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nbsp; “Nothing else happens. Except that a police car stays at the curb in front of Uncle Vincent’s. So Uncle Vincent, already worried about Calhoun getting hauled off, has two options. He can either pretend he has no idea what’s going on—which I don’t think he’ll want to do—or he can go to work as usual. In which case the police car follows him. The last thing I think he’ll do is try to get in touch with Mrs. Worner, which he can’t do in person, with the cops watching. And I don’t think he’d try to use the telephone, because he’d be afraid it was tapped. So he goes to work. And sees that he’s being followed by the cops.”
“What is this shit, Payne?” Martinez asked.
“Then Mrs. Worner has one of two options. Well, maybe three. She could run, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. She either goes to work as usual, or she stays home. If she stays home, we go to see her. If she goes to work, she is called into her boss’s office, where there are two policemen, the same two she saw standing outside Uncle Vincent’s place. We then tell her we know all about the safe-deposit box, and if she cooperates with us, it will go easier on her—you know that routine.”
“That’s pure bullshit!” Martinez said. “Hotshot here has been watching too much TV.”
“I don’t know, Matt,” McFadden said. “It might work, but there’s a lot of ifs.”
“What I’m going to do,” Martinez announced angrily, “is go down to police headquarters here, get a couple of local uniforms to back me up, go arrest Calhoun, and then call Wohl and tell him we have Calhoun and probably don’t have anything with the safe-deposit box.”
“No, you’re not,” Matt said. “We’re going to do it my way.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are, hotshot?”
“I was assigned to this case first,” Matt said. “That makes it mine.”
“Oh, fuck you, hotshot,” Martinez said, and walked to the telephone.
“Who are you calling?” Matt asked.
“Who the fuck do you think? Wohl. We’ll settle this shit right now!”
“Put the phone down, Jesus,” Charley said, choosing sides.
“Let him go, Charley,” Matt said.
“Put the phone down, Jesus,” McFadden repeated, walking up to Martinez.
Literally quivering with rage, Detective Martinez looked up at Detective McFadden.
“For the last time, Jesus, put it down.”
“Well, fuck you, too, McFadden!” Martinez said, and slammed the telephone down in its cradle.
“I’m sorry you had to see all this, Lieutenant,” Matt said.
“Why do I have the feeling you two don’t like each other much?” Deitrich said.
“They love each other, Lieutenant,” McFadden said. “They just have a strange way of showing it.”
“So what have you decided to do?” Deitrich said.
“Unless somebody can show me what’s wrong with my idea . . .” Matt said.
“It’s your ass, hotshot,” Martinez said.
“How long would it take to get two—better even, three—patrol cars out to Maple Avenue?”
“Five minutes after I get on the radio.”
“How about one car to meet us on Maple Avenue?” Matt asked. “And two cars to Elm Street, to go noisily through Mrs. Worner’s backyard to make sure nobody gets out Uncle Vincent’s back door?”
“No problem.”
“Screaming sirens and flashing lights would be nice,” Matt said.
“No problem.”
