"Sometimes the smartest thing to do is keep your nose out of the tent," Coughlin said. "I think they call that delegation of authority. "

"And I think what we have there is the pot calling the kettle black," Chief Wohl said. "Denny was an inspector before he stopped turning off fire hydrants in the summer."

"Go to h.e.l.l, Augie!"

"What's in the suitcase?" Larkin asked. "Drugs?"

"What else?" Coughlin said.

"I didn't know you handled drugs, Peter," Larkin said.

"Normally, I don't," Peter replied. "Drugs or dirty cops. Thank G.o.d. This was Commissioner Marshall's answer to the feds wanting to send their people out there masquerading as cops. He gave the job to me."

"Because you get along so well with we feds, right?" Larkin asked, chuckling.

"There's an exception to every rule, Charley," Coughlin said. "Just be grateful it's you."

"Are we going to play cards or what?" Chief Wohl asked.

Peter Wohl was surprised to find Detective Matthew M. Payne in the Special Investigations office at Special Operations when he walked in at quarter past midnight. He said nothing, however.

Maybe Jack Malone called him in.

"How are we doing?" he asked.

"Well," Lieutenant Malone said tiredly, "Mr. Wheatley is not registered in any of Philadelphia's many hotels, motels, or flop houses," Malone said. "Nor did anybody in the aforementioned remember seeing anyone who looked like either of the two artists' representations of Mr. Wheatley."

The Philadelphia Police Department had an artist whose ability to make a sketch of an individual from a description was uncanny. The Secret Service had an artist who Mr. H. Charles Larkin announced was the best he had ever seen. In the interest of getting a picture of Mr. Wheatley out on the street as quickly as possible, the Department artist had made a sketch of Wheatley based on his neighbor's, Mr. Crowne's, description of him, while the Secret Service artist had drawn a sketch of Mr. Wheatley based on Mr. Wheatley's boss, Mr. H. Logan Hammersmith's, description of him.

There was only a very vague similarity between the two sketches. Rather than try to come up with a third sketch that would be a compromise, Wohl had ordered that both sketches be distributed.

"Too bad," Wohl said.

"The sonofab.i.t.c.h apparently doesn't have any friends," Malone said. "The neighbor, two houses down, lived there fifteen years, couldn't ever remember seeing him."

"He's got to be somewhere, Jack," Wohl said.

"I sent Tony Harris to Vice," Malone said. "They went to all the f.a.g bars with the pictures."

"We don't know he's h.o.m.os.e.xual."

"I thought maybe he's a closet queen, who has an apartment somewhere," Malone said.

"Good thought, Jack, I didn't think about that."

"They struck out too," Malone said.

"And how's your batting record, Detective Payne?"

It was intended as a joke. Payne looked very uncomfortable.

"I just thought maybe I could make myself useful, so I came in," Payne said.

That's bulls.h.i.t.

The telephone rang. Malone grabbed it and handed it to Wohl.

"Jerry O'Dowd, Inspector," his caller said. "I'm calling from the tavern down the corner from our friend's house. He drove straight here, with the suitcase, and took it into the house."

"Good man," Wohl said.

"Oooops, there he comes."

"With the suitcase?"

"No. He doesn't have it. He's changed out of his uniform."

"You're going to stay there, right?"

"Right. He's walking back to his car. But Captain Olsen can see him. No problem."

"Olsen is on him?" Wohl asked, surprised.

"Yes, sir. Olsen won't lose him."

"If anything happens, call this number, they'll know where to get me."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going to send somebody to back you up," Wohl said. "In case somebody interesting comes to pick up the suitcase."

"Yes, sir."

"Good job, Jerry," Wohl said, and hung up.

If Olsen can work this job himself, why can't I? I'd love to catch Ricco Baltazari or one of his pals walking down Ritner Street with that suitcase in his hand.

Dangerous thought. No!

"Jack, can we get our hands on Tony Harris?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get on the horn to him and tell him to go back up O'Dowd."

"Yes, sir."

"And then turn this over to the duty lieutenant and go home and get some sleep."

"Yes, sir."

"That applies to you too, Detective Payne. With all the jumping from roof to roof, and through windows, you've done today, I'm sure you're worn out. Go home and go to bed. I want you here at eight A.M., bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

That, to judge by the kicked puppy look in your eyes, was another failed attempt to be jocular.

"Yes, sir."

Or is there something else wrong with him? Something is is wrong. wrong.

