“Yeah, we’re cops,” Charley McFadden said.
“I know you,” the Corporal said. “You’re the guy who ran down the shit who was the doer in Captain Moffitt’s shooting.”
McFadden almost blushed.
“We were,” he said, nodding at Martinez. “This is my partner, Hay-zus Martinez.”
“What do you want to see the Captain about? The reason I ask is that he’s busy as hell right now; I don’t know when he’ll be free.”
“Beats me,” McFadden said. “We was told to report to him at eight.”
“Well, have a seat. When he’s free, I’ll tell him you’re here. There’s a coffee machine and a garbage machine around the corner.” He pointed.
“Thanks,” Charley said, and walked around the corner to the machines, not asking Hay-zus if he wanted anything. Hay-zus was a food freak; he didn’t eat anything that had preservatives in it, or drink anything with chemical stimulants in it, like coffee, which had caffeine, or Coke, which had sugar and God only knows what other poison for the body.
When Charley returned, a minute or two later, holding a Mounds bar in one hand and a can of Coke in the other, Hay-zus nodded his head toward the counter. The guy they had seen in the Porsche, the one Charley said he knew from someplace, was talking to the Corporal. As Charley watched, he turned and headed for where Hay-zus was sitting on one of the row of battered folding metal chairs.
Charley walked over and sat down, and then leaned over Hay-zus.
“Don’t I know you from somewheres?”
“Is your name McFadden?” Matt Payne asked.
“Yeah.”
“I was at your house the night you got Gerald Vincent Gallagher.”
“You were?” Charley asked. “I don’t remember that.”
“I was there with Chief Coughlin,” Matt said. “And Sergeant Lenihan.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember now,” Charley said, although he did not. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Matt said. “Yourself?”
There was a sort of stir as someone else came through the door from the parking lot. Matt recognized Peter Wohl; he wondered if Wohl would recognize him.
Wohl recognized all three of the young men on the folding metal chairs. He gave them a nod, and kept walking toward his office.
God damn it, you’re a commanding officer now. Act like one.
He turned and walked to the three of them, his hand extended first to Martinez.
“How are you, Martinez?” he said, and turned before Martinez, who wasn’t quite sure of Wohl’s identity, could reply. “And McFadden. How’s it going? And you’re Payne, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I’m free,” Wohl said. “The way things are going, that may be a while.”
“Yes, sir,” McFadden and Martinez said, having found their voices.
Wohl then walked across the room and through the door to his outer office. Three people were in it: a Highway Sergeant, who had been Dutch Moffitt’s Sergeant, then Mike Sabara’s, and was not Dave Pekach’s; Sergeant Eddy Frizell, in uniform, and looking a little sloppy compared to the Highway Sergeant; and Michael J. O’Hara, of the Bulletin.
The Highway Sergeant got to his feet when he saw Wohl, and after a moment, Frizell followed suit.
“Good morning, Inspector,” the Highway Sergeant said.
“Good morning,” Wohl said. “What do you say, Mickey? You waiting to see somebody?”