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Moot point, Lieutenant. Either today, or tomorrow, or the day after that, one of those two guys is going to see me at Bustleton and Bowler, and I will become universally known as the New Lieutenant Who Drives Not Only Recklessly But in a Real Piece of Shit of an Ancient Mustang.
Malone hadn’t been to Highway Patrol Headquarters, at Bustleton and Bowler Streets, not far from the North Philadelphia Airport, in a long time. It had been busy then, he remembered, because it shared the building with the headquarters of the 7th District, but it had been nothing like it was now.
There were the cars and vans of the 7th District; the cars and motorcycles of Highway Patrol; a flock of cars, marked and unmarked, that obviously belonged to Special Operations; and even a stakeout van. His hope of finding a parking space reserved for LIEUTENANTS or even OFFICIAL VISITORS had been wishful thinking. He had trouble just driving through the parking lot. The only empty space he saw was marked RESERVED FOR COMMISSIONER.
He drove around the block and tried again. This time a turnkey (an officer assigned to make himself useful in the parking lot) waved him down and pointed out a parking spot reserved for a sergeant.
It was crowded inside too, but finally he managed to give his name to a sergeant at a desk just inside a door marked HEADQUARTERS, SPECIAL OPERATIONS.
“Welcome to the circus, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said. “I saw the teletype. The inspector’s office is through that door.”
On the other side of the door was a small room, barely large enough for the two desks it held back-to-back. One of them was not occupied. There was a sign on it, CAPTAIN MICHAEL J. SABARA.
There was a young plainclothes cop at the other one. When he saw Malone he stood up.
“Lieutenant Malone?”
“Right.”
“The inspector’s expecting you, sir. I’ll see if he’s free.”
“Thank you.”
The plainclothes cop stuck his head in an interior door, and Malone heard his name spoken.
Then the door opened and Staff Inspector Peter Wohl came out. Malone had seen him around before, but now he was surprised to see how young he was.
He’s no older than I am. And not only a staff inspector, but a division commander. Is he really that good? Or is it pull?
“I’m Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant,” Wohl said. “Now that I see you, I know we’ve met, but I can’t remember where.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hate to make you cool your heels, but I’ve got something that really won’t wait. Officer Payne will get you a cup of coffee. Be careful he doesn’t pour it in your lap.”
“Yes, sir.”
Payne? Oh, hell, yes! This is the kid who blew the brains out of the Northwest serial rapist.
Wohl disappeared behind his door again.
“How do you take your coffee, Lieutenant?”
“In a cup, please, if that’s convenient,” Malone said.
“Yes, sir,” Payne said, chuckling.
“I don’t know why I said that,” Malone said. “I wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass.”
“I think you’ll be right at home around here, Lieutenant,” Payne said.
Payne went to a coffee machine sitting on top of a file cabinet and a moment later handed Malone a steaming china cup.
“There’s sugar and what is euphemistically known as non-dairy creamer,” he said.
“Black’s fine,” Malone said. “Thank you.”
He remembered a story that had gone around the Department about the time Captain Dutch Moffitt had been shot, and Special Operations had been formed and given to Peter Wohl.
