Not like you, Peter, or, for that matter, Matt, the inference had been. You’re not really all that smart; you’re just good at taking examinations.
One or the other or both of them had suggested that what Officer O’Mara needed was a little broader experience than he was getting in the Traffic Division, such as he might get if it could be arranged to have Personnel, with your approval, of course, assign him to Special Operations as your administrative assistant, now that Matty got himself promoted, and the job’s open.
Officer O’Mara’s performance as Wohl’s administrative assistant had been satisfactory. He was immensely loyal, hard-working, and reliable. The trouble with Officer O’Mara, as Detective Jesus Martinez had often pointed out, was that he had been at the end of the line when brains were passed out, and an original thought and a cold drink of water would probably kill him.
Inspector Wohl came on the line a moment later.
“When’s the meeting going to be over?” he asked without any preliminaries.
“It’s over, sir.”
“You’re en route here?”
“Actually, sir, I’m in the shower.”
“You had planned to come to work today?”
“Yes, sir. I will be there directly.”
The line went dead.
Shit! Another three minutes, and when he asked, “You’re en route here?” I could have said, “Yes, sir.”
I wonder what’s going on?
Why did he put the arm out for me?
Twenty minutes later-after having twice en route responded to radio requests for his location-Detective Payne entered the walled collection of aging red-brick buildings once known as the U.S. Army Frankford Arsenal and now somewhat hopefully dubbed the “Arsenal Business Center” by the City of Philadelphia.
When business had not rushed to the Arsenal, the city had given its permission for two units of the police department to occupy some of the buildings. One was the Sex Crimes Unit, and the other the far larger Special Operations Division, which previously had been operating out of a building at Castor and Frankford Avenues. Built in 1892, the Frankford Grammar School had rendered the city more than a century of service before being adjudged uninhabitable by the Bureau of Licenses Inspections.
It had then served as Special Operations Division Head-quarters-with Inspector Peter Wohl installed in what had been the principal’s office-until space had “become available” in the Arsenal Business Center. Just as soon as funds became available, the city intended to demolish the old school. Unless, of course, it really died of old age and fell down by itself, thereby saving the city that expenditure.
Matt drove through the collection of old and mostly unused Arsenal buildings until he came to one of the “newer” buildings-the corners
tone was marked 1934-and drove around it, looking for a place to park. There were none. Even the spot reserved for COMMISSIONER was occupied.
He finally parked a block away and then trotted to the Special Operations headquarters building. Inspector Wohl was now housed in the ground-floor office of what had once been the office of the Arsenal’s commanding officer.
He pushed open the door from the corridor to Wohl’s outer office.
Officer O’Mara pushed a lever on his intercom.
“Sir, Detective Payne is here.”
“Send him in.”
Matt knocked politely at the door and waited for permission to enter.
“Come in, please,” Inspector Wohl called.
Matt pushed the door open.
There were five people in the room. Inspector Peter Wohl, sitting behind his desk; Captain Michael J. Sabara, fortyish, a short, barrel-chested Lebanese, who was Wohl’s deputy; Captain David Pekach, the weasel-faced, fair-skinned, small, wiry thirty-seven-year-old commanding officer of the Highway Patrol; and, sitting side by side on Wohl’s couch, two white shirts Matt was really surprised to see in Wohl’s office: Deputy Commissioner (Patrol) Dennis V. Coughlin and his Executive Officer, Captain Francis X. Hollaran.
What the hell is going on?
“I’m delighted, Detective Payne,” Inspector Wohl said, sarcastically, “that you have managed to squeeze time for us into your busy schedule.”