Special Operations (Badge of Honor 2)

And then he wondered if Mr. Schneider had come home unexpectedly, or whether Naomi had pulled on someone else’s dong to lure him into what obviously was her bedroom.

Nice boobs!

And then a wave of chagrin hit him.

“Oh, shit,” he said. He closed the blinds quickly, turned the light on, and sat on the bed.

“You’re a fucking voyeur, you goddamned pervert! You were really getting turned on watching her boobs flop around like that.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself!

And then he had a second thought, not quite as self-critical: Or get your ashes hauled, so that you won’t get horny, peeking through people’s bedroom windows.

And then he had a third thought, considered it a moment, and then dug the telephone book from where he kept it under his bed.

Amelia Alice Payne, M.D., lived on the tenth floor of the large, luxurious apartment building on the 2600 block of the Parkway, said to be the first of its kind in Philadelphia, and somewhat unimaginatively named the 2601 Parkway.

She got off the elevator, walked twenty yards down the corridor, and let herself into her apartment.

She pushed the door closed with her rear end, turned and fastened the chain, and started to unbutton her blouse. She was tired, both from a long day, and from her long session with Staff Inspector Peter Wohl.

She walked into her living room and slumped into the armchair beside a table, which held the telephone answering device. She snapped it on.

She grunted as she bent to take off her shoes.

There were a number of messages, but none of them were important, or required any action on her part tonight. She had no intention of returning the call of one female patient who announced that she just had to talk to her as soon as possible. Listening to another litany of the faults of the lady’s husband would have to wait until tomorrow.

She reset the machine, turned it off, and, carrying her shoes, walked into her bedroom, turning to the drapes and closing them. Open, they had given her a view of downtown Philadelphia, and, to the right, the headlights moving up and down the Schuylkill Expressway.

Amy decided against taking a shower. No one was going to be around to smell her tonight, and it would be better to use the shower as both cleanser and waker-upper in the morning.

She took off her blouse and pushed her skirt off her hips, and jerked the cover of her bed.

She probably had met more offensive men than Peter Wohl in her life, but she couldn’t call one to mind at the moment. He represented everything she found offensive in men, except, she thought, that he didn’t have either a pencil-line mustache or a pinky ring. But everything else she detested was there, starting with the most advanced (regressive?) case of Male Supremacist Syndrome she had ever encountered.

It was probably his cultural background, she thought. Wohl was certainly German. What was it the Germans said to define their perception of the proper role of females in society, Kinder, Kirche, und Kuche? Children, church, and kitchen. He obviously thought that Moses had carried that down from Mount Sinai with the other Commandments.

And he was a cop, the son of a cop. Had he said the grandson of a cop, too? That, obviously, had had a lot to do with what he was, and how he thought.

It wasn’t, she thought, that he had implied she was stupid. He had been perfectly willing to pick her mind about this seriously ill man who was raping the women in Northwest Philadelphia. He was willing, as he had proved by interrogating her for over three hours after they had gone back to Matt’s apartment, to recognize her expertise, and take advantage of it. Men who couldn’t fry an egg were always perfectly willing to allow themselves to be fed by the Little Woman.

Peter Wohl, Amy knew, had believed, and had been alarmed by, her announcement that the man he was looking for was rapidly losing what control he had left. He had asked her why she had felt that way, and she had explained, and then he had made her explain her explanations. And in the end, she knew he had accepted everything she had told him.

But he had never let her forget for a moment that he was a great big policeman, charged by God and the City of Philadelphia with protecting the weak and not-too-bright, such as she. He admired her skill and knowledge, Amy thought, the way he would have admired a dog who had been trained to walk on its hind legs. Isn’t that amazing!

He had actually insisted on walking her to her car and then telling her “to make sure” to lock the doors from the inside, “there were all sorts of people running loose at night.”

And if he had said “Good Girl” one more time, she would have thrown something at him.

Which, of course, would only have confirmed his devout belief that women were unstable creatures who needed a great big male to protect them from the world, and from themselves.

She pulled her slip over her head, and unfastened her brassiere and took that off, examining the marks it had left on the lower portion of her breasts.

The telephone rang. She reached down to her bedside table and picked it up.

If it’s that hysterical bitch calling again, I’ll scream!

“Yes?”