Three blocks away, Payne looked over at Wohl and said, “I don’t know the ground rules, sir. Am I expected to keep the speed limit?”
“Christ,” Wohl replied, annoyed, and then looked at Payne. It was an honest question, he decided, and deserves an honest answer.
“If you mean, can you drive like the hammers of hell, no. But on the other hand…use your judgment, Payne.” And then he added, “That’s all police work really is, Payne, the exercise of good judgment.”
“Yes, sir,” Payne said.
Well, didn’t you sound like Socrates, Jr., Peter Wohl?
But then he plunged on: “It’s not like you might think it is. Brilliant detective work and flashing lights. Right now every cop in Philadelphia, and in the area, is looking for a woman that some lunatic with sexual problems forced into the back of his van at the point of a knife. Since we don’t have a good description of the van, or the tag number—and, even if we had the manpower, and we don’t—we can’t stop every van and look inside. That’s unlawful search. So we’re just waiting for something to happen. I don’t like to consider what I think will happen.”
“My sister says rapists are more interested in dominating their victims, rather than in sexual gratification,” Payne said.
“Your sister, no doubt,” Wohl said, sarcastically, “is an expert on rape and rapists?”
“She’s a psychiatrist,” Payne said. “I don’t know how much of an expert she is. As opposed to how much of an expert she thinks she is.”
Wohl chuckled. “Well, maybe I should talk to her. I need all the help I can get.”
“She’d love that,” Payne said. “She would thereafter be insufferably smug, having been consulted by the cops, but if you mean it, I could easily set it up.”
“Let’s put it on the back burner,” Wohl said. “What we’re going to do now…Chief Coughlin gave me the authority to pick anybody I want for Special Operations. I just stole two of the best detectives from Homicide, which has grievously annoyed the head of Homicide, Chief Lowenstein, and at least one of the two detectives. I haven’t talked to the other one yet. Anyway, after we pick up the car, we’re going to go to the Roundhouse and pick up a detective named Jason Washington, Jr. I think he’s the best detective in Homicide. The car we’re going to pick up is for him. I want him to interview all the previous victims. He’s damned good at that. Maybe he can get something out of them the other guys missed. Maybe we can find the rapist that way. And maybe Jason Washington would like to talk to your sister.”
Payne didn’t reply.
Thirty-five minutes later, Matt Payne, at the wheel of a light green Ford LTD, followed Peter Wohl’s light tan LTD into the parking area behind the Roundhouse. Wohl pulled to the curb by the rear entrance and got out.
“Stay in the car,” he said. “I’ll be right out.”
He went inside the building, waited in line behind the civilian who was talking to the Corporal behind the shatterproof glass, and then showed his identification.
“Oh, hell, Inspector,” the Corporal said, “I know you.”
“Thank you,” Peter said.
That makes it fourteen-seven, Peter thought.
When the solenoid buzzed, he pushed the door open and entered the lobby.
Two men sitting on chairs stood up. One of them was very large, heavy, and dressed very well, looking more like a successful businessman than a cop.
Or a colored undertaker, Peter thought, wondering if that made him racist; and then decided it didn’t. Jason Washington was more than colored, he was jet black; and in his expensive, well-tailored suit, he looked like an undertaker.
The other man was white, slight, and looked tired and worn. His clothes were mussed and looked as if they had come, a long time ago, from the bargain basement at Sears. His name was Anthony C. “Tony” Harris, and he was, in Wohl’s judgment, the second sharpest detective in Homicide.
Neither smiled when Wohl walked over to them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Wohl said. “I stopped by to get you a car.”
“Inspector,” Tony Harris said, “before this goes too far, can we talk about it?”
“Have either of you had lunch?” Peter asked.
Both shook their heads no.
“Neither have I,” Peter said. “So, yes, Tony, we can talk about it, over lunch. I’ll even buy.”
“I’d appreciate that, Inspector,” Tony Harris said.