The Investigators (Badge of Honor 7)

“To hold off on giving Savarese the names of the Five Squad.”

“Good luck,” Lowenstein said.

“At least hold off for a while. Until we get somebody to roll over. Or know nobody is,” Coughlin said.

“You know, I got a guy in my office, Phebus,” Tony Callis said. “He used to be a sergeant in Narcotics. Do you think he’d be useful? I mean, they see one of their own. . . . They just might listen to him.”

“I don’t see how it could hurt,” Wohl said. “But . . . could you send him out to South Detectives and tell him Washington’s in charge?”

“Sure,” Callis said. “I know he’s in the office. I left word that I wanted to see him about the guy who shot Officer Kellog. That can wait. I’ll have Phebus at South Detectives in thirty minutes.”

TWENTY-FIVE

“My arm is going to sleep,” Officer Timothy J. Calhoun said to Detective Charles McFadden. He moved his right arm, which was held by handcuffs to the strap on the rear of the front seat of the unmarked Plymouth.

McFadden was sitting beside him. Martinez was driving. They were on U.S. 222, five miles out of Harrisburg, headed for the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

“What do you want me to do?” McFadden asked. “I can’t take the risk of you doing something stupid, Timmy.”

“He already did a lot stupid,” Jesus said from the front seat.

“Like what?” Calhoun asked, trying to ignore Martinez.

McFadden went along with him. He felt a little sorry for him, and Jesus could be a real prick. Timmy had enough on his back without Jesus digging at him.

“Like jumping out of the car, for example,” Charley said.

“I wouldn’t do that, Charley,” Calhoun said.

“I can’t take that chance,” McFadden said.

“Cuff me behind my back,” Calhoun said.

“Fuck you, Cal

houn,” Martinez said. “Just sit there and shut up.”

“Ease off, Jesus,” Charley said.

“When they get you in the slam, Calhoun,” Martinez said, “and some sweaty two-hundred-fifty-pound lifer starts shoving his schlong up your ass, you’ll look back on your fucking arm going to sleep as the good old days.”

“Just drive the car, will you, Jesus?” Charley said.

“I could be wrong,” Martinez said. “Maybe he’ll like getting fucked in the ass.”

“Put your left hand behind your back, Timmy,” Charley said. “Jesus, let me have your cuffs.”

“Why?”>

“Because I’m going to cuff Calhoun behind his back.”

“Fuck him, let his arm go to sleep. Let his arm turn black and fall off.”

“Give me your goddamn cuffs, goddamn it!”

Martinez grunted as he shifted around on the seat trying to get his handcuffs out from where he carried them, in the small of his back. He finally succeeded and laid them on the back of the seat.

McFadden placed one of them on Calhoun’s left wrist, and then freed his right wrist from the handcuff shackling him to the front seat. Then he put Calhoun’s right wrist behind his back and clipped the handcuff to it.