Men In Blue

by W. E. B Griffin

  “You really think she could be the doer, Lieutenant?” Wohl asked, dryly sarcastic, and then, without waiting for an answer, asked, “She’s still upstairs? You didn’t enter her apartment?”

  “I got your message, Inspector,” DelRaye said. “She can’t go anywhere. I got two cops trying to talk sense to her through the door.”

  “I know her,” Wohl said. “I’ll try to talk to her.”

  “I know,” DelRaye said. “When she’s not screaming at me to go fuck myself, she’s screaming that she demands to see Inspector Wohl.”

  “Really?” Wohl asked, surprised.

  “Her exact words were, ‘Get that sonofabitch down here!’ “ DelRaye said. “Don’t you think you ought to tell me what’s going on with you and her?”

  “I was in on the assist when Dutch Moffitt was shot,” Wohl said. “When the commissioner heard that the eyewitness was Miss Dutton, and who she was, he decided it was in the best interest of the department to treat her with kid gloves, and since I was there, told me to take care of it.”

  “Something going on between her and Dutch? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying that when a woman goes on television twice a day, it doesn’t hurt to have her think kindly of the police department,” Wohl said.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “And that’s what I’m going to do now,” Wohl said. “I’m going to go charm the hell out of her, if I can, and apologize for you, if it seemed to her you weren’t as understanding as you could have been.”

  “Fuck understanding,” DelRaye said. “My job is to catch the guys who done in the faggot.”

  “And my job is to do what the commissioner tells me to do,” Wohl said. “I’m going to go talk to her. You make sure there’s a car outside when, if, I bring her down the stairs. Get those TV people, and the other reporters, away from the door.”

  “How’m I going to do that, Inspector?” DelRaye asked sarcastically. “It’s a public street.”

  “No, it’s not Lieutenant,” Wohl said. “It’s a private street. Technically, anybody on Stockton Place who hasn’t been invited is trespassing. Now get them away from the door, if you have to do it yourself.”

  “Yes, sir, Inspector,” DelRaye said, his tone of voice leaving no question what he thought about the order, about Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, or Peter Wohl being a Staff Inspector.

  EIGHT

  Wohl walked out of Jerome Nelson’s apartment and rode the elevator to the upper floor. There were two uniformed policemen there, a portly, red-faced man in his late thirties, and a pleasant-faced young man. He had his head against Louise Dutton’s door and was trying, without success, to get her to talk back to him.

  “What can I do for you?” the young one challenged when the elevator door opened.

  “That’s Inspector Wohl,” the older one said.

  “Hello,” Peter said, and smiled. “I know Miss Dutton. I think I can get her to come out of there. Lieutenant DelRaye is going to move the press away, and have a car waiting downstairs. I’d like you guys to see that Miss Dutton gets in it without being hassled.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young cop said.

  “She’s got a mouth, that one,” the older one offered. “Even considering she’s had too much to drink, and is upset by what she saw downstairs, you wouldn’t think a woman would use language like that.”

  “Haven’t you heard? That’s what women’s lib is all about,” Peter said. “The right to cuss like a man.”

  The younger cop shook his head and smiled at him.

  He waited until they had gone down in the elevator, and then knocked on the door.

  “Go the fuck away!” Louise called angrily.

  “Miss Dutton, it’s Peter Wohl,” he called.

  There was no response for a long moment, and Peter was just about to raise his cigarette lighter to knock on the door when it opened to the width its burglar chain would permit; wide enough for Louise Dutton to look out and see Peter, and that he was alone.

  Then it closed and he heard the chain rattle, and then the door opened completely.

  “I wasn’t sure you would come,” she said, and pulled him into the apartment and closed the door again.

  She was wearing a blue skirt and a high-ruffle-collared blouse. The body of the blouse was so thin as to be virtually transparent. Through it he could see quite clearly that she wore no slip, only a brassiere, and that the brassiere was no more substantial than the blouse; he could see her nipples.

