Ricco Baltazari had taken in the whole confrontation. There was nothing he would have liked better than to have the fucking cop thrown the fuck out-what a hell of a nerve, coming to a class joint like this with no tie-but instead, with barely visible moves of his massive head, he signaled that Wohl was to be given a table. It's always better to back away from a confrontation with a fucking cop, and this fucking cop was an inspector, and Mr. Savarese was in the back, having dinner with his wife and her sister, and it was better not to risk doing anything that would cause a disturbance.

Besides, he had seen inGentlemen's Quarterly where turtlenecks were making a comeback. It wasn't like the fucking cop was wearing a fuckingshirt and no necktie. A turtleneck wasdifferent.

"Spaghetti and meatballs?" Peter Wohl asked, when they had been shown to a table covered with crisp linen and an impressive array of crystal and silverware, and handed large menus. "Or maybe some lasagna? Or would you like me to slip the waiter a couple of bucks and have him sing 'Santa Lucia' while you make up your mind?"

Barbara didn't think that was witty, either.

"I don't know why you come to these places, if you really don't like them."

"The mob serves the best food in Philadelphia," Peter said. "I thought everybody knew that."

Barbara decided to let it drop.

"Well, everything on here looks good," she said, with a determined smile.

Wohl looked at her, rather than at the menu. He knew what he was going to eat: First some cherrystone clams, and then veal Marsala.

She is a good-looking girl. She's intelligent. She's got a good job. She even tolerates me, which means she probably understands me. On a scale of one to ten, she's an eight in bed. What I should do is marry her, and buy a house somewhere and start raising babies. But I don't want to.

She asked him what he was going to have, and he told her, and she said that sounded fine, she would have the same thing.

"Let's have a bottle of wine," Peter said, and opened the wine list and selected an Italian wine whose name he remembered. He pointed out the label to Barbara and asked if that was all right with her. It was fine with her.

Maybe what she needs to turn me on is a little streak of bitchiness, a little streak of not-so-tolerant-and-under-standing.

He was nearly through the bottle of wine, and halfway through the veal Marsala, when he looked up and saw Vincenzo Savarese approaching the table.

Vincenzo Savarese was sixty-three years old. What was left of his hair was silver and combed straight back over his ears. His face bore marks of childhood acne. He was wearing a double-breasted brown pinstriped suit, and there was a diamond stickpin in his necktie. He was trailed by two almost identical women in black dresses, his wife and her sister.

Vincenzo Savarese's photo was mounted, very near the top, on the wall chart of known organized crime members the Philadelphia Police Department maintained in the Organized Crime unit.

"I don't mean to disturb your dinner, Inspector," Vincenzo Savarese said. "Keep your seat."

Wohl stood up, but said nothing.

"I just wanted to tell you we heard about what happened to Captain Moffitt, and we're sorry," Vincenzo Savarese said.

"My heart goes out to his mother," one of the women said.

Wohl wasn't absolutely sure whether it was Savarese's wife, or his sister-in-law. Looking at the woman, he said, "Thank you."

"I was on a retreat with Mrs. Moffitt, the mother," the woman went on. "At Blessed Sacrament."

Wohl nodded.

Savarese nodded, and took the woman's arm and led them out of the dining room.

"Who was that?" Barbara Crowley asked.

"His name is Vincenzo Savarese," Wohl said, evenly. "He owns this place."

"I thought you said the mob owns it."

"It does," Wohl said.

"Then why? Why did he do that?"

"He probably meant it, in his own perverse way," Wohl said. "He probably thought Dutch was a fellow man of honor. The mob is big on honor."

"I saw that on TV," Barbara said.

He looked at her.

"About Captain Moffitt. I wasn't going to bring it up unless you did," Barbara said. "But I suppose that's what's wrong, isn't it?"

"I didn't know anything was wrong," Wohl said.

"Have it your way, Peter," Barbara said.

"No, you tell me, what's wrong?"

"You're wearing a turtleneck sweater, and you're driving the Jaguar," she said. "You always do that when something went wrong at work; it's as if-as if it's asymbol, that you don't want to be a cop. At least then. And then you got into it with the kid who wanted to park your car, and then the headwaiter here…"

"That's very interesting," he said.

"Now, I'm sorry I said it," Barbara said.

"No, I mean it. I didn't know I was that transparent."

"I know you pretty well, Peter," she said.

"You want to know what's really bothering me?" Wohl asked.

"Only if you want to tell me," she said.

"My parents called, just before I went to pick you up," he said. " They told me I should go by Jeannie Moffitt's house tonight. Tonight's for close friends. Tomorrow, they'll have the wake. And they're right, of course. I should, but I didn't want to go, and I didn't."

"You were a friend of Dutch Moffitt's," Barbara said. "Why don't you want to go?"

"Did I tell you that I went in on the assist?"

"You were there?" she asked. She seemed more sympathetic than surprised.

He nodded. "I was a couple of blocks away. When I got there, Dutch was still slumped against the wall of the Waikiki Diner."

"You didn't tell me anything," Barbara said. It was, he decided, a statement of fact, rather than a reproof.

"There's an eyewitness, that woman from Channel Nine, Louise Dutton," Wohl said.

"I saw her," Barbara said. "When she was on TV talking about it."

"I think she had something going with Dutch," Wohl said. "I'll bet on it, as a matter of fact."

"Oh, my!" Barbara said. "And is it going to come out? Will his wife find out?"

"No, I don't think so," Wohl said. "The commissioner has assigned that splendid police officer, Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, to see that 'nothing awkward develops.' "

"You mean, the commissioner knows about Captain Moffitt and that woman?"

"Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, with the good of the department ever foremost in his mind, told him," Wohl said.

Barbara Crowley laid her hand on his.

"I probably shouldn't tell you this," she said. "But one of the main reasons I like you is that you are really a moral man, Peter. You really think about right and wrong."

"And all this time, I thought it was my Jaguar," he said.

"I hate your Jaguar," she said.

"The reason, more or less subconsciously, that I wore the turtleneck and drove the Jaguar, was that I can't go play the role of the bereaved close friend of the family wearing a turtleneck and driving the Jaguar."

"I thought that maybe it was because you didn't want to take me with you," Barbara said.

"You didn't want to go over there," Peter said.

"No, but you didn't know that," Barbara said. When he looked at her in surprise, she went on: "You could go home and change. I'll go over there with you, if you would like. If you think I would be welcome."

"Don't be silly, of course you'd be welcome," he said.

"People might get the idea, that if I went there with you, I was your girl friend."

"I don't think that's much of a secret, is it?" Peter said. "But I'm not really up to going there. I suppose this makes me a moral coward, but I don't want to look at Jeannie's face, or the kids'," he said. " But thank you, Barbara."

"What it makes you is honest," Barbara said, and laid her hand on his. Then she added, "We could go to my place."

Barbara lived in a three-room apartment on the top floor of one of the red-brick buildings at the hospital. It was roomy and comfortable.