“That’s true,” the Mayor said. “But he takes a good picture, and he doesn’t give you any trouble. Admit it.”
“An original thought and a cold drink of water would kill the Polack,” Lowenstein said.
“But he doesn’t give you any trouble, does he, Matt?” the Mayor persisted.
“You give me the goddamned trouble. Gave me. Past tense. I’m out.”
“You can’t quit now.”
“Watch me.”
“The Department’s in trouble. Deep trouble. It needs you. I need you.”
“You mean you’re in trouble about getting yourself reelected.”
“If I don’t get reelected, then the Department will be in even worse trouble.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the Department wouldn’t be in trouble if you let the people who are supposed to run it actually run it?”
“You know I love the Department, Matt,” the Mayor said. “Everything I try to do is for the good of the Department.”
“Like I said, make Peter Wohl chief of detectives. He’s already investigating everything but recovered stolen vehicles. Jesus, you even sent the Payne kid in to spy on Homicide.”
“I sent the Payne kid over there to piss you off. I was already upset about these goddamned scumbags Cazerra and Meyer, and then you give me an argument about your detective who got caught screwing his wife’s sister, and whose current girlfriend is probably involved in shooting her husband.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“I wish I did know it.”
Lowenstein looked at the Mayor and then shook his head.
“That’s what Augie Wohl said. And Sarah said it, too. That you did that just to piss me off.”
“And it worked, didn’t it?” the Mayor said, pleased. “Better than I hoped.”
“You sonofabitch, Jerry,” Lowenstein said.
“Augie and Sarah are only partly right. Pissing you off wasn’t the only thing I had in mind.”
“What else?”
“I gave Ethical Affairs to Peter Wohl for political considerations, and even if you don’t like the phrase, I have to worry about it. Peter’s Mr. Clean in the public eye, the guy who put Judge Moses Findermann away. I needed something for the newspapers besides ‘Internal Affairs is conducting an investigation of these allegations.’ Christ, can’t you see that? The papers, especially the Ledger, are always crying ‘Police cover-up!’ If I said that Internal Affairs was now investigating something they should have found out themselves, what would that look like?”
Chief Lowenstein granted the point, somewhat unwillingly, with a shrug.
“What’s that got to do with Payne, sending him in to spy on Homicide?”
“Same principle. His picture has been all over the papers. Payne is the kind of cop the public wants. It’s like TV and the movies. A good-looking young cop kills the bad guys and doesn’t steal money.”
There was a faint suggestion of a smile on Lowenstein’s lips.
“So I figured if I send Payne to spend some time at Homicide (a) he can’t really do any harm over there and (b) if it turns out your man who can’t keep his dick in his pocket and/or the widow-and get pissed if you want, Matt, but that wouldn’t surprise me a bit if that’s the way it turns out-had something to do with Kellog getting himself shot, then what the papers have is another example of one of Mr. Clean’s hotshots cleaning up the Police Department.”
“I talked to Wally Milham, Jerry. I’ve seen enough killers and been around enough cops to know a killer and/or a lying cop when I see one. He didn’t do it.”
“Maybe he didn’t, but if she had something to do with it, and he’s been fucking her, which is now common knowledge, it’s the same thing. You talk to her?”
“No,” Lowenstein said.
“Maybe you should,” the Mayor said.
“You’re not listening to me. I’m going out. I’m going to move to some goddamned place at the shore and walk up and down the beach.”
“We haven’t even got around to talking about that.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You haven’t even heard my offer.”
“I don’t want to hear your goddamned offer.”
“How do you know until you hear it?”
“Jesus Christ, can’t you take no for an answer?”
“No. Not with you. Not when the Department needs you.”
The kitchen door swung open.
“I thought maybe you’d need some more coffee,” Sarah Lowenstein said a little nervously.
“You still got that stuff you bought to get rid of the rats?” Chief Lowenstein said. “Put two heaping tablespoons, three, in Jerry’s cup.”
“You two have been friends so long,” Sarah said. “It’s not right that you should fight.”
“Tell him, Sarah,” the Mayor said. “I am the spirit of reasonableness and conciliation.”
“Four tablespoons, honey,” Chief Lowenstein said.
TWELVE
Brewster Cortland Payne II had stopped in a service station on City Line Avenue and called his home. Mrs. Newman had told him there had been no call from Violet, the Detweiler maid, telling him to which hospital Penny had been taken.
If she hadn’t been taken to a hospital, he reasoned, there was a chance that the situation wasn’t as bad as initially reported; that Penny might have been unconscious-that sometimes happened when drugs were involved-rather than, as Violet had reported, “gone,” and had regained consciousness.
If that had happened, Dick Detweiler would have been reluctant to have her taken to a hospital; she could be cared for at home by Dr. Dotson, the family physician, or Amy Payne, M.D., and the incident could be kept quiet.
He got back behind the wheel of the Buick station wagon and drove to West Chestnut Hill Avenue.
He realized the moment he drove through the open gates of the estate that the hope that things weren’t as bad as reported had been wishful thinking. There was an ambulance and two police cars parked in front of the house, and a third car, unmarked, but from its black-walled tires and battered appearance almost certainly a police car, pulled in behind him as he was getting out of the station wagon.
The driver got out. Payne saw that he was a police captain.
“Excuse me, sir,” the Captain called to him as Payne started up the stairs to the patio.
Payne stopped and turned.
“I’m Captain O’Connor. Northwest Detectives. May I ask who you are, sir?”
“My name is Payne. I am Mr. Detweiler’s attorney.”
“We’ve got a pretty unpleasant situation here, Mr. Payne,” O’Connor said, offering Payne his hand.
“Just how bad is it?”
“About as bad as it can get, I’m afraid,” O’Connor said, and tilted his head toward the patio.
Payne looked and for the first time saw the blanket-covered body on the stretcher.
“Oh, God!”
“Mr. Payne, Chief Inspector Coughlin is on his way here. Do you happen to know…?”
“I know the Chief,” Payne said softly.
“I don’t have any of the details myself,” O’Connor said. “But I’d like to suggest that you…”
“I’m going to see my client, Captain,” Payne said, softly but firmly. “Unless there is some reason…?”
“I’d guess he’s in the house, sir,” O’Connor said.
“Thank you,” Payne said, and turned and walked onto the patio. The door was closed but unlocked. Payne walked through it and started to cross the foyer. Then he stopped and picked up a telephone mounted in a small alcove beside the door.
He dialed a number from memory.
“Nesfoods International. Good morning.”
“Let me have the Chief of Security, please,” he said.
“Mr. Schraeder’s office.”
“My name is Brewster C. Payne. I’m calling for Mr. Richard Detweiler. Mr. Schraeder, please.”
“Good morning, Mr. Payne. How can I help you?”
“Mr. Schraeder, just as soon as you can, will you please send some security officers to Mr. Detweiler’s home? Six, or eight. I think their services will be required, day and night, for the next four or five days, so I suggest you plan for that.”