“You think Savarese has also figured that out?”
“No one has ever accused Savarese of being slow.”
“Anybody but you know about this?”
“Washington.”
Coughlin’s eyebrows rose in question.
“There’s a boyfriend. He has not called the hospital. I told Jason to find out who he is.”
“But not to talk to him?”
“Not to talk to him.”
“And next?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Chief. How do I handle this?”
“You talk to the boyfriend. Do you think Washington has anything yet?”
“He’s had two hours. Let me find a phone, and I’ll find out.”
He started to push himself away from the table. Coughlin waved him back into it.
“Now that you’ve joined the upper crust, Peter,” Coughlin said smiling at him, “let me show you how the upper crust finds a telephone.”
He twisted around in his chair, caught a waiter’s eye, and put his balled fist next to his ear, miming someone holding a telephone. The waiter nodded and immediately brought a telephone to their table, plugging it into a socket on the table leg.
“Thank you,” Coughlin said smiling at Wohl, then dialed a number from memory.
Wohl thought it interesting that Coughlin had not found it necessary to ask for Washington’s number.
He either has a great memory—which is of course possible—or he has been calling that number frequently.
“How much were you able to learn about the boyfriend?” Coughlin began the conversation without any other opening comment.
Wohl smiled. He knew that Jason Washington had begun his police career walking a beat in Center City under Lieutenant Dennis V. Coughlin. They had been friends—and mutual admirers—ever since. Polite opening comments were not necessary. Washington would immediately recognize Coughlin’s voice and know what Coughlin wanted to know.
Coughlin, in an automatic action, had taken a small leather-bound notebook and a pencil from his pocket. He scribbled quickly on it as Washington replied.
“Sit on it until I get back to you. I’m with Wohl,” Coughlin said and hung up.
Now it was Peter Wohl’s turn to look at Coughlin with a question on his face.
“One boyfriend,” Coughlin said. “Ronald R. Ketcham, twenty-five, five-ten, brown hair, 165 pounds, no record except for traffic violations, lives in one of the garden apartments on Overbrook Avenue near Episcopal Academy . . .”
He looked at Wohl until Wohl indicated he knew the garden apartment complex, and then went on:
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“. . . works for Wendell, Wilson, the stockbrokers in Bala Cynwyd. Has not been to work for three days, and has not been seen around his apartment. His car, a Buick coupe, is locked up in the garage. There are no signs of forcible entry into his apartment, and no signs of any kind of a struggle inside the apartment. He could, of course, be in Atlantic City.”
“Or passed through Atlantic City on his way to swim with the fishes,” Peter said.
“You think?”
“If Savarese found out this guy was with his granddaughter when she was raped.”