The Investigators (Badge of Honor 7)

He left the bedroom to fetch the champagne. As he was standing by the sink, unwrapping the wire around the cork, Amy came out of the bedroom and went to him and wrapped her arms around him from the back.

“It’s true,” she said, almost whispering. “When I saw you walking out of the bedroom, I suddenly realized, My God, I really do love that man.”

It took Matt Payne ten minutes to get through the system set in place to protect Harrisburg’s chief of police from unnecessary intrusions on his time by the public and to his second-floor office in the police headquarters building, but once he got that far, he found that his passage had been greased.

“The chief’s on the phone, Detective Payne,” his pleasant secretary greeted him with a smile, “but he’s been expecting you. Can I get you a Coke or a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee would be nice. Thank you.”

She was pouring the coffee when the red light indicating the chief’s line was busy went out, and she stopped pouring the coffee and picked up one of the phones on her desk.

“Detective Payne just came in,” she announced.

A moment later the door to the chief’s office opened and a stocky, ruddy-faced man in uniform came through it, his hand extended, and a smile on his face.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the chief said. “The damned phone. You know how it is. Agnes take care of you all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said, as he took the Chief’s hand and nodded toward the coffee machine.

“Pour one of those for me and bring them in, will you, Agnes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on in, Payne, and we’ll see what we can do to make things a little easier for you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Matt said.

A highly polished nameplate on the chief’s desk identified him as A. J. Mueller. At each end of the plate was a deer’s foot, and there were two deer’s heads hanging from the walls. One wall was covered with photographs, about half of them showing the chief shaking hands with other policemen and what looked like politicians—one showed the chief shaking hands with the governor and another with the Hon. Jerome H. Carlucci—and the rest showing the chief, in hunting clothes, beaming, holding up the heads of deer he’d apparently shot.

A glass-doored cabinet held an array of marksmanship—mostly pistol—trophies and four different target pistols with which he had presumably won the trophies.

“I hope you didn’t check into a hotel yet?” Chief Mueller asked, motioning for Matt to sit in one of the armchairs facing his highly polished desk.

“No, sir. I came directly here.”

“Good. I called the Penn-Harris—that’s the best in town—and got you a special rate.”

“That was very kind of you, sir,” Matt said.

“Well, not only does Walter Davis speak highly of you, but—maybe I shouldn’t tell you this—an old friend of mine, Chief Augie Wohl, called and said he heard you were coming out here, that you were not only a pretty good cop but a friend of his, and he’d be grateful if I’d do what I could for you.”

“That was very nice of Chief Wohl, sir.”

“I’m a little curious how come you know Chief Wohl. To look at you, I’d guess—no offense—Augie retired when you were in grammar school.”

“I work for Chief Wohl’s son, sir. Inspector Peter Wohl.”

“Peter’s an inspector? God, I remember him in short pants. Really. We had a convention of the National Association of Chiefs of Police in Atlantic City. I’d just made chief, and it was my first convention. Anyway, Augie brought Peter along. In a cop suit. He was a cute little kid, serious as all get-out.”

Matt was unable to restrain a smile at a mental image of a cute little kid named Peter Wohl dressed up in a cop suit.

“Yes, sir. He commands the Special Operations Division.”

Agnes delivered the coffee and left, leaving the door ajar. Chief Mueller got up from his desk, walked to the door, and closed it.

“Does Chief Wohl know about this—what do we call it?—‘cooperative effort’ you’re doing with Walter Davis?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t think so, but Inspector Wohl may have told him.”