“I wonder why he became a cop?” Davis wondered aloud, and then, without waiting for a reply, asked, “You say he was the man who shot the serial rapist?”
“Right, Chief. In the head, with his service revolver. Blew his brains all over the inside of his van.”
And that, too, would stick in your mind, wouldn’t it, Isaac?
“I seem to remember seeing something about that in the papers,” Davis said. “But as I was saying, Wohl, once he’d made his annoyance with me quite clear, was very cooperative. He’s going to photocopy everything in his files and have this Payne fellow bring it over here tomorrow.”
The three A-SACs nodded their understanding.
“I just had a thought,” Davis went on. “Do you happen to recall precisely why Payne failed the Marine Corps physical?”
Isaac Young searched his memory, then shook his head. “No.”
“Can you find out?” Davis ordered. “The FBI is always looking for outstanding young men.”
“Right, Chief,” Isaac Young said.
“And when Officer Payne delivers the material from Inspector Wohl, I think one of us should receive it. Tell the receptionist. Make sure she understands. Show him around the office.”
“Right, Chief,” Young said.
I mean, after all, Davis thought, why would a bright young man of good family want to be a cop when he could be an FBI agent?
And if that doesn’t turn out, it can’t hurt to have a friend—especially a kid like that, who must hear all sorts of interesting things in the Department.
Matt Payne, feeding documents into the Xerox machine, jumped when Peter Wohl spoke in his ear.
“I have bled enough for the city for one day,” Wohl announced. “I am going home and get into a cold martini or a hot blonde, whichever comes first.”
“Yes, sir.” Matt chuckled. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“One of the wounds from which I’m bleeding has to do with what you’re doing—”
“Sir?” Matt asked, confused.
“I just got off the phone with Commissioner Czernich,” Wohl went on. “I don’t know what Davis’s agenda really is, and I wondered why he came to me with the request for all that stuff. One possibility was that he didn’t want the commissioner to know he was asking for it. With that in mind, I called the commissioner and told him where and with whom we had lunch—” He saw the confused look still on Payne’s face and stopped.
“I’m—I don’t follow you, Inspector,” Matt said.
“For reasons I’m sure I don’t have to explain, we are very careful what we pass to the FBI,” Wohl said.
I haven’t the faintest idea what he’s talking about.
“Yes, sir.”
“Nothing goes over to them unless the commissioner approves it. Denny Coughlin or Matt Lowenstein might slip them something quietly, but since career suicide is not one of my aims, I won’t, and Davis must know that.”
“So why did he ask you?”
“Right. So I called the commissioner. The commissioner told me I had done the right thing in calling him, and that I should use my good judgment in giving him whatever I felt like giving him.”
“Okay,” Matt said thoughtfully.
“Two minutes after I hung up, Czernich called back. ‘Peter,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking it over, and I think I know why Davis went directly to you.’ So I said, ‘Yes, sir?’ and he said, ‘It’s because you and the Payne kid look more like FBI agents than cops. Hahaha!’ And then he hung up.”
“Jesus!” Matt said.
“It may well be Polish humor,” Wohl said. “But I’m paranoid. The moral to this little story is that I want you to clearly understand you are to pass nothing to the FBI, or the feds generally, unless I tell you to. Clear?”