“What’s it about?”
“Lowenstein and Coughlin will be there. And Mike Weisbach. And Sabara. You’re a detective. You figure it out.”
It wasn’t hard to make a good guess. Matthew Lowenstein and Dennis V. Coughlin were generally regarded as the most influential of all the chief inspectors of the Philadelphia Police Department. Michael Weisbach was a staff inspector, generally regarded as one of the best of that group of senior investigators. Captain Michael J. Sabara was deputy commander of Special Operations.
“Not Captain Pekach?” Matt asked.
“Not Captain Pekach. I think the mayor heard him say ‘if there was anything dirty in Narcotics, I would know about it’ once too often.”
“That makes it official? We’re going to get stuck with that Five Squad business?” Matt asked.
“This makes it, I’d guess, a sure thing. Official will probably come down on Monday.”
“Damn!”
“Sorry about golf, Matt. I was really looking forward to it.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“I’ll call you when I know how bad it is,” Wohl said.
“Damn,” Matt repeated.
The phone went dead in his ear.
He held it a moment in his hand, as his mind ran through all the ramifications—none of them pleasant—of the mayor “suggesting” to Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernich that Special Operations—not Internal Affairs—conduct an investigation of alleged corruption in the Five Squad of the Narcotics Unit.
He looked up at the ceiling, where a clock on the bedside table projected the time of day. It was 9:15 A.M. He had gone to bed after two. He had planned to sleep until noon, by which time he presumed he would be rested, clear-eyed, and capable of parting Peter Wohl—who was a pretty good golfer—from, say, a hundred dollars at Merion.
Now he was awake, and once awake, he stayed awake. What was he going to do now? And, for that matter, for the rest of the day?
A call of nature answered that question for the immediate future. Matt put the telephone in its cradle, got out of bed, and went into his tiny bathroom. He was subjecting a rather nasty-looking bug who had fallen into the water closet to a strafing attack when the telephone rang again.
He cocked his head toward the open door so that he could hear what Caller Number Two had on his or her mind.
The prerecorded message played, and there came the beep.
“Matt, damn you, I know she’s there, and I absolutely have to talk to her this instant! Pick up the telephone!”
The voice was that of Mrs. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV.
Without taking his eyes from the bug he had under relentless aerial attack, Matt raised his left hand, center finger extended, the others bent, over his head and in the general direction of the loudspeaker on the telephone answering device.
Dear Daffy, Matt reasoned, is almost certainly referring to good ol’ blue-eyed, blond-haired, splendidly knockered, Whatsername—Susan Reynolds—with whom I struck out last night.
Daffy thinks she came here with me.
Can it be that the Sweet Susan—Daffy knows her well—has been known to do with others what she would not do last night with me?
Damn!
He flushed the toilet by depressing the lever with his foot, pulled his T-shirt over his head, and stepped into his tiny shower stall. He had just finished what he thought of as Phase One (rinse) of his shower and reached for the soap to commence Phase Two (soap) when the telephone rang again.
He slid the shower door open to listen.
This time it was Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV himself.
“Matt, if you’re there, for Christ’s sake, answer the phone! Daffy’s climbing the walls!”