"Jack, you want to go somewhere for a nightcap?" Wohl asked. "The reason I am being so generous is that I just took forty bucks from my father and Chief Coughlin, who don't play poker nearly as well as they think they do."

"I accept, Inspector. Thank you."

"The invitation includes you, Detective Payne, if you promise not to jump through a window or otherwise embarra.s.s Lieutenant Malone and me."

"Thank you, I'll try to behave."

The look of grat.i.tude in your eyes now, Matt, is almost pathetic. What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?

Jack Malone had two drinks, the second reluctantly, and then said he had to get to bed before he went to sleep at the bar.

"I'm going to call the Schoolhouse, and see what happened to Lanza," Wohl said. "And then I'm going home. Order one more, please, Matt."

Two minutes later, Wohl got back on the bar stool beside Payne.

"Lanza went to the Schermer woman's apartment. The lights went out, and Olsen figures he's in for the night," he reported.

"And you're hoping that somebody will show up at his house for the suitcase?" Payne asked.

Wohl nodded. "We may get lucky."

"Why didn't he take it with him? Isn't that woman involved?"

"I don't know how much she's involved, and I don't know why he left the suitcase at his house. These people are very careful."

Payne nodded.

"And now that Malone has gone home, and I don't have to be officially outraged-as opposed to personally admiring-at your roof-jumping escapade, are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"

"Jesus, does it show?"

"Yeah, it shows."

Matt looked at him for a moment, and then at his drink for a longer moment, before finally saying, "Penny Detweiler is in the psycho ward at University Hospital."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Wohl said.

But not surprised. A junkie is a junkie is a junkie.

"I put her there," Matt said.

"What do you mean, you put her there?"

"You really don't want to hear this."

You're right. I really don't want to hear this.

"I'm not trying to pry, Matt. But, h.e.l.l, sometimes if you talk things over, when you're finished, they don't seem to be as bad."

It was quarter to two when Inspector Wohl, not without misgivings, installed Detective Payne behind the wheel of the unmarked Ford and sent him home with the admonition to try not to run any stoplights or into a station wagon full of nuns.

I believed what I told him, that if it hadn't been the other woman showing up at his apartment, that it would have been something else. That being turned loose from a drug addiction program does not not mean the addiction is cured, just that, so far as they can tell, it's on hold. mean the addiction is cured, just that, so far as they can tell, it's on hold.

But clearly, if the h.o.r.n.y little b.a.s.t.a.r.d wasn't f.u.c.king every woman in town, it would not have happened. Taking the Detweiler girl to bed was idiotic. He has earned every ounce of the weight of shameful regret he's carrying.

But his wallowing in guilt isn't going to do anybody any good.

Sometimes, Peter Wohl, you are so smart, so Solomon-like, I want to throw up.

He started home to Chestnut Hill, then suddenly changed his mind, got on first Roosevelt Boulevard and then the Schuylkill Expressway and headed for Ritner Street.

I don't want to go to bed. I don't want to delegate authority. I want to put that dirty cop and the Mafioso he's running around with away. And right now there's n.o.body who can tell me to b.u.t.t out. with away. And right now there's n.o.body who can tell me to b.u.t.t out.

Wohl drove slowly down Ritner Street, saw where Sergeant O'Dowd was parked, and made a left at the next corner and parked the car.

O'Dowd had been alone when he had driven past, but as he walked up to the car now, he first saw another head, and then recognized it as that of Detective Tony Harris, sitting beside O'Dowd.

Wohl opened the rear door and got in.

"I thought that was you driving by," O'Dowd said. "Something come up?"

"I got curious, is all," Wohl said. "I just happened to be in the neighborhood."

"There's somebody in the house," Tony Harris said. "I was out in back. You know how these houses are laid out, Inspector? With the bathroom at the back of the house?"

"Yeah, sure."

"First a dull light, which means a light on in one of the bedrooms, shining into the hall. Then a bright light. Somebody's in the bathroom. I figure it's his mother, taking a p.i.s.s. Then the bright light goes out, and then the dim light, and I figure she's back in bed."

"Okay. So what?"

"So nothing. So that's what's been going on here."

"There's more, Tony. What are you thinking?"

"I don't think Paulo Ca.s.sandro or Ricco Baltazari or any other Mafioso is going to come waltzing down Ritner Street tonight to pick up that suitcase. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds aren't stupid. There's been half a dozen cars come by here, any one of who could have been taking a look, and if they were, they saw us."

"Oh, ye of little faith!" Wohl said.