There were more surprises. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Young was more than complimentary about the completeness of the Nelson files Matt had brought him. They would be very helpful, he said, and the FBI was grateful.
Then, with great tact, he asked Matt all sorts of questions about himself, why he had joined the cops, how he liked it, whether he liked law enforcement in general-"I don't really know why I asked that. You seem to have proven that you take to law enforcement like a duck to water. I think everybody with a badge in Philadelphia was delighted when you terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher's criminal career."-and what his long-term career plans were.
"I intend to work myself up through the ranks," Matt said solemnly, " to police commissioner. And then I will seek an appropriate political office."
Young laughed heartily. "Jerry Carlucci's going to be a tough act to follow. But why not? You've got the potential."
If I didn't know better, Matt thought, I'd think he was about to offer me a job.
Then came the question: I am being charmed. Why should they bother to charm me? All I am is an errand-boy-by-another-name to Wohl.
Young then offered to give him a tour of the office, which Matt, after a moment's indecision, accepted. For one thing, he was curious to see what the inside of an FBI office looked like. And maybe they would actually ask him for something. In any event, the school building could wait.
He was introduced to another A-SAC, whose name he promptly forgot, and to a dozen FBI agents, some singly and some in groups. Every time, A-SAC Young used the same words, "This is the Philadelphia plainclothesman who terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher's criminal career."
And everyone seemed pleased to have the opportunity to shake the hand that held the gun that terminated the criminal career of Mr. Warren K. Fletcher.
I really don't know what the hell is going on here, but there is some reason I'm being given the grand tour. It may be that Young is being nice to Wohl through his errand boy; or that he is genuinely impressed with the guy who shot Fletcher-if he knew the circumstances, of course, he would be far less impressed-or, really, that they are going to offer me a job. But it's damned sure they don't give the grand tour to every cop from the Department who shows up here with a pile of records.
The subject of employment with the FBI did not come up. A-SAC Young walked him to the elevator, shook his hand, and said that he was sure he would see Matt again and looked forward to it.
When he was on the street again, Matt saw that the skies were dark. It was probably going to snow.
Not only is it going to be bitter cold in that goddamn building, it's going to be dark.
Shit!
He drove back to Bustleton and Bowler, and turned in the Department car. He couldn't keep it overnight without permission, and he didn't want to ask Wohl for permission, so it was either turn it in now or when he was finished with the measuring job, and now seemed to be better than later.
On the way to the Frankford and Castor building, he remembered thinking that it was going to be dark, as well as cold, inside the building. He would need more than a flashlight. He could go back and draw a battery-powered floodlight from supply, but he didn't want to go back.
He drove down Frankford Avenue until he found a hardware store, and went in and bought the largest battery-powered floodlight they had, plus a spare battery. Then he bought a fifty-foot tape measure.
It then occurred to him that he would need something that provided more space than his pocket notebook. He found a stationery store and bought a clipboard, two mechanical pencils, and a pad of graph paper.
He was carrying all this back to his car when a Highway car suddenly pulled to the curb, in the process spraying his trousers and overcoat with a mixture of snow, soot, grime, and slush.
The driver's door opened and the head and shoulders of Officer Charles McFadden appeared.
"I thought those were your wheels," McFadden said, nodding up the street toward where Matt had parked his Porsche. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm on a scavenger hunt. The next thing on my list is the severed head of an Irishman."
McFadden laughed.
"No shit, Matt, what are you doing?"
"Would you believe I am going to measure the school building at Frankford and Castor?"
"I heard we were getting that," McFadden said. "And Inspector Wohl's making you measure it?"
"Right."
"All by yourself?"
"Right."
"Have fun," McFadden said, and got behind the wheel again.
Matt could see in the car. Officer McFadden was explaining to Officer Quinn why Officer Payne was wading through the slush with a floodlight, a tape measure, and a clipboard. To judge by the look on Officer Quinn's face, he found this rather amusing.
Officer McFadden put the Highway RPC in gear and stepped on the accelerator. The rear wheels spun in the dirty slush, spraying same on Officer Payne.
TWELVE
There was a telephone in Lieutenant Jack Malone's suite in the St. Charles Hotel, through which, by the miracle of modern telecommunications, he could converse with anyone in the whole wide world, with perhaps a few minor exceptions like Ulan Bator or Leningrad.
He had learned, however, to his horror, when he paid his first bill for two weeks residency, that local calls, which had been free on his home phone, and which cost a dime at any pay station, were billed by the hotel at fifty cents each.
Thereafter, whenever possible, Lieutenant Malone made his outgoing calls from a pay station in the lobby.
When he dropped the dime in the slot this time, he knew the number from memory. It was the fourth time he'd called since returning to the hotel shortly before six.
"Hello?"
"Officer McFadden, please?"
"You're the one who's been calling, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, he hasn't come home," Mrs. Agnes McFadden said.
"I don't really have any idea where he is. You want to give me a number, I'll have him call back the minute he walks in the door."
"I'll be moving around, I'm afraid," Malone said. "I'll try again. Thank you very much."
"What did you say your name was?"
Malone broke the connection with his finger.
"My name is Asshole, madam," he said softly, bitterly. "Lieutenant J. Asshole Malone."
He put the handset back and pushed open the door.
He was not going to get to talk to Officer McFadden tonight, and he would not try again. He had carefully avoided giving McFadden's mother his name-she had volunteered her identity on the first call.
When Officer McFadden finally returns home, his mother will tell him that some guy who had not given his name had called four times for him, but had not said what he wanted or where he could be reached.
McFadden will be naturally curious, but there will be no way for him to connect the calls with me.
On the other hand, if I did call back, and finally got through to him, he would know not only who I am, but whatever I had in mind was important enough that I would try five times to get through to him.
Under those circumstances, there would be no way I could casually, nonchalantly, let it be known that I would be grateful if he didn't tell his pal Payne that I was staking out Holland's body shop. I already know he has an active curiosity, and if I said please don't tell Payne, that's exactly what he will do. And Payne would lose no time in telling Wohl.
That triggered thoughts of Payne in a different area: The poor bastard's probably still over there in that falling-down building, stumbling around in the dark, measuring it.
That was chickenshit of Wohl, making him do that. He sent me over there to look it over. I should not have let myself be talked out of doing what I was sent to do by a rookie cop, even if the rookie works for Wohl. I'm a lieutenant, although there seems to be some questions at all levels about just how good a lieutenant. But he's taking the heat for what I did, and that's not right.