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“Instead of out the front door, where there might be angry citizens enraged that these devout Muslims are being dragged out of their beds by honky infidels?”
“You got it, Mickey,” Wohl said. “What do you think?”
“I think Lowenstein thinks you were going to use Highway,” Mickey said.
“Chief Lowenstein does not run Special Operations,” Wohl replied.
“May I quote you?”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Wohl said. “If you need a quote, how about quoting me as saying these suspects have no connection with the fine, law-abiding Islamic community of Philadelphia.”
Mickey O’Hara snorted.
“Where do you think I might find something interesting?” O’Hara asked.
“One of the suspects is a fellow named Charles D. Stevens,” Wohl said. “Word has reached me that he sometimes uses the alias Abu Ben Mohammed. Rumor has it that he fancies himself to be the Robin Hood of this merry band of bandits. Perhaps you might find that a photograph of Mr. Stevens, in handcuffs and under arrest, would be of interest to your readers.”
“Okay, Peter,” Mickey chuckled. “Thank you. Who do I go with?”
“Officer Payne,” Wohl said, “please take Mr. O’Ha
ra to Lieutenant Suffern. Tell him that I have given permission for you and Mr. O’Hara to accompany his team during the arrest of Mr. Stevens.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
“You will insure that Mr. O’Hara in no way endangers his own life. In other words, he is not, repeat not, to enter the building in which we believe Mr. Stevens to be until Mr. Stevens is under arrest.”
“Ah, for Christ’s sake, Peter!” O’Hara protested.
“You listened carefully, didn’t you, Officer Payne, to what I just said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If necessary, you will sit on Mr. O’Hara. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Ed Suffern, a very large, just short of fat, ruddy-faced man, pushed himself off the fender of his car when he saw Mickey O’Hara and Matt Payne walking up.
“How are you, Mickey?” he said, smiling, offering his hand, obviously pleased to see him. “I’m a little surprised to see you.”
“Officially, I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Yeah,” Suffern said, chuckling. “Sure.”
“Got a small problem, Ed,” O’Hara said. “How am I going to get to see you catching—whatsisname?—Abu Ben Mohammed with Matt Payne sitting on my shoulders?”
“What?”
“Wohl says I can’t go in the building until you have this guy in cuffs, and he sent Payne along with orders to sit on me if necessary.”
“I wondered what he was doing here,” Suffern said. “No problem. Here, let me show you.”
He opened the door of his RPC and took a clipboard from the seat.
“Somebody give me a light here,” he ordered, and one of the ACT cops took his flashlight from its holster and shined it on the clipboard. It held a map.
“This is Hawthorne Street,” he said, pointing. “Mr. Abu Whatsisname—his real name is Charles D. Stevens, Wohl tell you that?”
