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“I don’t want Prasko killed before we get the Five Squad to trial,” Coughlin said.
“We’d really look bad, Jerry,” Lowenstein said, coming to his aid, “if somebody stuck a knife in Prasko in the Detention Center.”
The mayor threw up his hands, admitting he could not counter that argument.
“Frank,” Coughlin said, turning to the FBI official, “we don’t want to spook Savarese. Could you, without making many waves, see if you could keep the FBI—or, for that matter, any other feds—away from the Warwick from now until, say, nine-thirty?”
“FBI. No problem. I’ll get right on that. Have you got any idea what other agency might be interested in Savarese?”
Coughlin saw Wohl’s eyes roll before he answered for Coughlin.
“Frank, if Savarese sees anybody who looks like a cop, or a fed, doing anything at the Warwick, he will think they’re interested in him. Whether or not they are. The safest thing to do is keep everybody with any kind of a badge away from the Warwick for an hour or so.”
“Well, I understand that, certainly,” Young said, a little lamely. “I’ll call around.”
“I’ll put the word out that nobody is to go near the Warwick,” Matt Lowenstein said. “Which will probably have the result that every cop in Philadelphia will show up to see what’s going on.”
“What are we waiting for now?” Mayor Carlucci asked.
“To hear from Matt Payne in Harrisburg,” Wohl said. “To see if he’s got anything on Calhoun or not.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” the mayor said.
“We should hear something in fifteen or twenty minutes, Mr. Mayor,” Peter said.
“A lot can happen in fifteen or twenty minutes,” Carlucci said. “Why don’t you do it now, Peter?”
“Mr. Mayor, we gave that a lot of thought. And we decided—”
“You’re a good cop, Peter. And I love you. But the last time I looked, I was mayor of Philadelphia. Arrest the bastards!”
“Yes, sir,” Wohl said.
Detective Matt Payne looked at his watch when there was a knock at the door. It was 7:59.
He opened the door. Lieutenant Paul Deitrich was standing there.
“Good morning, sir,” Matt said. “Please come in.”
Deitrich nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Lieutenant, these are Detectives McFadden and Martinez,” Matt said, making the introductions. “Charley, Jesus, this is Lieutenant Deitrich.”
Deitrich nodded, just perceptibly, then looked at Matt for an explanation for the two detectives.
“They’ve got a warrant for Calhoun,” Matt said.
“We got lucky,” McFadden said. “Somebody dumped the answer in our lap.”
“I got lucky here, too,” Deitrich said. “I remembered that if you really want to find something out, ask the cop on the beat.”
“Our guy was a retired detective, who smelled something rotten.”
Deitrich looked at Matt.
“I know one of the guys who work that area pretty well,” Deitrich said. “I went to see him. He told me—without me having to tell him why I was asking—that Mrs. Worner lives at 218 Maple. Her yard backs up against 223 Elm, which is where—”
“Vincent T. Holmes, Calhoun’s uncle, lives,” Matt furnished.
