"Go on, please, Chief," Wohl said.
'That's the whole idea of Special Operations, the federal grants we got for it," Coughlin said. "To have police force available anywhere in the city…"
"There's not that many people in Special Operations to put one every ten feet up and down Market Street," Lowenstein said. "The feds pay the bills, and then they tell us what to do, right?" Lowenstein said. "I was against those goddamn grants from the beginning."
On the other hand, Wohl thought, we have the grants all the time, and they don't ask for our help all the time.
"There will be men available from the districts, and I thought the Detective Bureau would make detectives available."
Lowenstein grunted.
"Plus undercover officers, primarily from Narcotics, but from anyplace else we can find them," Coughlin went on.
He looked at Lowenstein for his reply. Lowenstein grunted, and then looked at Wohl.
"Peter?"
"I don't have a better idea," Wohl said.
"Neither do I," Lowenstein said. "Okay. Next question. Do you think the commissioner will go along with this?"
"The commissioner, I think, is going to hide under his desk until this is all over," Coughlin said. "If we catch this guy, or at least keep him from disintegrating the Vice President, he will hold a press conference to modestly announce how pleased he is his plan worked. If the Vice President is disintegrated, it's Peter's fault. He was never in favor of Special Operations in the first place."
"Was that a crack at me, Denny?"
"If the shoe fits, Cinderella."
"Gentlemen," Mr. H. Logan Hammersmith of First Philadelphia Bank amp; Trust said, "while I don't mean to appear to be difficult, I'm simply unable to permit you access to our personnel records. The question of confidentiality…"
"Mr. Hammersmith," Jason Washington began softly. "I understand your position. But:"
"Fuck it, Jason," Mr. H. Charles Larkin interrupted. "I've had enough of this bastard's bullshit."
Mr. Hammersmith was obviously not used to being addressed in that tone of voice, or with such vulgarity and obscenity, which is precisely why Mr. Larkin had chosen that tone of voice and vocabulary.
"I want Marion Claude Wheatley's personnel records, all of them, on your desk in three minutes, or I'm going to take you out of here in handcuffs," Mr. Larkin continued.
"You can't do that!" Mr. Hammersmith said, without very much conviction. "I haven't done anything."
"You're interfering with a federal investigation," Mr. Frank F. Young said.
"Now, we can get a search warrant for this," Larkin said. "It'll take us about an hour. But to preclude the possibility that Mr. Hammerhead here…"
"Hammersmith," Hammersmith interjected.
"…who, in my professional judgment, is acting very strangely, does not, in the meantime, conceal, destroy, or otherwise hinder our access to these records, I believe we should take him into custody."
"I agree," Frank F. Young said.
"May I borrow your handcuffs, please, Jason?" Larkin asked politely.
"Yes, sir."
"Would you please stand up, Mr. Hammerhead, and place your hands behind your back?"
"Now just a moment, please," Mr. Hammersmith said. He reached and picked up his telephone.
"Mrs. Berkowitz, will you please go to Personnel and get Mr. Wheatley's entire personnel file? And bring it to me, right away."
"We very much appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Hammersmith," Mr. Larkin said.
The personnel records of Marion Claude Wheatley included a photograph. But either the photographic paper was faulty, or the processing had been, for the photograph stapled to his records was entirely black.
Neither were his records of any help at all in suggesting where he might be found. He listed his parents as next of kin, and Mr. Hammersmith told them he was sure they had passed on.
Mr. Young arranged for FBI agents to go out to the University of Pennsylvania, to examine Wheatley's records there. They found a photograph, but it was stapled to Mr. Wheatley's application for admission, and showed him at age seventeen.
When Mr. Wheatley's records in Kansas City were finally exhumed and examined, the only photograph of Mr. Wheatley they contained, a Secret Service agent reported to Mr. Larkin, had been taken during his Army basic training. It was not a good photograph, and for all practical purposes, Army barbers had turned him bald.
"Wire it anyway," Mr. Larkin replied. "We're desperate."
TWENTY-NINE
Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin, Chief Inspector (retired) Augustus Wohl, and Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin were seated around Coughlin's dining-room table when Inspector Peter Wohl came into the apartment a few minutes before ten P.M.
On the table were two telephones, a bottle of Scotch, a bottle of bourbon, and clear evidence that the ordinance of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania that prohibited gaming, such as poker, was being violated.
"Who's winning?"
"Your father, of course," Charley Larkin replied.
"Deal you in, Peter?" Chief Wohl asked.
"Why not?" Wohl said.
"You want a drink, Peter?" Coughlin asked.
"I better not," Wohl said. "I want to go back to the Schoolhouse before I go home. I hate to have whiskey on my breath."
His father ignored him. He made him a drink of Scotch and handed it to him.
"You look like you need this," he said.
"I corrupt easily," Peter said, taking it, and added, "In case anybody's been wondering, we have come up with zilch, zero."
"That include the airport too?" Coughlin asked.
"Yeah. I gave them this number, Chief, in case something does happen."
"What's going on at the airport?" Larkin asked.
Peter Wohl looked at Coughlin.
"I'm afraid we have a dirty cop out there," Coughlin said.
"I'm sorry," Larkin said.
"We're playing seven-card stud," Chief Wohl said. "Put your money on the table, Peter."
Peter had just taken two twenty-dollar bills and four singles from his wallet when one of the telephones rang.
Coughlin grabbed it on the second ring.
"Coughlin," he said. "Yes, just a moment, he's here." He started to hand the telephone to Peter and then changed his mind. "Is this Dickie Lowell? I thought I recognized your voice. This is Denny Coughlin, Dickie. How the hell are you?"
Then he handed the phone to Peter.
"Peter Wohl," he said, and then listened.
"Have you spoken with Captain Olsen?" he asked. There was a brief pause, and then: "Thank you very much. I owe you one."
He hung up.
"Dickie Lowell?" Chief Wohl asked as he dealt cards. "Retired out of Headquarters Division in the Detective Bureau?"
"He got a job running security for Eastern Airlines," Coughlin said. "He's got his people watching our dirty cop. Peter set it up."
"Chief Marchessi set it up," Peter said. "Lowell's people just saw our dirty cop take a suitcase off Eastern Flight 4302. Specifically, remove a suitcase from a baggage trailer after it had been removed from Eastern 4302."
"So what are you going to do, Peter?" Coughlin asked.
Wohl hesitated, and then shrugged.
"Resist the temptation to get on my horse and charge out to the airport," he said. "Where I probably would fuck things up. I sent Sergeant Jerry O'Dowd… you know him?"
His father and Chief Coughlin shook their heads, no.
"He works for Dave Pekach. Good man. He's going to follow our dirty cop when he comes off duty. We already have people watching his house and his girlfriend's apartment."
"Sometimes the smartest thing to do is keep your nose out of the tent," Coughlin said. "I think they call that delegation of authority."