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“Yes, sir.”
“Keep yourself available, Peter. You say you’re going to be at Homicide?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Stillwell asked me to be there.”
“Farnsworth Stillwell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you can break loose, it might be a good idea to go back to the hospital; to have a word with Matt’s family.”
“Yes, sir, I’d planned to do that.”
“Well, don’t blame yourself for this, Peter. These things happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Coughlin, without another word, hung up. He swung his feet out of bed, pulled open the drawer of a bedside table, and took out a telephone book. He dialed a number.
“Police Department.”
“Let me speak to the senior officer on duty.”
“Maybe I can help you.”
“This is Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin. Get the senior police officer present on the telephone!”
“This is Lieutenant Swann. Can I help you?”
“This is Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin—”
“Oh, sure. How are you, Chief?”
“I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“You know where the Payne house is on Providence Road in Wallingford?”
“Sure.”
“Their son is a police officer. He has just been shot in the line of duty. He is in Frankford Hospital. I am about to notify them. I would consider it a personal favor if you would provide an escort for them from their home to the Philadelphia city line. I’ll have a car meet you there.”
“Chief, when the Paynes come out of their driveway, a car will be sitting there.”
“Thank you.”
“He hurt bad?”
“We don’t think so.”
“Thank God.”
“Thank God,” Denny Coughlin repeated, and, unable to trust his voice any further, hung up.
He walked into the kitchen, poured an inch and a half of John Jameson’s Irish whiskey in a plastic cup, drank it down, and then reached for the telephone on the wall. He dialed a number from memory. It took a long time to answer.
Please, God, don’t let Patty answer.