  Her eyes looked more frightened than drunk, he thought, and there was something about her it took him a moment to think he recognized, an aura of sexuality.

  She looks horny, Peter Wohl thought.

  “Here I am,” Peter said.

  She put a smile on her face; grew, he thought, determinedly bright.

  “And what did Mrs. Wohl say when you were summoned from your bed at two in the morning, when the crazy lady from TV called for you?” Louise Dutton asked.

  I know what it is. She hasn’t really been going around in a transparent shirt, baring her breasts. That skirt is part of a suit; there’s a jacket, and when she wears that, only the ruffles show at the neck. That’s what she wore when she was on TV.

  “Nobody summoned me,” Peter Wohl said. “I heard about it, and came. And the only Mrs. Wohl is my mother.”

  “They didn’t send for you?” Louise asked, surprised. “Then why did you come?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Why did you ask for me?”

  “I’m scared, and a little drunk,” she said.

  “So’m I,” he said. “A little drunk, I mean. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Bullshit! Have you been downstairs? Did you see what those . . . maniacs . . . did to that poor, pathetic little man?”

  “There’s nothing for you to be afraid of,” Peter said.

  “The cops are here, right? My knight in shining armor has just ridden up in his prowl car?”

  “Actually, I came in my Jaguar,” Peter said. “My department car was in the garage and I wasn’t sure I was sober enough to back it out.”

  “A Jaguar?” she asked, starting to giggle. “To go with that ridiculous turtleneck? I’ll bet you even have got one of those silly little caps with the buttons in the front.”

  “I had one, but it blew off on the Schuylkill Expressway,” he said.

  She snorted, and then suddenly stopped. She looked at him, and bit her lower lip, and then she walked to him.

  “Goddamn, I’m glad you’re here,” she said, and put her hand to his cheek. “Thank you.”

  And then, without either of them knowing exactly how it happened, he had his arms around her, and she was sobbing against his chest. He heard himself soothing her, and became aware that he was stroking her head, and that her arms were around him, holding him.

  He could not remember, later, how long they had stayed like that. What he was to remember was that as he became aware of the warmth of her body against him, the pressure of her breasts against his abdomen, he had felt himself stirring. And when what had happened to him became evident to her, she pushed herself away from him.

  “Well,” she said, looking into his eyes, “this has been a bitch of a day, Peter Wohl, hasn’t it? For both of us.”

  “I’ve had better,” he said.

  “What happens now?” Louise asked.

  “There’s a car waiting downstairs,” Peter said. “It’ll take you down to the Roundhouse, where you can make your statement, and then they’ll type it up, and you can sign it, and then they’ll bring you back here.”

  She looked at him, on the verge, he decided, of saying something, but not speaking.

  “I’ll go with you, if you’d like me to.”

  “I told that faded matinee idol everything I know,” she said.

  He chuckled, and she smiled back at him.

  “I did the ‘Nine’s News’ at eleven,” Louise said. “And then I went with the producer for a drink. Okay, drinks. Thr
ee or four. Then I came home. I went into the lobby to check the mailbox. Jerome’s door was open. I went in. I ... saw what was in the bedroom. So I called the cops. That’s all I know, Peter. And I told him.”

  “There’s a procedure that has to be followed,” Peter said. “The police department is a bureaucracy, Miss Dutton.”

  “ ‘Miss Dutton’?” she quoted mockingly. “A moment ago, I thought we were at least on a first-name basis.”

  “Louise,” Peter said, aware that his face was flushing.

  “I’ll be damned,” she said. “A blushing cop!”

  “Jesus Christ!” Peter said. “Do you always think out loud?”

  “No,” she said. “For some mysterious reason, I seem to be a little upset right now. But thinking out loud, I don’t seem to be the only one around here who’s a little off balance. Do you always calm down hysterical witnesses that way, Inspector?”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Wohl said, shaking his head.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” she said. “That wasn’t a complaint. I just wondered if it was standard bureaucratic procedure.”

