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Mrs. Carracelli opened the telephone line.
“Sergeant, identify your unit and give conditions.”
“My name is Payne. Homicide,” Matt said. “There was an armed robbery, two black males, one pistol, one shotgun.”
“Are there any injuries?” Mrs. Carracelli asked, trying to keep her voice calm.
“One of the doers looks dead; the other’s alive. He’ll need Fire Rescue. At least one of the victims is going to need an ambulance. Maybe three victims. And I’m going to need the fire department. There’s gas on the ground.”
“Are you injured?”
“No, I’m fine. They missed me.”
“Help is on the way.”
“I can hear the sirens. Tell them I’m deep inside the parking lot.”
“Help is on the way,” Mrs. Carracelli said, and muted the telephone line again.
Three more shrill beeps went out over Police Radio.
“All units responding to the Assist Officer on the unit block of South Front Street, be advised shots have been fired at police and there are plainclothes police officers on the scene. One
is inside the parking lot. All units be advised, the unit block of South Front Street, shots have been fired at police and there are plainclothes officers on the scene. One is inside the parking lot. Suspects in the shooting are two black males. Both have been shot and are still at the location.”
Matt looked down at Terry.
She looked up at him with horror in her eyes.
“Help is on the way,” he said. “You can hear it…”
“What about the… man who’s screaming? Can’t you do something for him?”
“I’d like to put another round in the sonofabitch, is what I’d like to do.”
“My God, I can’t believe you said that. You really are a cold-blooded sonofabitch, aren’t you?”
Matt decided there was no point in arguing with her.
“There will be help in a minute,” he said, and started walking back toward where he’d put the two men down.
Halfway there, he pulled his bow tie loose and opened his collar.
He was sweat-soaked.
He looked at the cellular and punched in an autodial number.
Detective Payne’s call was answered by Inspector Peter F. Wohl in his residence in the 800 Block of Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill, in Northwest Philadelphia.
When Wohl’s cell phone-in a charging cradle on his bedside table-chirped, he was not wearing any clothing at all, and was engaged in chasing a twenty-eight-year-old female around his bedroom with the announced intention of divesting her of her sole remaining article of clothing, black nylon underpants.
When the cell phone tinkled, Wohl said “Shit” and the young woman-having only moments before decided to let Peter work his wicked way with her-softly said, “Amen.”
Amelia Alice Payne, M.D., knew Inspector Peter Wohl well enough to know that not only was he going to answer the phone, but that the odds were that it was something that would keep them from ending what had been a delightful evening in what she had thought was going to be a delightful way.
The look on Peter’s face as he listened to what the caller was saying confirmed her worst fears, as did his almost conversational response to what the caller had said:
“Was it a good shooting?”
