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Sabara was sitting in Quaire’s chair. Peter Wohl and Jason Washington were sitting on wooden chairs-Washington with his legs sprawled in front of him, Wohl sitting in his chair backward. Quaire had left five minutes earlier, at Wohl’s pointed suggestion that since everybody had a lot to do in the morning, and he could think of nothing else they could do tonight, it might be a good idea to get some rest, it was already almost eleven.
Sabara, Wohl had just told him, was going to be responsible for providing what detectives Washington-to whom Wohl had given responsibility for the Paschall Homes Housing Project-decided he needed, and to make sure there were Highway Patrol cars always no farther than five minutes away from the surveillance site.
“And how is my all-time favorite journalist?” Wohl said into the phone.
“Pissed is how I am,” O’Hara said. “Suspecting, as I do, that I am about to get another runaround.”
“Another? Implying you have already been run around? By whom?”
“The Master Chef,” O’Hara said. “You were there, Peter. Denny Coughlin promised to keep me informed. He didn’t. And when I called him just now, he told me to call you, and you’d fill me in.”
“Fill you in about what?” Wohl said, innocently.
“I knew it, I knew it. Be advised, Inspector, that my promise to have seen and heard nothing is now null and void.”
“Where are you, Mick?”
“Liberties.”
“Washington and I will be there in five minutes. We’re just finishing up here.”
“I’ll trust you that far, Peter. But not sixty seconds longer.”
“We’ll be there in about five minutes. We’re leaving right now. Okay?”
“You have ten minutes, Old Pal of Mine,” O’Hara said, and the line went dead.
Washington’s cellular buzzed as he and Inspector Peter Wohl walked out of the Roundhouse into the parking lot.
“Joe D’Amata, Lieutenant.”
“Don’t tell me, please, Joseph, that you have encountered a problem at the warehouse. I want that car in the project right now.”
“It’s an old Chevy van, not a car. And I don’t know if it’s a problem or not, but I thought I should tell you.”
“Please do. The suspense is too much for my tired old heart.”
“When I came out of the warehouse just now, there was a Ford parked halfway up the street. Lights out but people in it. When I got closer, I saw Payne was sitting in it.”
“You refer to our Sergeant Payne?” Washington asked.
The question caught Wohl’s attention.
“Yeah. And sitting beside him was either Stan Colt or somebody who looks a hell of a lot like Stan Colt. Is there something I don’t know?”
“What were they doing?” Washington asked.
“Looking at the warehouse,” D’Amata said.
“With their lights out?”
“With their lights out.”
“Joseph,” Washington said, looking at Wohl, “I have no explanation whatever for Sergeant Payne and Stan Colt being outside the IAD warehouse in an unmarked car with the lights out, but I will make inquiries and advise you. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
Washington pushed the End button and looked at Wohl. Wohl took out his cellular and pushed an autodial number.
“Matt, is Mr. Colt with you?”
