"Yes, sir," Matt Payne said.

"I'll take a look at it, see if anything is missing, and then you can take it to the FBI. Soon enough for you, Walter?"

"Thank you, Peter. 'Harris,' you said, was the detective on the job? Any chance that I could talk to him?"

"You, or one of your people?"

"Actually, I was thinking of one of my people."

"Tony Harris is the exception to the rule that most detectives really would rather be FBI agents, Walter. I don't think that would be very productive."

"I thought everybody loved us," Davis said.

"We all do. Isn't that so, Officer Payne?"

"Yes, sir. We all love the FBI."

The waitress with the beehive hairdo delivered their meal.

The veal was, Walter Davis was willing to admit, better than the veal in Ristorante Alfredo. And the homemade Chianti was nicer than some of the dry red wine he'd had at twenty-five dollars a bottle in Ristorante Alfredo.

But he knew that neither the quality of the food nor its considerably cheaper than Ristorante Alfredo prices were the reasons Peter Wohl had brought him here for lunch.

SIX

Under the special agent in charge (the "SAC") of the Philadelphia Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation were three divisions, Criminal Affairs, Counterintelligence, and Administration. Each division was under an assistant agent in charge, called an "A-SAC."

It was SAC Davis's custom to hold two daily Senior Staff Conferences, called "SSCs, each business day, one first thing in the morning, and the other at four P.M. Participation at the SSCs was limited to the SAC and the three A-SACs. The conferences were informal. No stenographic record was made of them, except when the SAC could not be present, and one of the A-SACs was standing in for him. The SAC naturally wanted to know what he had missed, so a steno was called in to make a written record.

If one of the A-SACs could not make a SSC, one of his assistants, customarily, but not always, the most senior special agent in that division, would be appointed to stand in for him.

This was very common. The A-SACs were busy men, and it was often inconvenient for them to make both daily SSCs, although they generally tried to make at least one of them, and took especial pains not to miss two days' SSCs in a row.

But it was a rare thing for SAC Davis to find, as he did when he returned to his office from lunch with Staff Inspector Wohl and Officer Payne, all three A-SACs waiting outside his office for the afternoon SSC.

He was pleased. In addition to whatever else would be discussed, he intended to discuss the upcoming trials of Clifford Wallis and Delmore Travis. The political aspects were mind-boggling. Washington was going to be breathing down his neck on this one, and not only the senior hierarchy of the FBI, joining which was one of SAC Davis's most fond dreams, but the higher-highest-echelons of the Department of Justice.

If he handled this well, it would reflect well upon him. If he dropped the ball (or someone he was responsible for dropped it), there would be no chance whatever that he would be transferred to Washington and named a deputy inspector. And from what he had seen of the situation, there was a saber-toothed tiger behind every filing cabinet, just waiting to leap and bite off somebody's ass.

This sort of a case was the sort of thing one should discuss with the A-SACs personally, not with one of their subordinates. With all three of the A-SACs present at this SSC, it would not be necessary to call a special SSC.

Davis waited until he had heard all the reports of what was going on in the Criminal, Administrative, and Counterintelligence Divisions, and made the few decisions necessary before getting into what he was now thinking of as the " Wallis/Travis Sticky Ball of Wax."

Then he gave a report, the essentials and the flavor, of both the personal conference he had had in Washington the day before and the two telephone calls he had had that morning before going off to lunch with Staff Inspector Wohl and his straight man.

"I had lunch today with Staff Inspector Wohl of the Philadelphia Police Department," he announced. "Everybody know who Wohl is?"

The three A-SACs nodded.

"I didn't go through you, Glenn," he explained to Glenn Williamson, A-SAC (Administration), "I know Peter Wohl, and this was unofficial. But I think you should open a line of communication with CaptainWhat's his name?"

"Duffy. Jack Duffy, Chief," Williamson furnished. Williamson was a well-dressed man of forty-two who took especial pains with his full head of silver-gray hair.

"-Duffy of-what's his title, Glenn?"

"Assistant to the commissioner, Chief."

"-whatever-as soon as possible. Either this afternoon, or first thing in the morning," Davis finished.

For reasons SAC Davis really did not understand, cooperation between the Philadelphia Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation was not what he believed it should be. Getting anything out of them was like pulling teeth. When he had found the opportunity, he had discussed the problem with Commissioner Czernick. Czernick had told him that whenever he wanted anything from the Department, he should contact Captain Duffy, who would take care of whatever was requested. It had been Davis's experience that bringing Duffy into the loop had served primarily to promptly inform Czernick that the FBI was asking for something; it had not measurably speeded up getting anything. The reverse, he thought, might actually be the case.

But now that Duffy was in the loop, Duffy would have to be consulted.

"Yes, sir."

"You might mention I had an unofficial word with Wohl. Whatever you think best."

"Yes, sir. How did it go with Wohl, sir?"

"Very interesting man. He had his straight man with him. I was thinking of lunch at Alfredo's, and we wound up in a greasy spoon in South Philadelphia."

"His straight man, sir?" A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young asked. Young was a redhead, pale-faced, and on the edge between muscular and plump.

"His driver. A young plainclothes cop named Payne. They have a little comedy routine they use on people Wohl's annoyed with. I had to keep Wohl waiting twice, you see-"

"Oh, you met Payne, Chief?" A-SAC (Counterintelligence) Isaac J. Towne asked. He was a thirty-nine-year-old, balding Mormon, who took his religion seriously, a tall, hawk-featured man who had once told Davis, perfectly serious, that he regarded the Communists as the Antichrist.

"You know him?" Davis asked, surprised.

"I know about him," Towne replied. "Actually, I know a good deal about him. Among other things, he's the fellow who blew the brains of the serial rapist all over his van."

"Oh, really?" A-SAC Young asked, genuine interest evident in his voice. Davis knew that Young had a fascination for what he had once called "real street cop stuff"; Davis suspected he was less interested in some of the white-collar crime that occupied a good deal of the FBI's time and effort.

"How is it you know 'a good deal about him,' Isaac?" Davis asked.

"Well, when I saw the story in the papers, the name rang a bell, and I checked my files. We had just finished a CBI on him." (Complete Background Investigation.)

"He'd applied for the FBI?"

"The Marine Corps. He was about to be commissioned."

"Apparently he wasn't?"

"He flunked the physical," Towne said. "His father, hisadoptive father, is Brewster Cortland Payne."

"As in Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and whatever else?"

"And Lester. Right, Chief."

SAC Davis found that fascinating. He was himself an attorney, and although he had never actively practiced law, he was active in the Philadelphia Bar Association. He knew enough about the Bar in Philadelphia to know that Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester was one of the more prestigious firms.