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“Who’s there?”
“Lowenstein.”
“Be right there.”
“Peter,” the mayor said. “I think it would be very embarrassing to the Police Department if the FBI came up with a case against Bob Holland that we didn’t know anything about. You take my meaning?”
“No, sir.”
“I mean I want you to find out what these two hotshots of yours think they know.”
“And give it to Major Crime?”
“No. Give it to me,” Carlucci said, “either these two are imagining things, or Major Crime isn’t doing their job.”
He then turned his attention to the stairwell, in which a moment later Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein’s head and shoulders appeared.
“Matt,” the mayor greeted him, “There better be a goddamn good reason for all this goddamn mystery.”
Thirty minutes later, the mayor said, in quiet fury, “What you’re telling me is that both the guy who killed Monahan with the stun gun, and two guys with him, and the miserable sonofabitch out of Bustleton and Bowler are going to get away with it? Everything?”
“We can’t go to court with this, Jerry,” Lowenstein said. “You can see that.”
“On the bright side,” Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said, “the Grand Jury will return a true bill against the doers of the Goldblatt job. And Tom Callis is convinced that he can get convictions.”
“On the dim side, there is nothing lower than a cop who would do something like this, and the sonofabitch is going to get away with it!”
He glowered, in turn, at Chief Inspectors Lowenstein and Coughlin and Staff Inspector Wohl, all of whom, in turn, shrugged.
“Jesus Christ!” the mayor said in frustration.
“Or,” Peter Wohl said. “We could just leave him where he is and watch him.”
The mayor considered that a moment before replying. “No. Go ahead with this. I’ll clear it with Czernich.”
“Yes, sir,” Wohl said.
“Maybe that’s not smart, but I can’t stand the thought of this bastard walking around in a Highway uniform,” the mayor said. “Highway means something to me.”
“It means something to me too,” Peter Wohl heard himself say.
Jesus, he realized with genuine surprise, I really meant that.
Sergeant Jason Washington sat slouched behind the wheel of his car until he saw Sergeant Wilson Carter pull into the parking lot. Then he sat up and watched as Carter parked his car. He got out of his car and walked toward the side entrance of the building, timing himself so that he arrived there a few seconds before Carter.
“I was hoping to run into you,” he said to Carter.
“Well, hey, Brother. How they hanging? What’s on your mind?”
“Let’s have a beer,” Washington said.
“One,” Carter said, after a just perceptible hesitation. “I have plans.”
“Sure. I understand. But there’s a couple of questions I’d like to ask you.”
“What kind of questions?”
“More like advice questions, about what I should do about something.”
