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“Y
es, we do,” Coughlin said.
“Can I tell my patient that he is about to be arrested?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Why not?” Amy snapped. “And don’t even think of telling me I’ve had my two questions.”
“Honey,” Peter Wohl began, and instantly realized that Coughlin and everybody else had instantly picked up on the term of endearment. He plunged ahead. “There are several investigations going on here . . .”
“You can call me ‘Doctor,’ too, Inspector Wohl,” Amy said.
“Look at him blush,” O’Hara said. “I will be damned. Cupid’s finally managed to—”
“Shut up, Mickey,” Coughlin said.
“And the doctor, too,” O’Hara went on, unabashed. “It’s not every day you see a doctor blush—”
“Goddamn it, Mickey,” Coughlin flared. “For once in your goddamn life, put a lid on it.”
O’Hara, recognizing genuine anger, fell silent.
“As you were saying, Inspector?” Amy said.
“Honey,” Wohl replied, heard himself with disbelief and horror repeating the term of endearment, and then decided to hell with it. “Everybody in this room wants to see Officer Prasko in a cell. But what we’ve got right now is just one person who can testify in court against him.”
“What exactly did Officer Prasko do?” O’Hara asked.
Wohl glowered at O’Hara, then looked to Coughlin for guidance.
Coughlin shook his head in resignation.
“Okay, Mickey,” he said. “This is what you sit on. Prasko committed the act of oral rape upon a young woman during a drug bust. The boyfriend, the man in the interview room, just identified him from a selection of photographs. He said that Prasko first handcuffed him to a toilet and then attacked the girl.”
“Nice fellow,” O’Hara said. “Where does Officer Prasko work?”
“Narcotics. Five Squad,” Coughlin said.
“If you know who he is, have a witness, and know where he works, why don’t you arrest him?” Amy demanded.
“I’m coming to that,” Wohl said somewhat impatiently. “And that witness, if we manage to keep him alive until we can get him into court, is not going to be a credible witness.”
“Keep him alive?”
“We have every reason to believe . . . the girl’s grandfather—”
“Who is?” O’Hara asked.
Wohl didn’t reply.
“Somebody important,” O’Hara went on. “Or you wouldn’t have danced around using his name. Who is he, Peter?”
Wohl again looked at Coughlin for guidance, and again Coughlin chose to answer the question himself.
“Vincenzo Savarese,” he said.
“Holy Christ! And Savarese knows the name of this dirty cop?”
