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“Allegations have reached me, Officer Payne, that you have had, on one or more occasions, carnal knowledge of a female to whom you are not joined in lawful marriage.”
What the hell is this all about?
“Sir?”
“And that, on the other hand, the lady in question is married. Not to you, of course.”
Christ, he knows about Helene! And he’s crocked! And pissed, otherwise he would not be calling at three o’clock in the morning.
“Sir?”
“I am about to ask you a question. I want you to carefully consider your answer before giving it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Officer Payne, have you been conducting an illicit affair with Mrs. Helene Stillwell?”
Matt did not reply, because he was absolutely sure that whatever answer he gave was going to get him up to his ears in the deep shit.
“You do know the lady? Helene? The beloved wife of our beloved assistant district attorney?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, yes or no, Officer Payne? Have you been fucking Farnsworth Stillwell’s wife or not?”
“Yes, sir,” Matt confessed.
“Good boy!” Inspector Wohl said, and hung up.
At 5:51 A.M., it was visually pleasant on the 5600 block of Sylvester Street, east of Roosevelt Boulevard not far from Oxford Circle. It had snowed, on and off, during the night, and the streets and sidewalks were blanketed in white. Here and there, light came from windows in the row houses as people began their day. Those windows, and the streetlights, seemed to glow as there came the first hint of daylight.
Physically, it was not quite so pleasant. The reason it had stopped snowing was because the temperature had dropped; it was now twenty-six degrees Fahrenheit, six degrees below freezing. There was a steady northerly wind, powerful enough to move the recently fallen powder snow around.
Officer Richard Kallanan, of the three-man Special Operations team charged with protecting the residence and person of Mr. Albert J. Monahan, had found the wind and the blowing snow particularly uncomfortable during his turn on foot patrol around the Monahan residence. His ears and nose were perhaps unusually sensitive to cold. He had tried walking his route both ways, passing through the alley from Bridge Street to Sanger Street in a northeast direction, and then down Sylvester in a southwestern path, and the reverse. He could detect no difference in perceived cold.
It was a cold sonofabitch in the alley, no matter which way he walked, and he was, therefore, understandably pleased when he turned onto Sylvester Street one more time and saw that there were now two substantially identical dark blue Plymouth RPCs at the curb, one house up from Monahan’s house.
Their relief had arrived.
A couple of minutes early, instead of a couple of minutes late. Thank God!
Kallanan picked up his pace a little, slapping his gloved hands together as he moved. As he passed the replacement RPC, he waved and glanced in the window. The side windows were covered with ice, and he could not make out any of the faces inside.
Not that it would have mattered. Kallanan was a relative newcomer to Special Operations, transferred in from the 11th District, where he had spent six of his seven years on the job, and he had not yet had time to make that many new friends.
He could see enough, however, to notice that two of the guys in the relief car were wearing winter hats, Renfrew of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police hats.
They’re going to need them.
When Kallanan reached his RPC, he knocked on the window, and Officer Richard O. Totts, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, turned and reached into the back and opened the door for him. Kallanan glanced at the relief car, and gave its occupants a cheerful farewell wave. The driver, a black guy whose window was clear, waved back. Kallanan got in the backseat and pulled the door closed.
“Jesus, it’s cold out there,” he said.
“I think there’s a little coffee left,” Officer Duane Jones, who was behind the wheel, said. Totts handed a thermos bottle into the backseat. Kallanan unscrewed the top, which was also the cup, and as Duane Jones got the car moving, he emptied the thermos into it. There was not much coffee left in the thermos.
“Hungry, Kallanan?” Jones asked.
“What I would like is a cup of hot coffee. With a stiff shot in it. There’s nothing in here.”
