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“Seymour F. Marshutz,” Cohan said. “Marshutz cannot conceive of a situation—don’t misunderstand me, I’m not defending what Jack, did, not for a minute—where slapping a wife around is not right up there with child molesting. I tried to talk to him, I’ve known Sy Marshutz for years, and got absolutely nowhere.”
“And?”
“She got everything, of course: the house, everything in it, and almost every other damn asset they had. All he took was his clothes and an old junk car. She got custody, of course, because the way Sy Marshutz sees it, while playing the whore is bad, it’s not as bad as violence, and Jack has limited visitation privileges.”
I wonder what I’m supposed to do with Lieutenant Jack Malone. That’s obviously what this is about; this is not marital notes from all over.
“I had a long talk—lots of long talks—with Jack. I chewed his ass. I held his hand. For all I know, if Marilyn had done to me what his wife did to Jack, maybe I’d have taken a swing at her too. Anyway, I told him his life wasn’t over, and that if I were him, I’d give everything I have to the job for a while, that thinking about what happened was only—you know what I mean, Peter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So he took me literally. He’s working all the time. He’s got a room in a hotel, the St. Charles, on Arch at 19th?”
“Faded grandeur,” Wohl said without thinking.
“Yeah,” Cohan said. “Okay. Anyway. All he does is work and watch TV in the hotel room.”
“No booze?”
“A little of that. We had a talk about that too. I think he’s had more to drink in the last year than he’s had up to now. That isn’t a problem.”
“But there is one.”
“Yeah. Now he sees a car thief behind every bush.”
“I don’t follow you, sir.”
“All work and no play hasn’t made Jack a dull boy, Peter,” Cohan said solemnly, “it’s put his imagination in high gear, out of control.”
“Is this any of my business, sir?”
“He thinks Bob Holland is a car thief.”
Bob Holland was Holland Cadillac Motor Cars. And Bob Holland Chevrolet. And Holland Pontiac-GMC. And there was a strong rumor going around that Broad Street Ford and Jenkintown Chrysler-Plymouth were really owned by Robert L. Holland.
“Is he?”
“Come on, Peter,” Cohan said. “You’re not talking about some sleaze-ball used car dealer here.”
“I gather Jack has nothing but a hunch to go on?”
“He went to Charley Gaft and asked for permission to surveil all of Holland’s showrooms,” Cohan said. “And when Gaft turned him down, he came to me. Ten minutes after Bob called me and told me he was worried about him.”
Captain Charles B. Gaft commanded the Major Crimes Division.
“I’m afraid to ask what all this has to do with me, Commissioner. What do you want me to do, have Highway Patrol keep an eye on Bob Holland’s showrooms? Or sit on Jack Malone?”
“Peter,” Cohan said, almost sadly, “your mouth has a tendency to run away with itself. It’s only because I’ve known you, literally, since you wore short pants and because I know what a good police officer you are that I don’t take offense. But there are those—people of growing importance to you, now that you’re moving up—who would think that was just a flippant remark and unbecoming to a division commander.”
Oh, shit!
“Commissioner, it was flippant, and I apologize. I have no excuse to offer except the champagne.”
“Now, I already said, I understand your sense of humor, Peter. But maybe you’d better watch that champagne. It sneaks up on you.”
“Yes, sir. But I do apologize.”
“It never happened. Getting back to Jack. He’s under a strain. He’s working too hard. But he’s a fine police officer and worth saving, and that’s why I’m asking you for your help.”
