“Special Operations, Lieutenant Suffern.”

“Matt Payne, sir. Have you got a location on the Inspector?”

“Yeah. I got a number. Just a minute, Matt,” Lieutenant Suffern said, and then his voice changed: “Matt, I was sorry to hear…”

“Thank you.”

“If there’s anything I can do?”

“I can’t think of a thing, but thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

“Here it is,” Suffern said, “One-thirty A.M. this morning until further notice.” He then read Matt the telephone number at which Inspector Wohl could be reached.

A look of mingled amusement and annoyance flickered across Matt’s face. The number he had been given was familiar to him. It was the one number in Greater Philadelphia where calling Inspector Wohl at this time would be a very bad idea indeed. It was that of the apartment of his sister, Amelia Payne, M.D., Ph. D.

“Thank you, sir.”

“When you feel up to it, Matt, we’ll go hoist a couple.”

“Thank you,” Matt said. “I’d like to.”

Matt hung up and turned to Tiny, a smile crossing his face at his own wit.

“Wohl can’t be reached right now,” he said. “He’s at the doctor’s.”

“So what do we do?”

“When all else fails, tell the truth,” Matt said. “You go to the schoolhouse and when Wohl shows up you tell him I said ‘Thank you, but no thank you, I don’t want any company.’”

“I don’t know, Matt,” Tiny said dubiously. “Wohl wasn’t making a suggestion. He told me to sit on you.”

“Oh, shit,” Matt said, and dialed Amy’s number.

“Dr. Payne is not available at this time,” her answering machine reported. “If you will leave your name and number, she will return your call as soon as possible. Please wait for the tone. Thank you.”

“Amy, I know you’re there. I need to talk to Inspector Wohl.”

A moment later, Wohl himself came on the line.

“What is it, Matt?”

“Tiny Lewis is here. Having him go with me to the Detweilers’ is not such a good idea. The funeral is family and intimate friends only.”

“So your sister has been telling me,” Wohl said. “He’s there? Put him on the line.”

Matt held the phone up, and Tiny rose massively from the table and took it.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

Tiny’s was the only side of the conversation Matt could hear, and he was curious when Tiny chuckled, a deep rumble, and said, “I would, too. That’d be something to see.”

When he hung up, Matt asked, “What would be ‘something to see’?”

“The Mayor’s face when somebody tells him he can’t get in. Wohl said he knows the Mayor’s going to the funeral.”

“This one he may not get to go to,” Matt said. “My father said nobody’s been invited, period.”

“Wohl also said I was to drive you out there, if you wanted, and then to keep myself available. I was going to do that anyway.”

“You can take me over to the Parkway as soon as I get dressed. I’m going to drive my sister out there, in her car.”

“Yeah, sure. But listen to what I said. You need me, you know where to find me.”

Inspector Peter Wohl was examining the hole gouged in his cheek by Amy Payne’s dull razor-and from which an astonishing flow of blood was now escaping-when Amy appeared in the bathroom door.

She was in her underwear. It was white, and what there was of it was mostly lace. He found the sight very appealing, and wondered if that was her everyday underwear, or whether she had worn it for him.

That pleasant notion was immediately shattered by her tone of voice and the look on her face.

“It’s for you,” she said. “Again. Does everyone in Philadelphia know you’re here?”

“Sorry,” he said, and quickly tore off a square of toilet paper, pressed it to the wound, and went into her bedroom. He sat on the bed and grabbed the telephone.

“Inspector Wohl.”

“I’m sorry to trouble you, sir,” Jason Washington’s deep, mellifluous voice said.

Washington’s the soul of discretion. When he got this number from the tour lieutenant-and with that memory of his, he probably knows whose number it is-unless it was important, he would have waited until I went to work.

“No trouble. I’m just sitting here quietly bleeding to death. Good morning, Jason. What’s up?”

“I just had an interesting call. An informant who has been reliable with what he’s given me-which hasn’t been much-in the past. He said the Inferno murders were a mob contract.”

“Interesting. Did he give you a name?”

“Frankie Foley.”

“Never heard of him.”

Amy sat on the bed beside him and put her hand on his cheek. It was a gesture of affection, but only by implication. She had a cotton swab dipped in some kind of antiseptic.

She pulled the toilet paper bandage off and professionally swabbed his gouge.

“Neither have I. And neither has Organized Crime or Intelligence.”

“Even more interesting.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

It was a moment before Wohl replied.

“Give it to Homicide. And then see if you can make a connection to Cassandro.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wohl had an unpleasant thought. There was a strong possibility that he would have to remind Washington that a new chain of command was in effect. Washington was used to reporting directly to him. He might not like having to go through Weisbach.

“What did Weisbach say when you told him?”

“He said he thought we better give it to Homicide, but to ask you first.”

Thank God! Personnel conflict avoided.

“Write this down, Jason. The true sign of another man’s intelligence is the degree to which he agrees with you.”

Washington laughed.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and hung up.

“Who was that?” Amy asked.

“Jason Washington.”

“I thought so. How did he know you were here? What did you do, put an ad in the Bulletin? Who else knows where you spent the night?”

“There is a very short list of people who have to know where I am all the time. The tour lieutenant knows where to find me. Since only Matt and Jason called, to answer your question two people have reason to suspect I spent the night here.”

“God!”

“There is a solution to the problem,” Peter said. “I could make an honest woman of you.”

“Surely you jest,” she said after a moment’s pause.

“I don’t know if I am or not,” Peter said. “You better not consider that a firm offer.”

She stood up. “Now I’m sorry I fixed your face,” she said, and walked toward the bathroom.

“Nice ass,” he called after her.

She gave him the finger without turning and went into the bathroom, closing the door.

Jesus, where did that “make an honest woman of you” crack come from?

He stood up and started looking for his clothing.

Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., of the Ninth District, a very tall, well-muscled man, was sitting in a wicker armchair on the enclosed porch of his home reading the Philadelphia Bulletin when Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr., of Special Operations, pushed the door open and walked in.

Tiny, who knew his father was working the midnight-out tour, was surprised to see him. It was his father’s custom, when he came off the midnight-out tour, to take a shower and go to bed and get his eight hours’ sleep. And here he was, in an obviously fresh white shirt, immaculately shaven, looking as if he was about to go on duty.

“I thought you were working the midnight-out,” Tiny said.

“Good morning, son. How are you? I am fine, thank you for asking,” Lieutenant Lewis said dryly.

“Sorry.”

“I was supposed to fill in for Lieutenant Prater, who was ill,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “When I got to the office, he had experienced a miraculous recovery. And I thought you were working days.”

“I’m working,” Tiny said, and gestured toward the car parked in the drive.

“How can you be working and here?”

“My orders, Lieutenant, sir, are to stay close to the radio, in case I’m needed.”

“You needn’t be sarcastic, Foster, it was a reasonable question.”