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“To me, personally?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did this civilian say what he wants?”
“No, sir.”
Sabara picked up the telephone, punched the flashing button, and, somewhat impatiently announced: “This is Captain Sabara. How can I help you?”
“My name is Phil—Philip—Chason, Captain. Does that ring a bell?”
Sabara quickly searched his memory.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Chason. How may I help you?”
“I was with you last night, Captain, at Captain Beidermann’s retirement party. I was hoping you’d remember.”
“Oh, of course,” Sabara lied kindly. “My memory is failing.”
“I used to be a detective,” Chason said. “I went out on medical disability after twenty-six years on the job.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Chason?”
“Karl and I went to the Academy together. I just found out that he meant it when he told us last night he was going to Florida in the morning. Otherwise, I would have gone to him.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve stumbled onto something that bothers me. And I don’t want to go to Narcotics with it. Or Major Crimes. Or Intelligence.”
“Stumbled onto what?” Sabara asked, a trifle impatiently.
“I was hoping you’d have fifteen minutes to hear me out.”
“This concerns Narcotics? This is Special Operations, we don’t deal—”
“Narcotics and the mob,” Phil said. “I really think I wouldn’t be wasting your time.”
“You want to see me now, is that it?”
“I’d like to, yes.”
“You know where I am?”
“Frankford and Castor?
”
“Right. I’ll be expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
Sabara hung up and then raised his voice: “Tommy!”
Officer O’Mara appeared.
“Just for your general information, Officer O’Mara, that unnamed civilian who called me has a name.”
“Yes, sir?”
