The system was not unlike that used in automobile showrooms, where to keep a prospective customer, an "up," from being swarmed over by a dozen commission-hungry salesmen, they were forced to take their turn.

Jason F. Washington, Sr., knew, however, as did everybody else in Homicide, that while Dutch's shooting might be his job, he was going to be given a higher level of supervision and assistance than he would have gotten had Richard C. Moffitt been a civilian when he stopped the bullet in the Waikiki Diner.

There was no suggestion at all that there was any question in anyone' s mind that Washington could not handle the job. What it was was that the commissioner was going to keep an eye on the case through Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein, who was going to lean on Captain Quaire to make sure everything possible was being done, who was going to lean on Lieutenant Lou Natali who was going to lean on Sergeant Zachary Hobbs, who was going to lean on Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr.

And now Peter Wohl had been added to the equation, and Jason Washington wasn't sure what that would mean. He had found that out when he'd asked Captain Quaire why the witness hadn't been brought to the Roundhouse. Quaire had told him, off the record, that Wohl had stuck his nose in where it didn't belong, and that Lowenstein was about to chop it off for him. But an hour after that, Quaire had come out of his office to tell him that was changed. He was not to do anything about the witness at all, without checking with Staff Inspector Wohl. Staff Inspector Wohl was presently at the medical examiner's office and might, and then again might not, soon grace Homicide with his exalted presence.

Quaire had thrown up his hands.

"Don't look at me, Jason. I just work here. We are now involved in bullshit among the upper-level brass."

Detective Jason Washington had seen Staff Inspector Peter Wohl come into Homicide, and had seen Matt Lowenstein take him into Captain Quaire's office, throwing Quaire out as he did so. He was not surprised when Wohl appeared at his desk, five minutes later, although he had not seen, or sensed, him walking over.

"Hello, Jason," Wohl said.

Washington stood up and offered his hand.

"Inspector," he said. "How goes it?"

"I'm all right," Wohl said. "How've you been?"

"Aside from the normal ravages of middle age, no real complaints. Something on your mind?"

"I've been assigned to stroke WCBL-TV generally and Miss Louise Dutton specifically," Wohl said. "I guess you heard?"

Washington smiled. "I heard about that." He pointed at the wooden chair beside his desk.

Wohl smiled his thanks and sat down and stretched his legs out.

"You ever readAnimal Farm? " Wohl asked.

Washington chuckled.

"I wouldn't compare a pretty lady like that with a pig," he said.

"Let's just say then that she's more equal than some other pretty lady," Wohl said. "If you're ready for her, I'll go get her."

"Anytime it's convenient," Washington said. "But an hour ago would be better than tomorrow."

"Jason, all I'm going to do is stroke her feathers," Wohl said. "Did I have to tell you that?"

"No, but I'm glad you did," Washington said. "Thank you."

"But for personal curiosity, has anything turned up?" Wohl asked.

"Not yet, but if I was a white boy with long hair and a zipper jacket, I don't think I would leave the house today. I guess you heard what the Highway Patrol is up to?"

"I'm not sure how effective that will be, but you can't blame them. They liked Dutch."

"So did I. We were partners, once. Hell, Highway may even catch him."

"What's your gut feeling, Jason?"

"Well, he's either under a rock somewhere in Philadelphia, or he's long gone. But gut feeling? He's either here or in Atlantic City."

Wohl nodded and made a little grunting noise.

"An undercover guy from Narcotics thinks he identified the woman-"

"Sergeant Hobbs called me," Washington interrupted him. "If they can come up with a name…"

"I have a feeling they will," Wohl said. "Okay. So long as you understand where I fit in this, Jason, I'll go fetch the eyewitness."

He stood up.

Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr., extended something to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl.

"What's that?"

"Miracle of modern medicine," Washington said. "It's supposed to prevent ulcers."

"Are you suggesting I'm going to need it?" Wohl asked with a smile.

"Somebody thinks that TV lady is going to be trouble," Washington said.

Wohl popped the antacid in his mouth, and then turned and walked out of Homicide.

SIX

When Sergeant Hobbs and Officer McFadden got to the Roundhouse, and McFadden started to open the passenger-side door, Hobbs touched his arm.

"Wait a minute," he said. He then got out of the car, walked to the passenger side, motioned for McFadden to get out, and when he had, put his hand on his arm, and then marched him into the building. It looked for all the world as if McFadden was in custody and being led into the Roundhouse, which is exactly what Hobbs had in mind.

The Roundhouse is a public building, but it is not open to the public to the degree, for example, that City Hall is. It is the nerve center of the police department, and while there are always a number of ordinary, decent, law-abiding citizens in the building, the overwhelming majority of private citizens in the Roundhouse are there as nonvoluntary guests of the police, or are relatives and friends of the nonvoluntary guests who have come to see what can be done about getting them out, either by posting bail, or in some other way.

There are almost always a number of people in this latter category standing just outside, or just inside, the door leading into the Roundhouse from the parking lot out back. Immediately inside the door is a small foyer. To the right a corridor leads to an area from which the friends and relatives of those arrested can watch preliminary arraignments before a magistrate, who either sets bail or orders the accused confined until trial.

To the left is a door leading to the main lobby of the building, which is not open to the general public. It is operated by a solenoid controlled by a police officer who sits behind a shatterproof plastic window directly across the corridor from the door to the parking lot.

Hobbs didn't want anyone with whom McFadden might now, or eventually, have a professional relationship to remember later having seen the large young man with the forehead band walking into the place and being passed without question, as if he was cop, into the main lobby.

Still holding on to Officer McFadden's arm, Hobbs flashed his badge at the corporal on duty behind the window, who took a good look at it, and then pushed the button operating the solenoid. The door lock buzzed as Hobbs reached it. He pushed it open, and went through it, and marched McFadden to the elevator doors.

There was a sign on the gray steel first-floor door readingCRIMINAL