The Investigators Part 70

"Sweetheart, there's no time."

"By the time you've dressed, I'll have it ready."

"You don't have to, baby."

"Precious, I want to."

He returned his attention to the telephone and dialed a number from memory.

"Special Operations, Lieutenant Malone."

"Dave Pekach, Jack. Is anything going on around there?"

"No, sir. Quiet as a tomb."

"I'm on my way in," Pekach said.

"Is something going on?"

"Beats the s.h.i.+t out of me," Pekach said "Wohl just put the arm on me. I have no f.u.c.king idea what he wants."

He hung up, then looked at Martha, who had a some what pained look on her face. "Sorry, baby."

"I understand," she said. "You're upset."

"I'm really sorry. I really try to watch my language, but sometimes I just forget."

"I understand," she said. "And I know you're trying."

"Jesus Christ, I love you!"

" 'Jesus Christ' you love me?"

He threw his hands up helplessly.

"I love you, too, precious," she said.

TWENTY-TWO.

Gertrude-Mrs. Thomas J.-Callis reached over the curled-up body of her husband and picked up the telephone, thinking as she did so, for perhaps the five hundredth time, that if he insisted on having the phone on his side of his bed so he wouldn't disturb her when the inevitable middle-of-the-night calls came, the least the son of a b.i.t.c.h could do was wake up when the d.a.m.ned thing did ring.

"Yes?"

"Gertrude? Dennis Coughlin. I'm sorry to bother you at this-"

"I'll see if I can wake him, Denny. He's sleeping like a log."

The district attorney for Philadelphia was brought from his slumber by a somewhat terrifying feeling that he was being asphyxiated. He swatted at whatever was blocking his nostrils and mouth, and fought his way to a sitting position.

"What the h.e.l.l?"

"Denny Coughlin," Gertrude said, handed him the telephone, and lay back down with her back to him.

"Yeah, Denny."

"Sorry to wake you up, Tony."

"No problem, what's up?" Callis said. He picked up the clock on the bedside table and looked at it. "Christ, it's twenty-five after three!"

"I didn't think this should wait until morning," Coughlin said.

"What wouldn't wait until morning?"

"We have just found some very dirty cops," Coughlin said.

"That won't wait until morning? Nothing personal, Denny, but these are not the first dirty cops you've found this year."

That's not true. There have been dirty cops, but Denny Coughlin didn't find them. Peter Wohl did. What's going on here?

"This is sort of complicated, Tony. What I would like to do-"

"How complicated, Denny?"

"This is a real can of worms," Denny Coughlin said. "And it won't wait. I'd rather explain it to you in person, if that would be possible. The FBI is involved, and-"

"The FBI is involved?"

"-and Walter Davis just spoke with the U.S. Attorney. He's going to meet with us right now. I just sent a car for him, and I'd like to send one for you."

"Okay. If you think it's that important, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Thank you, Tony."

"What cops, Denny? Can you tell me who?"

"I don't think you'd know the names. The Narcotics Unit Five Squad."

"And what did some narc do to attract the interest of the FBI?"

"It's more than one narc, Tony. I'm afraid it's the whole Five Squad."

"Now I'm getting interested."

"I'll explain it all when I see you," Coughlin said. "By the time you walk out your front door, there will be a Highway Patrol car waiting for you."

"Okay."

"Thank you, Tony," Coughlin said, and hung up.

Callis swung his feet out of bed. Gertrude rolled onto her back.

"You're not going out?"

"Go back to sleep, honey."

"What's going on?"

"I don't really know," Callis replied, thinking aloud. "But Denny Coughlin doesn't do something like this-"

"Like what?"

"-like sending a Highway Patrol car for me at half past three in the morning unless it's important."

"But he didn't say what?"

"Only that the FBI is involved, and that the whole Five Squad is dirty."

"What's the Five Squad?"

"The Narcotics Unit has sort of a special squad, the Five Squad, that works the more serious drug cases."

"And you have to do whatever you're going to do at half past three in the morning?"

"According to Coughlin, there's some sort of time problem," Callis said.

He didn't say that. But that's obviously what it has to be.

Callis walked into his bathroom and plugged in his electric razor.

As he was slapping aftershave on his face, he heard the wail of a far-off siren. It seemed to be getting closer, and then the sound died.

He went back into his bedroom, dressed, and leaned over the bed to kiss Gertrude.

She rolled on her back again.

"You're getting too old for this, Tony," she said. "It's not good for you to have to get out of bed at half past three in the morning."

"I think I have a couple of good years left," he said.

He pulled down a couple of slats on the venetian blinds and looked out to the street.

A Highway Patrol sergeant, with his cartridge-studded Sam Browne belt and motorcycle boots, was leaning against the fender of an antenna-festooned car, waiting for him.

That was the siren I heard. They turned it-and the flas.h.i.+ng lights-off when they got close. And as soon as we're half a block away from the house, I'll bet they turn them on again.

The truth of the matter is, I like this. I'd make a h.e.l.l of a lot more money if I went into private practice, but divorce lawyers don't often get to ride through town in the middle of the night in a Highway Patrol car with the siren screaming.

And knowing that the cops need me makes me feel like a man.

Or a boy playing at cops and robbers? Is Gertrude right? Am I getting too old for this?

I wonder what the h.e.l.l this is all about?

There was not much going on at 3:40 A.M. in Central Lockup in the Roundhouse. It had been a relatively slow night (the moon was not full, for one thing) and the usual ten-thirty-to-one-A.M. busy period was over.

Sergeant Keyes J. Michaels, on the desk, had been reading the Philadelphia Daily News Daily News when he heard the solenoid that controlled the door from the corridor between the lobby of the Roundhouse and the Lockup room buzz. when he heard the solenoid that controlled the door from the corridor between the lobby of the Roundhouse and the Lockup room buzz.

What looked to Michaels like one more ambulance-chaser-a rumpled-looking, plump little man wearing eyegla.s.ses and needing a shave-came through the door and walked toward Michaels's desk.

Michaels wondered how come they had pa.s.sed him into Lockup-the ambulance-chasers were ordinarily not allowed in Lockup-but really didn't give much of a d.a.m.n. It was almost four o'clock, and he was sleepy.

The ambulance-chaser stood patiently in front of Sergeant Michaels until Michaels raised his eyes to him.

"Can I do something for you, sir?"

"Who's the supervisor on duty? I'd like to speak to him, please?"

The supervisor on duty, Lieutenant Mitch.e.l.l Roberts, after making sure that nothing further required his attention, had retired to a small room in which there just happened to be a cot.

Michaels, who liked Roberts, was reluctant to have him woken up by an ambulance-chaser who almost certainly wanted special treatment for some sc.u.mbag.

"Can I help you, sir? The supervisor's not here at the moment."

"I'm afraid not, Sergeant. I need to speak to the supervisor on duty."

"I just told you, sir, he's not here at the moment."

"Where is he?"

"Just who the h.e.l.l do you think you are?"

"My name is Weisbach," the ambulance-chaser said. "Staff Inspector Michael Weisbach. Does that change anything, Sergeant?"

"Sorry, sir. The lieutenant has stepped out for a moment. I'll let him know you're here, sir?"

"Where is he? In that little room with the cot?"

"I'll get him for you, sir."