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“Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll call Chief Lowenstein and get back to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wohl broke the connection with his finger and dialed Chief Lowenstein’s private number.
“Lowenstein.”
“Peter Wohl, Chief.”
“Where are you, Peter?”
“Center City. Rittenhouse Square.”
“With Matt Payne?”
“I just left him.”
“How is he?”
“His sister gave him a pill she said will knock him out until tomorrow.”
“I really feel sorry for him,” Lowenstein said, and then immediately added: “I need to talk to you, Peter.”
“I’m available for you anytime, Chief.”
“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink at the bar in the Warwick?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ten minutes, Peter,” Lowenstein said. “Thank you.”
FIFTEEN
Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein was sitting, with an eight-inch black cigar in his mouth, on a stool at the street end of the bar in the Warwick Hotel when Inspector Peter Wohl got there.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief.”“What will you have, Peter?” Lowenstein asked, ignoring the apology.
“I would like a triple scotch, but what I’d better have is a beer,” Wohl said.
“Bad day for you?” Lowenstein asked, chuckling, and got the bartender’s attention. “Give this nice young man one of these. A single.”
“Thank you,” Peter said.
“I turned in my papers this morning,” he said. “You hear about that?”
Wohl nodded.
“Carlucci came out to the house and made me a deal to stay.”
Wohl’s face was as devoid of expression as he could make it.
“The deal,” Lowenstein said, “is that I have his word that you will bring me in on anything interesting his personal detective squad, now called Ethical Affairs Unit, comes up with, and I get to define the term ‘interesting.’ You have any problem with that, Peter?”
“I had a problem with keeping you out of the Cazerra investigation. That wasn’t my idea, Chief.”
