the margin.
Everyone in the room watched in silence as they went through the ninety-six names.
They could have taken that to Radio, Peter Wohl thought. Any radio dispatcher could have done the same thing.
But then he changed his mind. These two old cops know every street and alley in Philadelphia better than any radio dispatcher. They're doing this because it's the quickest way to get it done, and done correctly. But I don't really think they are unaware that everybody at this table has been impressed with their encyclopedic knowledge.
When he had written the last entry, Lowenstein pushed the telephone book to Coughlin, who examined it carefully.
"Take this, Matty," Coughlin said, finally, holding up the telephone book. "Type it up, broken down into districts. Tom, you go with him. As soon as he's finished a page, Xerox it. Twenty-five copies, and bring it in here."
"Yes, sir," Sergeant Mahon said.
The two left the commissioner's conference room.
"Peter, are you open to suggestion?" Lowenstein asked.
"Yes, sir. Certainly."
"There's three of us, you, Coughlin, and me. I think that list, when he's finished sorting it out, we can break down into thirds. I'll take one, you take one, and Denny can take the third. We'll have the detective teams, I think we should send two to each doorbell, report to whichever of us it is. That make sense to you?"
"Yes, sir. It does."
"Sort of supervisory teams, right?" Frank F. Young of the FBI said. "Do you think it would be a good idea if I went with one of them, with you, Chief Lowenstein, and I'll get two other special agents to go with Chief Coughlin and Inspector Wohl."
"Better yet," Lowenstein said, "why don't you and Charley go with Peter? He's the man in overall charge."
"Whatever you say, of course," Young said, visibly disappointed.
Wohl thought he saw Coughlin, not entirely successfully, try to hide a smile.
****
When the neatly typed and Xeroxed lists were passed around, it was evident that the Wheatleys were scattered all over Philadelphia. Lowenstein, after first tactfully making it a suggestion to Wohl, assigned himself to supervise the operation in the Central and North Central detective districts. He also "suggested" that Chief Coughlin supervise the operation in the South and West Detective Divisions, which left Wohl to supervise the detectives who would be working in the East, Northeast, and Northwest Detective Divisions.
At that point, although the CONFERENCE IN PROGRESS-DO NOT ENTER sign was on display outside the conference room, the door suddenly opened and the Honorable Jerry Carlucci, mayor of Philadelphia, marched into the room.
"What's all this going to cost in overtime?" he asked, by way of greeting. "I suppose it's too much to expect that anybody would think of telling me, or for that matter the commissioner, what the hell is going on?"
"I was going to call you, Jerry…" Lowenstein began.
"Mr. Mayor to you, Chief, thank you very much."
"… Right about now. Peter just decided how this is going to work."
"So you tell me, Peter."
Wohl described the operation to the mayor.
He listened carefully, asked a few specific questions, grunted approval several times, and then when Wohl was finished, he stood leaning against the wall thinking it all over.
"What do the warrants say?" he asked finally.
"As little as legally possible," Lowenstein said. "Denny got them."
"They're city warrants?" Carlucci asked.
"Right," Coughlin said.
"Not federal?" the mayor asked, looking right at Frank F. Young of
the FBI.
"Reasonable belief that party or parties unknown by name have in their possession certain explosives and explosive devices in violation of Section whateveritis of the state penal code," Coughlin said.
"That, of course," Young said, "unlawful possession of explosive devices is a violation of federal law."
"Have you got any warrants, Charley?" the mayor asked H. Charles Larkin.
"Mr. Mayor, we haven't tied, this is presuming we can find the guy with the explosives, we haven't tied him to the threatening letter sent to the Vice President. So far as we're concerned, getting this lunatic off the streets, separated from his explosives, solves our problem."
"So, if you want to look at it this way, Charley, you're here just as an observer?"
"That's right, Mr. Mayor."
"Would that describe the FBI's role in this, Mr. Young?" the mayor asked.
"Pretty well," Young said uncomfortably. "The FBI, of course, stands ready to provide whatever assistance we can offer."
"We appreciate that," the mayor said. "And I'm sure Inspector Wohl will call on you if he thinks he needs something."
He looked at Young to make sure that he had made his point. Then he turned to Peter Wohl.
"Before you take any doors, let me know," the mayor said. "I think I would like to be in on it."
"Yes, sir."
With that, the mayor walked out of the conference room.
I wonder, Peter Wohl thought, if the mayor just happened to hear about this meeting via somebody on the night shift here, or whether Lowenstein or Coughlin called him up, and told him what was going on, sure that he would be anxious to keep the arrest, if there was one, from being taken over by the FBI or the Secret Service. Now that I think about it, Charley Larkin didn't seem very surprised when the mayor honored us with his presence.
****
The food in the dining room of the Lorraine Hotel was simple, but quite tasty, and, Marion thought, very reasonably priced. There was no coffee or tea. Apparently, Marion reasoned, Father Divine had interpreted Holy Scriptures to mean that coffee was somehow sinful. He wondered how Father Divine had felt about what had been reported by Saint Timothy vis-a-vis Jesus Christ's attitude toward fermented grapes. There was no wine list, either, in the Divine Lorraine Dining Room.
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