“You,” O’Hara said.
“Well, then, come on in,” Wohl said. “You can watch me drink a cup of coffee.” He turned to look at the Highway Sergeant. “There is coffee?”
“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said. “Sir, Chief Coughlin wants you to phone as soon as you get in.”
“Get me and Mickey a cup of coffee, and then get the Chief on the line,” Wohl ordered.
Captains Sabara and Pekach were in what until yesterday had been the office of the Commanding Officer of Highway Patrol, and what was now, until maybe other accommodations could be found, the office of the Commanding Officer of Special Operations Division. Sabara, who was wearing black trousers and plain shoes, and not the motorcyclist’s boots of Highway, was sitting in an armchair. Petach, who was wearing Highway boots, and a Sam Browne belt, was sitting across from him on a matching couch.
They both started to get up when they saw Wohl. He waved them back into their seats.
“Good morning,” Wohl said.
“Good morning, Inspector,” they both said. Wohl wondered if that was, at least on Mike Sabara’s part, intended to show him that he was pissed, or whether it was in deference to the presence of Mickey O’Hara.
“Chief Coughlin wants you to call him as soon as you get in,” Sabara said.
“The sergeant told me,” Wohl said. “Well, anything new?”
“No van and no woman,” Sabara said.
“Damn!” Peter said.
“I called the hospital just a moment ago,” Pekach said. “We have two still on the critical list, one of ours and the wife. The other two, the husband and our guy, are ‘stabilized’ and apparently out of the woods.”
The Highway Sergeant came in and handed first Wohl and then Mickey O’Hara a china mug of coffee.
“Nothing on the woman? Or the van? Nothing?” Wohl asked.
“All we have for a description is a dark van, either a Ford or a Chevy,” Sabara said. “That’s not much.”
One of the two telephones on Wohl’s desk buzzed. He looked at it to see which button was illuminated, punched it, and picked up the handset.
“Inspector Wohl,” he said.
“Dennis Coughlin, Peter,” Chief Coughlin said.
“Good morning, sir.”
“You got anything?”
“Nothing on the van or the woman,” Peter said. “Pekach just talked to the hospital. We have one civilian, the wife, and one police officer on the critical list. The husband and the other cop are apparently out of danger.”
“Have you seen the paper? The Ledger, especially?”
“No, sir.”
“You should have a look at it. You’ll probably find it interesting,” Coughlin said. “Keep me up to date, up to the moment, Peter.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said.
He heard Coughlin hang the phone up.
“Has anybody seen the Ledger?” Peter asked.
Pekach picked up a folded newspaper from beside him on the couch, walked across the room to Wohl’s desk and laid it out for him.
There was a three-column headline, halfway down the front page, above a photograph of the wrecked cars.