  “You know better than that,” Peter said.

  “Get me out of here, Peter,” Louise said, softly, entreatingly.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “I’m not that far yet,” she said. “All I know is that I don’t want to run the gauntlet of my professional associates outside, and that I can’t, won’t, spend the night here. I’m afraid, Peter.”

  “I told you, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said. “And I sent two officers downstairs to make sure you weren’t hassled when you get in the car.”

  “There’s an Arch Street entrance to the garage,” she said. “I don’t think the press knows about it.”

  “But you’d have to get past them to get to the garage,” he said.

  “There a passage in the basement,” she said. “A tunnel. And even if they were on Arch Street, I could get down on the seat, or on the floor in the back, and they wouldn’t see me.”

  “Take your car, you mean?” he asked.

  “Please, Peter,” she said.

  Why not? She’s calmed down. You can’t blame her for wanting to avoid those press and TV bastards. I’ll take her someplace and buy her a cup of coffee and then I’ll go with her to the Roundhouse.

  “Okay,” he said. “Get your jacket.”

  “My jacket?” she asked, surprised, and then looked down at herself. “Oh, Christ!” She crossed her arms over her breasts and looked at him. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “A blushing TV lady.”

  “Fuck you, Peter,” she flared.

  “Promises, promises,” he heard himself blurt.

  “You bastard!” she said, but she chuckled. She went farther into the apartment, and returned in a moment, shrugging into the jacket of her suit.

  He waited until she had buttoned it, and then opened the door to the foyer. There was no one there. He pushed the elevator button, and he heard the faint whine of the electric motor. She stood very close to him, and her shoulder touched his. He put his arm around her shoulders.

  “You’re going to be all right, Louise,” he said.

  There was a uniform cop sitting on a wooden folding chair outside the elevator door in the basement. He got up quickly when he saw Wohl and Louise.

  “I’m Inspector Wohl,” Peter said. “I’m taking Miss Dutton out this way. Are you alone down here?”

  “No, sir, a couple of guys are in the garage.”

  “Thank you,” Peter said. He put his hand on Louise’s arm and led her down the corridor. Halfway down the tunnel, she put a set of keys in his hand.

  Two uniform cops walked quickly across the underground garage when they saw them. The eyes of one of them widened—a cop Wohl recognized, a bright guy named Aquila—when he recognized them.

  “Hello, Inspector,” Officer Aquila said.

  “I’m going to take Miss Dutton out this way,” Wohl said. “The press is all over the street.”

  “There’s a couple of them outside, too,” Aquila said. “But only a couple. You can probably get past them before they know what’s happening. You want to use my car?”

  “We’ll take Miss Dutton’s car,” Wohl said. “When we’re gone, would you tell Lieutenant DelRaye we’ve gone, and that I’m taking Miss Dutton to the Roundhouse?”

  “Yes, sir,” Office Aquila said. It was obvious that he approved of Wohl’s tactics. He had certainly heard that DelRaye had sent for a wagon to haul a drunken and belligerent Louise Dutton off. This would be one more proof that Staff Inspector Peter Wohl knew how to turn an unpleasant situation into a manageable one.

  They got in Louise’s Cadillac.

  “There’s a thing in the floor that you run over, and the door opens,” Louise said, and then, “What are you looking for?”

  “How do you get the parking brake off?”

  “It comes off automatically when you put it in gear,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said.

  As they approached the exit, she laid down on the seat with her head on his lap. The door opened as she said it would, and he drove through. A reporter and a couple of photographers moved toward the car, but without great interest. And then he was past them, heading up Arch Street.

  “We’re safe,” Wohl said. “You can sit up.”

  She pushed herself erect.

  “I am not going to the ‘Roundhouse’!” Louise said. “Not tonight.”

  She had not moved away from him. When she spoke, he could feel and smell her warm breath.

