Amy had been Peter Wohl’s on-and-off girlfriend, lover, and the next-thing-to-fiancee long enough to have acquired an easy familiarity with police department cant.
She knew, in other words, that “a good shooting” was one in which the police shooter was not only fully justified in having used deadly force in the execution of his duties, but in circumstances such that his justification would be obvious to those who would investigate the incident, which was officially the Internal Affairs Division of the police department and the Office of the District Attorney, and unofficially Philadelphia’s newspapers, radio and television stations, and more than a dozen civil rights organizations.
“Well, you know the drill,” Inspector Peter Wohl said to his caller. “They’ll take you to Internal Affairs.”
He clicked the cell phone off and tossed it on the bed, then raised his eyes and looked at Amy, who was still where she had been when the phone tinkled, standing on his mattress, holding on to the right upper bedpost.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Fuck you, Peter!” she said, furiously.
“Maybe we can work that in a little later,” Wohl said. “But right now I have to go to Internal Affairs.”
“No you fucking well don’t!” Amy went on. A part of her brain-the psychiatrist part-told her that she had lost her temper, which disturbed her, while another-purely feminine- part told her she had every justification in the world for being angry with the male chauvinistic sonofabitch for choosing duty over hanky-panky with her, particularly at just about the precise moment she had decided to let him catch her.
He looked at her with a smugly tolerant smile on his lips, which added fuel to her anger.
“I ‘fucking’ well don’t?” he parroted, mockingly.
“Peter, you’ve got a deputy,” she said, when she thought she had regained sufficient control. “Under you and your deputy, there are three captains, and probably four times that many lieutenants.”
“That’s true,” he said.
“There is a thing known in management as delegation of authority and responsibility,” Dr. Payne went on reasonably.
“I agree. I think what you’re asking is why do I, as the Caesar of my little empire, have to personally rush off whenever one of my underlings has need of a friendly face and an encouraging word?”
“That’s just about it, yeah,” she said.
“Ordinarily, I would agree with you, having given the subject some thought after your last somewhat emotional outburst. ”
She felt her temper rising again, and with a great effort kept her mouth shut, as Peter found clean linen and started to put it on. Only when she was sure that she had herself under control did she go on.
“Let me guess. This is an exception to the rule, right?”
“Right.”
“Fuck you, Peter. It will always be ‘this is an exception to the rule.’ ”
“That was Matt on the phone,” he said.
“Oh, God!” she said, her anger instantly replaced with an almost maternal concern. “Oh, God, not again!”
“It looks that way, I’m afraid,” Wohl said.
“What happened?”
“Matt said-right after the Colt party-he was in the parking lot next to La Famiglia Restaurant?”
She nodded. She knew the restaurant well.
“And he walked up on an armed robbery. They shot at him, and he shot back, and put both of them down-one for good.”
“Why the hell couldn’t he have just, for once, for once, looked the other way?”
“He’s a cop, honey,” Wohl said.
“Is he all right?”