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This afternoon, however, on learning that Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein had asked for an appointment for himself and Inspector Peter Wohl, His Honor had decided to deviate from the normal routine.
While he could not be fairly accused of being paranoid, the threatened resignation of Chief Lowenstein had caused the Mayor to consider that he really had few friends, people he could really trust, and that Matt Lowenstein was just about at the head of that short list.
“When he comes in, Annette,” the Mayor ordered, “you let me know he’s here, and I’ll come out and get him.”
Such a gesture would, the Mayor believed, permit Chief Lowenstein to understand the high personal regard in which he was held. And Peter Wohl would certainly report the manner in which Lowenstein had been welcomed to the Mayor’s office to hi
s father. The Mayor was perfectly willing to admit—at least to himself—that his rise through every rank to Commissioner of the Philadelphia Police Department—which, of course, had led to his seeking the mayoralty—would not have been possible had not Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl covered his ass in at least half a dozen really bad situations.
And when he thought about that, he realized that Inspector Peter Wohl was no longer a nice young cop, but getting to be a power in his own right. And that he could safely add him to the short list of people he could trust.
He was pleased with his decision to greet Lowenstein and Wohl in a special manner.
And was thus somewhat annoyed when he pulled the door to his office open, a warm smile on his face, his hand extended, and found that Chief Lowenstein was at Annette’s desk talking on the telephone.
Finally, Chief Lowenstein hung up and turned around.
“Sorry,” Lowenstein said.
“What the hell was that?” Carlucci asked, somewhat sharply.
“Henry Quaire,” Lowenstein said. “There may be a break in the Kellog murder.”
“What?” the Mayor asked.
He’s not being charming, Peter Wohl thought. When Lowenstein told him that, he went right back on the job. He’s a cop, and if there is one thing a cop hates worse than a murdered cop it’s a murdered cop with no doers in sight.
“A uniform in the Thirty-ninth working his beat came across a critter, junkie, petty criminal with a record six feet long, including burglaries, burning garbage in his backyard. In the garbage was Officer Kellog’s wedding picture. The uniform called Homicide.”
“There was mention of a wedding picture in the 49s,” Carlucci said. “In a silver frame.”
“Right,” Lowenstein said.
“Where else would he get a picture of Kellog?” Carlucci asked, thoughtfully rhetoric. “Have you got the frame?”
“Yeah. That’s why Quaire called me. We got a search warrant. They found not only a silver frame, but a dozen—thirteen, actually—tape cassettes. They were in the fire, but maybe Forensics can do something with them. If Mrs. Kellog can identify the frame, or there’s something on the tapes…”
“Where’s the critter?”
“Right now, he’s on his way from the Thirty-ninth to Homicide,” Lowenstein said.
“Who’s going to interview him?”
Lowenstein shrugged. “Detective D’Amata is the assigned detective.”
“Peter, do you have Jason Washington doing anything he can’t put off for a couple of hours?” the Mayor asked, innocently.
That is, Wohl noted mentally, the first time the Mayor has acknowledged my presence.
“You want to take it away from D’Amata?” Lowenstein asked.
“I’d like an arrest in that case,” Carlucci said. “If you think it would be a good idea to have Washington talk to this critter, Matt, I’d go along with that.”
“Shit,” Lowenstein said. “You find Washington, Peter,” he ordered. “I’ll call Quaire.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter said.
“Only if you think it’s a good idea, Matt,” the Mayor said. “It was only a suggestion.”
