The Witness (Badge of Honor 4)

He took his time in doing so, prompting each of them, privately, to conclude that the first psychological warfare salvo had been fired.

Finally, he turned around.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m aware that all of you have busy schedules, and that in theory, I should be able to get from Commissioner Czernich all the details of whatever I would like to know. But since there seems to be some breakdown in communications, I thought it best to ask you to spare me a few minutes of your valuable time.”

“Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” Lowenstein said. “I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say I’m sorry you fell out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Carlucci glared at him for a moment.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, sit down, all of you,” he said. “I know you’re doing your best.” He looked at Czernich. “Can we get some coffee in here, Tad?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a fresh pot.”

“I was reading the overnights,” the Mayor said. “Did you notice that some wiseass painted ‘Free The Goldblatt’s Six’ on a wall at the University?”

“Those villains we have,” Coughlin said.

“No kidding?”

“The railroad cops caught three of them doing it again on the Pennsy Main Line right of way. You know those great big granite blocks where the tracks go behind the stadium? They had lowered themselves on ropes. Two they caught hanging there. They squealed on the third one.”

“Who were they?”

“College kids. Wiseasses.”

“The judge ought to make them clean it off with a toothbrush,” Carlucci said. “But that’s wishful thinking.”

“Mike Sabara told me when I called him just before I came here that there’s ‘ILA’ painted all over North Philadelphia,” Wohl said. “I don’t think that’s college kids, and I would like to know who did that.”

“What do you mean?”

“How much of it is spontaneous, and how much was painted by the people who issued those press releases.”

“Let’s talk about the ILA,” Carlucci said. “Now that it just happened to come up. What do we know today about them that we didn’t know yesterday?”

“Not a goddamn thing,” Coughlin said. “I was over at Intelligence yesterday. They don’t have a damned thing, and it’s not for want of trying.”

“They’re harassing Monahan. And for that matter, Payne, too. Telephone calls to Goldblatt’s from the time they open the doors until they close.”

“What about at his house?” Carlucci asked.

“Telephone calls. The same kind they’re making to Matt Payne’s apartment.”

“Driving by Monahan’s house? Anything like that?”

“Nothing that we’ve been able to get a handle on. Nobody hanging around, driving by more than once.”

“What have you got on Monahan, at his house?”

“Three uniformed officers in an unmarked car. One of the three is always walking around.”

“Supervised by who?”

“A lieutenant named Jack Malone. He came to Special Operations from Major Crimes.”

“Where he got the nutty idea that Bob Holland is a car thief,” the mayor said. “I know all about Malone. Is he the man for the job, Peter? This whole thing would go down the toilet if we lose Monahan as a witness, or lose him, period. Christ, what that bastard Nelson and his Ledger would do to me if that happened.”

“Malone strikes me, Mr. Mayor, as a pretty good cop who unfortunately has had some personal problems.”