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"Nothing. I don't think anybody's in there."
"Your call, Jason. How do you want to take the door?"
"You did say, 'my call'?"
"Right."
"I'll get back to you," Washington said.
"Jason?"
There was no answer.
"Jason?"
"Jason. William Seven, William One."
There was no reply.
'That will teach you, Peter," Mayor Carlucci said, "Never tell Jason 'your call.'"
"William Eleven, William One."
"Eleven."
"Can you see Seven?"
"Payne just jumped onto the porch roof."
"Say again?"
"Payne came out onto the roof over the porch of the house next door, jumped over to the next one, and just smashed the window and went inside."
A bell began to clang.
"What did he say about Payne?" the Mayor asked.
"I hope I didn't hear that right," Wohl said.
He tossed the microphone to Officer O'Mara and quickly got in the front seat beside him, gesturing for him to get moving.
They were halfway down Farragut Street toward the residence of M. C. Wheatley when the radio went off:
"William One, Seven."
Wohl grabbed the microphone and barked, "One," as O'Mara pulled up, with a screech of brakes, in front of the house.
"Boss," Washington's voice came over the radio, "you want to send somebody in here to turn off the burglar alarm?"
There were more screeching brakes. A van skidded to a stop, and discharged half a dozen police officers, two of them buried beneath the layers of miracle plastic that, it was hoped, absorbed the effects of explosions, and all of them wearing yellow jackets with POLICE in large letters on their backs.
As the two Ordnance Disposal experts ran awkwardly up the stairs, the mayoral Cadillac limousine pulled in beside Peter Wohl's car, and Sergeant Jason Washington walked casually out onto the porch.
"Jason, what the hell happened?" Wohl called.
"When Payne let me in, the burglar alarm went off," Washington said innocently.
"That's not what I mean, and you know it," Wohl shouted. "Goddamn the both of you!"
