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“The Commissioner’s going to tell him to observe the investigation, to tell you every day what’s going on, and then you tell me every day what’s going on.”
The Mayor pushed himself off the cushions and started to crawl out of the car, over Lowenstein. He stopped, halfway out, and looked at Lowenstein, whose face was no more than six inches from his.
“I hope, for everybody’s sake, Matt, that your Homicide detective who can’t keep his pecker in his pocket isn’t involved in this.”
Lowenstein nodded.
The Mayor got out of the limousine and walked briskly toward the entrance to City Hall. Lieutenant Fellows got quickly out of the front seat and ran after him.
Lowenstein waited until the two of them disappeared from sight, then got out of the limousine, walked to his Ol
dsmobile, and got in the front seat beside Harry McElroy.
“You get a location on Weisbach?”
“He’s in his car, at the Federal Courthouse, waiting to hear from you.”
Lowenstein picked a microphone up from the seat.
“Isaac Fourteen, Isaac One.”
“Fourteen.”
“Meet me at Broad and Hunting Park,” Lowenstein said.
“En route.”
Staff Inspector Michael Weisbach’s unmarked year-old Plymouth was parked on Hunting Park, pointing east toward Roosevelt Boulevard, when Chief Inspector Lowenstein’s Oldsmobile pulled up behind it.“We’ll follow you to the scene,” Lowenstein said to Harry McElroy as he opened the door. “You know where it is?”
“I’ll find out,” McElroy said.
Lowenstein walked to Weisbach’s car and got in beside him.
“Good morning, Chief,” Weisbach said.
He was a slight man of thirty-eight, who had started losing his never-very-luxuriant light brown hair in his late twenties. He wore glasses in mock tortoise frames, and had a slightly rumpled appearance. His wife, Natalie, with whom he had two children, Sharon (now eleven) and Milton (six), said that thirty minutes after putting on a fresh shirt, he looked as if he had been wearing it for three days.
“Mike,” Lowenstein replied, offering his hand. “Follow Harry.”
“Where are we going?”
“A police officer named Kellog was found an hour or so ago shot in the back of his head.”
“I heard it on the radio,” Weisbach said as he pulled into the line of traffic.
“You are going to—observe the investigation. You are going to report to me once a day, more often if necessary, if anything interesting develops.” He looked at Weisbach and continued. “And I will report to the Mayor.”
“What’s this all about?”
“It seems that Officer Kellog’s wife—he’s been working plainclothes in Narcotics, by the way—moved out of his bed into Detective Milham’s.”
“Wally Milham’s a suspect?” Weisbach asked disbelievingly.
“He’s out on the street somewhere. Quaire is looking for him. I want you to sit in on the interview.”
“Then he is a suspect?”
“He’s going to be interviewed. The Mayor doesn’t want to be embarrassed by this. He wants to be one step ahead of the Ledger. If a staff inspector is involved, he thinks it won’t be as easy for the Ledger to accuse Homicide, the Department—him—of a cover-up.”
