“The Inferno?”

“Right. And (b) to see what he could learn about other Homicide investigations, meaning, of course, how Homicide is handling the Kellog job.”

“My God!”

“I thought Lowenstein was going to have a heart attack. Or punch out the Mayor. It was that bad. I’m not surprised, now that I hear it, that he turned in his papers.”

“I got it from Harry McElroy that he did. But then he didn’t act like it when he sent for me.”

“OK. How’s this for a scenario? Czernich ran to the Mayor with Lowenstein’s retirement memorandum. The Mayor hadn’t wanted to go that far with Chief Lowenstein. Christ, they’ve been friends for years. He didn’t want him to quit. So they struck a deal. Lowenstein would stay on the job if certain conditions were met. They apparently were. And since they almost certainly involve you and me, we’ll probably hear about them sometime next month.”

Weisbach considered what Wohl had said, then nodded his head, accepting the scenario.

“So what do I do this month? Peter, you can’t be happy with me-the Ethical Affairs Unit-being suddenly dumped on you.”

“I don’t have any problems with it,” Wohl said. “First of all, it, and/or you, haven’t been dumped on me. All I have to do is support you, and I have no problem with that. I think the EAU is a good idea, that you are just the guy to run it, and I think your work is already cut out for you.”

“You really think it’s a good idea?” Weisbach asked, surprised. Wohl nodded. “And what do you mean my work is already cut out for me?”

“The Widow Kellog showed up at Jason Washington’s apartment the night her husband was killed with the announcement that everybody in Five Squad in Narcotics-you know about Five Squad?”

“Not much. I’ve heard they’re very effective.” He chuckled, and added: “Sort of an unshaven Highway Patrol, in dirty clothes, beards, and T-shirts-concealing unauthorized weapons-reading ‘Legalize Marijuana,’ who cast fear into the drug culture by making middle-of-the-night raids.”

“Everybody in Five Squad, according to the Widow Kellog, is dirty, and she implied that they did her husband.”

“My God!”

“Washington believes her, at least about the whole Five Squad being dirty. Before all this crap happened, I was going to bring you in on it.”

“That was nice of you.”

“Practically speaking, our priorities are the Mayor’s priorities. I don’t think he wants to be surprised again by dirty Narcotics people the way he was with Cazerra and company. Internal Affairs dropped the ball on that one, and I don’t think we can give them the benefit of the doubt on this one. Yeah, it looks to me that you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“What kind of help can I have?”

“Anything you want. Washington and Harris, after getting their hands dirty on the Cazerra job, would love to work on a nice clean Homicide, especially of a police officer. And if there is a tie to Narcotics…Jesus!”

“What?”

“I forgot about the Mayor ordering Payne into Homicide,” Wohl said. He reached for his telephone, pushed a button, and a moment later ordered, “Paul, would you get Chief Lowenstein for me, please?”

He put the telephone down.

“Drink your coffee, Mike,” he said. “The first thing you’re going to have to do is face the fact that your innocent, happy days as a staff inspector are over. You have just moved into the world of police politics, and you’re probably not going to like it at all.”

“That thought had already run through my mind,” Weisbach said. He picked up his mug and, shaking his head, put it to his mouth.

The telephone rang. Wohl picked it up.

“Good morning, Chief,” he said. “I wanted to check with you about sending Detective Payne to Homicide. Is that still on?”

He took the headset from his ear so that Weisbach could hear the Chief’s reply.

“Denny Coughlin just told me what happened to the Detweiler girl,” Lowenstein said. “I presume you’re giving Matt some time off?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, when he comes back, send him over whenever you can spare him. I’ve spoken to Captain Quaire. They’re waiting for him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And please tell him I’m sorry about what happened. That’s really a goddamn shame.”

“I’ll tell him that, sir. Thank you.”

“Nice talking to you, Peter,” Chief Lowenstein said, and hung up.

“He didn’t sound like someone about to retire, did he?” Weisbach said.

“No, he didn’t.”

One of the telephones on Wohl’s desk rang.

“This is what happens when I forget to tell Paul to hold my calls,” he said as he reached for it. “Inspector Wohl.”

“Ah, Peter,” Weisbach overheard. “How is the Beau Brummell of Philadelphia law enforcement this morning?”

“Why is it, Armando, that whenever I hear your voice, I think of King Henry the Sixth?”

“Peter, you are, as you well know, quoting that infamous Shakespearean ‘kill all the lawyers’ line out of context.”

“Well, he had the right idea, anyhow. What can I do for you, Armando?”

“Actually, I was led to believe that Inspector Weisbach could be reached at your office.”

“I’d love to know who told you that,” Wohl said, and then handed the telephone to Weisbach. “Armando C. Giacomo, Esquire, for you, Inspector.”

Giacomo, a slight, lithe, dapper man who wore what was left of his hair plastered to the sides of his tanned skull, was one of the best criminal lawyers in Philadelphia.

Wohl got up from his desk and walked to his window and looked out. He could therefore hear only Weisbach’s side of the brief conversation.

“I’ll call you back in five minutes,” Weisbach concluded, and hung up.

Wohl walked back to his desk.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “Giacomo has been asked to represent Mr. Paulo Cassandro.”

“I’ll bet that he has,” Weisbach said. “But he didn’t say so. What he said was that it would give him great pleasure if I would have lunch with him today at the Rittenhouse Club, during which he would like to discuss something which would be to our mutual benefit.”

“I’d go, if I were you,” Wohl said. “They set a very nice table at the Rittenhouse Club.”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

“I’m not in the mood for lunch, really, even at the Rittenhouse Club.”

“He’s looking for something, which means he’s desperate. I’d like to have you there.”

“Yeah,” Wohl said, thoughtfully. “If he’s looking for a deal, he would have gone to the District Attorney. It might be interesting.”

He pushed the button for Paul O’Mara.

“Paul, call Armando C. Giacomo. Tell him that Inspector Weisbach accepts his kind invitation to lunch at the Rittenhouse Club at one, and that he’s bringing me with him.”

THIRTEEN

Peter Wohl pushed open the heavy door of the Rittenhouse Club and motioned for Mike Weisbach to go in ahead of him. They climbed a wide, shallow flight of carpeted marble stairs to the lobby, where they were intercepted by the club porter, a dignified black man in his sixties.

“May I help you, gentlemen?”

“Mr. Weisbach and myself as the guests of Mr. Giacomo,” Peter said.

“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Wohl,” the porter said, and glanced at what Peter thought of as the Who’s Here Board behind his polished mahogany stand. “I believe Mr. Giacomo is in the club. Would you please have a seat?”

He gestured toward a row of chairs against the wall, then walked into the club.

The Who’s Here Board behind the porter’s stand listed, alphabetically, the names of the three-hundred-odd members of the Rittenhouse Club. Beside each name was an inch-long piece of brass, which could be slid back and forth in a track. When the marker was next to the member’s name, this indicated he was on the premises; when away from it that he was not.

Peter saw Weisbach looking at the board with interest. The list of names represented the power structure, social and business, of Philadelphia. Philadelphia’s upper crust belonged to either the Rittenhouse Club or the Union League, or both.