The Investigators Part 65

"What happened, Danny?"

"A detective-Harry Cronin-found him wearing nothing but an overcoat in one of the NIKE sites."

"They're federal property," Coughlin said. "Wearing nothing but an overcoat, you said?"

"Yes, sir."

"You notify anybody? The feds?"

"No, sir. This is my first call."

"Don't call anybody else. No. Call Inspector Wohl and Sergeant Was.h.i.+ngton-you have their numbers-put the arm out for them, if necessary, and ask them to meet me there as soon as they can get there."

"Yes, sir."

"And I mean, don't call anybody else, Danny. And don't let Mr. Ketcham call anybody until I get there."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't let the detective-Cronin?-"

"Yes, sir."

"-talk to anybody, or get away."

"Yes, sir."

"Inspector Wohl," Peter said to the telephone, aware that despite his best intentions, he had not been able to answer the official telephone beside his bed soon enough to prevent Amelia A. Payne, M.D., who was sleeping with her head on his chest, from waking.

"Dan Justice, sir, at South Detectives."

"How are you, Danny?" Wohl replied. "What's up?" Amy pushed herself off him, sat up, and looked down at him. Inspector Wohl was not sure whether it was in annoyance or simple female curiosity.

"We located Ketcham, Ronald R., sir," Danny the Judge said.

"Great! Where is he?"

"In the detention cell downstairs, Inspector."

"Danny, that was a Locate, Do Not Detain!"

"Yes, sir," Danny the Judge admitted, sounding a little sheepish. "Inspector, I just talked to Chief Coughlin. He told me to put the arm out for you and Sergeant Was.h.i.+ngton, and to tell you to meet him here."

"Okay. Where was Ketcham, Dan?"

"One of our detectives-Harry Cronin-found him in a deserted NIKE site. Wearing nothing but an overcoat."

"Let me have that again?"

"Harry Cronin found him in one of the NIKE sites. His clothing was in one room, and he was locked up in another."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Peter said. "You talk to Was.h.i.+ngton yet?"

"He's next, sir."

"Tell him I'll be in my car in three minutes, and to give me a call if he wants me to pick him up; it's on my way."

"Yes, sir."

Wohl replaced the telephone in its cradle and sat up.

"Tell me why you'll be d.a.m.ned, Peter," Amy said.

"Go back to sleep, honey. I've got to go to South Detectives."

"Who is Ronald . . . What was that? 'Ketcham'?"

"Oh, Jesus, honey!"

"The way you said that, I really want to know."

"The missing boyfriend," Peter said.

"Cynthia Longwood's boyfriend?"

Wohl nodded.

"He's been arrested? What for?"

"Honey, it's sort of complicated," Peter said as he swung his feet out of bed and stood up.

"I want to know, Peter. I have a right."

"The minute there's anything I can tell you, I will. I promise," Wohl said as he took linen from a chest of drawers and ripped open the paper wrapped around a stack of laundered s.h.i.+rts.

"You're going to see him?" Amy asked, and before he could reply, added: "I'm going with you."

"No, you're not," Wohl said firmly. "Honey, as soon as I have anything for you, I'll tell you."

One corner of her mind was impressed with the rapidity with which he was changing from a naked man-a naked lover-into a fully dressed police officer.

Is that what married life would be like with him? The phone rings in the middle of the night, he throws on his clothes like a quick-change artist, and he goes out to return who the h.e.l.l knows when?

"Peter, I want to go with you. You wouldn't even know about him-how did you get his name, by the way?-if it wasn't for me."

"Amy, please don't push me on this," Peter said.

She didn't reply. She pushed herself up so that her back rested on the headboard, folded her arms under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and watched as he tied his necktie without using a mirror.

He went into his bedside table for his revolver, slipped it into a waist holster, and leaned down to kiss her.

"If I can't get back here, I'll call you," he said.

The kiss she gave him was considerably less enthusiastic than the previous kiss had been.

And then he was gone.

She didn't move for several minutes, during which time she heard the sound of his car door opening and closing, the sound of his engine starting, and then of the car driving away.

Then she reached for the telephone book on the shelf under the bedside table, started to thumb through it, and realized there was probably a quicker way to get the information she needed, plus directions on how to get there.

She dialed the telephone.

"Police radio."

"Could you give me the address of South Detectives, please?"

"Is there some way I can help you, ma'am?" the female voice countered.

"This is Dr. Payne, of University Hospital," Amy said. "I just got a call asking me to meet Chief Inspector Coughlin at South Detectives. I need to know where it is and the best way to get there?"

"You're at University Hospital, Doctor? Could you give me the number?"

"I'm at the residence of Inspector Wohl," Amy said. "The number here is . . ."

The police radio operator decided the call was legitimate. She had, within the past five minutes, received calls from both Chief Inspector Coughlin and Inspector Wohl announcing they were en route to South Detectives, and she knew the number the caller had given was that of the official residence telephone of Inspector Wohl.

She gave Dr. Payne what was in her opinion the quickest way to get from the 800 Block of Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill to South Detectives at this hour of the morning.

"Do you want me to tell Chief Coughlin you're on your way, Doctor?"

"That won't be necessary," Amy said. "He knows I'll get there as soon as I can. Thank you very much."

Amy hung up and got out of bed and started to get dressed.

The police radio operator opened her microphone.

"Isaac Three."

"Go ahead."

"Chief, I just spoke with Dr. Payne. She's en route to South Detectives."

"Give me that again?"

"Dr. Payne is en route to South Detectives."

"Okay. Thank you," Chief Coughlin said and dropped the microphone on the seat of his car. And added, "Oh, s.h.i.+t!"

Sergeant Leonard Moskowitz of South Detectives had figured that he owed Mickey O'Hara a big one since the previous December, when Mickey had arranged for a photograph of his eldest son, Stanley, at his bar mitzvah at Temple Israel to be prominently displayed in the society section of the Bulletin. Bulletin.

This might not entirely repay Mickey for his kindness, but it would be at least a down payment.

"O'Hara," Mickey answered his telephone somewhat sleepily.

"Lenny Moskowitz. I didn't call you."

"What didn't you say when you didn't call me?"

"I don't know what the h.e.l.l this is all about, Mickey, but I thought you might be interested."

"In what?"

"About an hour ago, Harry Cronin, who went off at midnight, brought a citizen in here wearing nothing but an overcoat. Danny the Judge put him in a detention cell, and Harry in the captain's office. Then he called Denny Coughlin, Inspector Wohl of Special Operations, and Jason Was.h.i.+ngton of Homicide."

Jason doesn't work in Homicide anymore. I'm surprised Moskowitz doesn't know that.

"And?"

"They're all here. Plus some guy, a heavy hitter, from the FBI. And a lady doctor."

"Has the guy in the overcoat got a name, Lenny?"

"Ketcham, Ronald."

"Nice not to talk to you, Lenny. I owe you a big one."

"I figure I still owe you," Sergeant Moskowitz said and hung up.

On being advised by Lieutenant Daniel Justice that Mr. Michael J. O'Hara of the Bulletin Bulletin was in the building and desired a minute or two of his time, Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin left the small room equipped with a one-way mirror adjacent to the interview room and went to speak to him. was in the building and desired a minute or two of his time, Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin left the small room equipped with a one-way mirror adjacent to the interview room and went to speak to him.

"We're going to have to stop meeting this way, Mickey," he greeted him. "People will start to talk."

"Ah, Denny, you silver-tongued devil, you!"

"I'd love to know who tipped you to this. He would be on Last Out for the rest of his life, walking a beat in North Philly." Last Out was the midnight-to-eight s.h.i.+ft.