“I thought maybe you could fit the Chief into your busy schedule,” Lenihan said. “You being such a nice guy, and all.”
“Go to hell, Tom,” Wohl said, laughing, and hung up. He wondered for a moment if the Chief wanting to see him was somehow connected with Lieutenant Mike Sabara wanting to talk to him.
Then he became aware that Naomi Schneider was standing in the bedroom door, leaning on the jamb, and looking at the bed. On the bed were his handkerchief, his wallet, his keys, the leather folder that held his badge and photo-identification card, and his shoulder holster, which held a Smith & Wesson “Chief’s Special” five-shot .38 Special revolver, all waiting to be put into, or between layers of, whatever clothing he decided to wear.
“What are you, a cop or something?” Naomi asked.
“A cop.”
“A detective, maybe?” Naomi asked, visibly thrilled.
“Something like that.”
Christ, now it will be all over the House by tomorrow morning!
“What does that mean?” Naomi asked. “Something like that?”
“I’m a Staff Inspector,” he said. “And, Naomi, I sort of like for people not to know that I am.”
“What’s a Staff Inspector?”
“Sort of like a detective.”
“And that’s sort of a secret.”
The phone rang again, and he picked it up.
“Peter Wohl,” he said.
“Inspector, this is Mike Sabara.”
Wohl covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
“Excuse me, please, Naomi?”
“Oh, sure,” she said, and put her index finger in front of her lips in a gesture signifying she understood the necessity for secrecy.
When she turned around, he saw that her red underpants had apparently gathered in the decolletage of her buttocks; her cheeks peeked out naked from beneath the white shorts.
“What’s up, Mike?” Wohl asked.
“I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare me fifteen minutes.”
“Anytime. Where are you?”
“Harbison and Levick,” Sabara said. “Could I come over there?”
The headquarters of the Second and Fifteenth districts, and the Northeast Detectives, at Harbison and Levick Streets, was in a squat, ugly, two-story building whose brown-and-tan brick had become covered with a dark film from the exhausts of the heavy traffic passing by over the years.
“Mike, I’ve got to go downtown,” Wohl said, after deciding he really would rather not go to Harbison and Levick. “What about meeting me in DaVinci’s Restaurant? At Twenty-first and Walnut? In about fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll be there,” Lieutenant Sabara said. “Thank you.”
“Be with you in a minute, Naomi,” Wohl called, and closed the door. He dressed in a white button-down shirt, a regimentally striped necktie, and the trousers to a blue cord suit. He slipped his arms through the shoulder holster straps, shrugged into the suit jacket, and then put the wallet and the rest of the impedimenta in various pockets. He checked his appearance in a mirror on the back on the door, then went into the living room, where he caught Naomi having a pull at the neck of his beer bottle.
“Very nice!” Naomi said.
“Naomi, I don’t want to sound rude, but I have to go.”