“Well, fuck it. I sort of like him. I liked the way he told that shit-for-brains where to head in.”
When they got to Highway, the corporal told them that Captain Sabara wanted to see them. There were a lot of people in the outer office, and they both figured they were in for a long wait. Jesus settled himself in as comfortably as he could, and Charley went looking for the Coke and garbage machines.
He had just returned with a ham and cheese on rye and a pint of chocolate drink when the door to the Commanding Officer’s office opened, and a middle-aged cop with a white-topped Traffic Bureau cap in his hand came out.
“Is there somebody named McFadden out here?”
Charley couldn’t reply, for his mouth was full of ham and cheese, but he waved his hand, with the rest of the sandwich in it, over his head, and caught the traffic cop’s attention.
“Captain Sabara wants to see you,” the traffic cop said. “You and Gonzales, I think he said.”
“Martinez?” Jesus asked, bitterly.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Charley laid the sandwich on the chair next to Jesus, and, chewing furiously, followed him into the office.
“You wanted to see us, sir?” Jesus asked, politely.
“Yeah,” Sabara said. “You got the cars all right?”
“Yes, sir, we left the blue-and-white at Radio,” Jesus said.
“This is bullshit,” Sabara said. “But from time to time, like when the Commissioner says to, we do bullshit. There have been a couple of minor burglaries in Chestnut Hill. A lady named Peebles. She’s rich, and she has friends. And she doesn’t think that she’s been getting the service she deserves from the Police Department. She talked to one of her friends and he talked to the Commissioner, and the Commissioner called Inspector Wohl. Getting the picture?”
“Yes, sir,” Jesus said.
Charley McFadden made one final, valiant swallow of the ham and cheese and chimed in, a moment later, “Yes, sir.”
“Here’s the file. Inspector Wohl borrowed it from Northwest Detectives. Read it. Then go see the lady. Charm her. Make her believe that we, and by we I mean Special Operations especially, but the whole Department, too, are sympathetic, and are going to do everything we can to catch the burglar, and protect her and her property. Getting all this?”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
“On the way back, return the file to Northwest Detectives,” Sabara said, “and be prepared to tell me, and Inspector Wohl, what you said to her, and how she reacted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, go do it,” Sabara said, and they said “yes, sir” again and turned to leave. Jesus was halfway through the door when Sabara called out, “Hey!”
They stopped and turned to look at him.
“I know what a good job you guys did getting the doer in the Captain Moffitt shooting,” Sabara said. “And Captain Pekach told me you did a good job for him in Narcotics before that. But you got to understand that Chestnut Hill isn’t the street, and you have to treat people like this Miss Peebles gentle. It’s bullshit, but it’s important bullshit. So be real concerned and polite, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
Peter Wohl had to show the officer on duty his identification before he was permitted to go through the locked door into the lobby of the Roundhouse. That made the score fourteen-six.
He got on the elevator and went to the Homicide Bureau on the second floor. When he pushed open the door to the main room, he saw that Captain Henry C. Quaire was in his small, glass-walled office.
The door was closed, and Quaire, a stocky muscular man in his early forties, was on the telephone, but when he saw Wohl he gestured for him to come in.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said after a moment, and then hung up the telephone. Then he half got out of his chair and offered his hand.
“Congratulations on your new command,” Quaire said.
“Thank you, Henry,” Wohl said.
“I don’t know what the hell it is,” Quaire said, “but it sounds impressive.”