  “We can go somewhere and get a cup of coffee,” Wohl said.

  “Hey, Knight in Shining Armor, when I say something, I can’t be talked out of it,” Louise said.

  “Where would you like to go, then?” Peter asked.

  There was a perceptible pause before she replied.

  “I don’t want to go to a hotel,” she said. “They smirk, when you check in without luggage. What would your mother say if you brought me home with you, Peter?”

  “I don’t live with my mother,” he said, quickly.

  “Oh, you don’t? Then I guess you have an apartment?”

  “I’m not so sure that would be a good idea,” he said.

  “I don’t have designs on your body, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m wide open to other suggestions.”

  “I’ll make you some coffee,” Peter said.

  “I don’t want coffee,” she said.

  “Okay, no coffee,” Peter said.

  Ten minutes later, as they drove up Lancaster Avenue, she said, “Where the hell do you live, in Pittsburgh?”

  “It’s not far.”

  “All of my life, my daddy told me, ‘If you’re ever in trouble, you call me, day or night,’ so tonight, for the first time, after the matinee idol told me he was sending for a battering ram, I called him. And his wife told me he’s in London.”

  “Your stepmother?”

  “No, his wife,” Louise Dutton said, as if annoyed at his denseness. He didn’t press the question.

  “But you came, didn’t you?” Louise asked, rhetorically. “Even if you didn’t know I’d sent for you?”

  Peter Wohl couldn’t think of a reply. She half turned on the seat and held on to his arm with both hands.

  “Why did they do that to him? Keep stabbing him, I mean? My God, they hacked him!”

  “That’s not unusual with murders involving sexual deviates,” Peter Wohl said. “There’s often a viciousness, I guess is the word, in what they do to each other.”

  She shuddered.

  “He was such a nice little man,” she said. She sighed and shuddered, and added, “Bad things are supposed to come in threes. God, I hope that isn’t true. I can’t take anything else!”

  “You’re going to be all right,” Peter said.

  When they were inside the apartment, he turned the radio on, to WFLN-FM, the classical music station, and then smi
led at her.

  “I won’t ask you if I can take your jacket,” he said. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Made in the highlands of Scotland,” she said.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll be right with you.”

  He went in the kitchen, got ice, and carried it to the bar. He took his jacket off without thinking about it, and made drinks. He carried them to her.

  “Until tonight, I always thought there was something menacing about a man carrying a gun,” she said. “Now I find it pleasantly reassuring.”

  “The theory is that a policeman is never really off duty,” he said.

  “Like Dutch?” she said.

  “You want to talk about Dutch?” he asked.

  “Quickly changing the subject,” Louise said. “This is not what I would have expected, apartment-wise, for a policeman,” she said, gesturing around the apartment. “Or even for Peter Wohl, private citizen.”

  “It was professionally decorated,” he said. “I once had a girl friend who was an interior decorator.”

  “Had?”

  “Had.”

  “Then I suppose it’s safe to say I like the naked lady and the red leather chairs, but I think the white rug and most of the furniture looks like it belongs in a whorehouse.”

  He laughed delightedly.

  She looked at her drink.

  “I don’t really want this,” she said. “What I really would like is something to eat.”

  “How about a world-famous Peter Wohl Taylor ham and egg sandwich?”

  “Hold the egg,” Louise said.

  He went into the kitchen and took a roll of Taylor ham from the refrigerator and put it on his cutting board and began to slice it.

  He fried the Taylor ham, made toast, and spread it with Durkee’s Dressing.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Milk?” she asked.

  “Milk,” he replied. He put the sandwiches on plates, and set places at his tiny kitchen table, then filled two glasses with milk and put them on the table.

  Louise ate hungrily, and nodded her head in thanks when he gave her half of his sandwich.

  She drained her glass of milk, then wiped her lips with a gesture Peter thought was exquisitely feminine.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about me and Dutch?”