Lowenstein snorted.

“Giacomo is pissing in the wind. He knows he has nothing to deal with. And if he did, he would have gone to the District Attorney with it. Why you?”

“I thought that was interesting. Weisbach told him that, offhand, the only thing he could think of that we were interested in was the Inferno doer, or doers. And/or the Kellog doer.”

“And how did the dapper little dago react to that?”

“He didn’t say no.”

“You think either one was a mob hit, Peter?”

“I didn’t until Giacomo didn’t say no.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so. And then Jason Washington called me this morning. One of his informants said that the Inferno was a mob hit, and gave him a name. Frank-Frankie-Foley.”

There was a just-perceptible pause as Lowenstein searched his memory.

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither has Washington. Or Harris. Or me. Or Intelligence or Organized Crime.”

“Who’s the informant?”

“Washington said that what this guy has given him in the past-which wasn’t much-was reliable. I think he would have said something if there was a mob connection.”

“Huh!” Lowenstein snorted.

“Going back even further than yesterday, the day Kellog was shot, that night, his widow showed up at Washington’s apartment. Did you hear about that?”

“Tell me about it,” Lowenstein said.

Which means either that you did hear about it or didn’t hear about it, but if you did, you want to hear my version of it anyway.

“She told Washington (a) her husband was dirty, (b) the entire Narcotics Five Squad is dirty, and (c) that they did her husband.”

“What did Washington think about it?”

“He said he believes she thinks she’s telling the truth.”

“So what are you going to do with this? All of this?”

“I told Washington to give the Frankie Foley name to Homicide. By now, they probably have it.”

“And the Five Squad allegations?”

“Before Ethical Affairs popped up, I was going to have a quiet word with a staff inspector I know pretty well, and ask him to please keep me out of it.”

Lowenstein chuckled. “A staff inspector named Weisbach?”

“Yeah.”

“And now?”

“This is the first time I’ve really thought hard about it. It seems to me the lines of authority are fuzzy. Dirty cops on the Narcotics Five Squad would seem to be Ethical Affairs’ business. Somebody on the Narcotics Five Squad doing Officer Kellog would seem to belong to Homicide.”

“Are you asking me?”

“Yes.”

“What’s Washington’s role going to be in Ethical Affairs?”

“I have been ordered to give Weisbach whatever support he needs. So far as I’m concerned, that means he gets the Special Operations Investigation Section, which means he gets Washington.”

“Why don’t you leave it that way? Let Washington run that down independently of Homicide? If he’s investigating corruption, and comes across something that looks like the Kellog homicide, he can pass it along.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“And I will have a word with Henry Quaire and suggest that he have Wally Milham run down this-what was the name?-Frankie Foley lead. Assisted by Detective Payne.”

“Can I ask why?”

“I think there may be something to it. Gut feeling.”

“Really? Why?”

“I just told you: gut feeling. Write this down, Peter: When you don’t have a clue, go with your gut feeling.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Wohl said, smiling.

“And I would like Milham to come up with something, to prove to Carlucci that a detective can have a very active sex life and still be a good detective.”

“I’ve known that all along,” Wohl said.

“I’ll bet you have.” Lowenstein laughed. “I think that when we finally get the true story of Mr. Atchison’s recent tragedy, it will turn out that money was involved. Insurance on the wife, maybe. Business problems with the partner. If that’s so, that means he would not have the dough to hire a professional hit man. And the mob only does that sort of thing for adequate compensation. And I don’t think they’d be interested in doing a contract hit for somebody like Atchison in the first place.”

Wohl nodded his head in agreement.

“And following that lead will be instructional for Payne,” Lowenstein went on. “He will learn that most homicides are solved wearing out shoe leather, not by brilliant reasoning. Or, in this case, by an anonymous tip that takes a hell of a lot of legwork to come up with what’s necessary to make it stand up in court.”

“Who do you think did Officer Kellog?”

“If I had to bet, I’d bet on Washington’s gut feeling. He thinks the widow’s telling the truth. I hope to hell the Narcotics Five Squad is not involved, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there was a Narcotics connection.”

“Neither would I,” Wohl said, somewhat sadly.

He looked at his drink. It was empty. He idly moved the glass so that ice cubes spun inside.

“Another, Peter?” Lowenstein asked.

“I shouldn’t, but I will,” Wohl said, and held up the glass to attract the bartender.

When he was to think about it afterward, with more than a little chagrin, Matt Payne realized that if he hadn’t been three quarters of the way into the bag, he never would have gone to Homicide at all that night.

At the time, he hadn’t been thinking too clearly. The only thing he had been sure about was that he hadn’t wanted one of Amy’s pills. Pretending to swallow it while she watched was easier than arguing with her about it.

What he would do, he originally thought, was have a couple of drinks, enough to make him sleepy, and then fall in bed.

But by the third Famous Grouse, he thought that maybe it would be a good idea to go to the Fraternal Order of Police bar. By the fifth drink, it seemed to be a splendid idea. So he went down and got in the Porsche.

By the time he got to Broad and Market, going to the FOP bar seemed less a splendid idea. Everybody in the place would have heard about Penny; everybody he knew would be offering sympathy, and he didn’t want that.

He drove around City Hall, and headed down South Broad Street, headed for Charley McFadden’s house. Charley was working days, he would get him out of bed, and they would have a couple of drinks someplace.

Five blocks down South Broad, he realized that would also be a bad idea, an imposition. Charley would, out of pity, get out of bed and be a good guy. Not fair to Charley.

Dropping in on Peter Wohl was similarly a bad idea. For one thing, Peter lived way the hell out in Chestnut Hill. More importantly, he might have-probably did have-company, spelled A-m-y, and not only would he be an unwelcome guest, but they would correctly surmise that he had not swallowed Amy’s pill.

And then he thought of Wally Milham. Milham was working midnight to eight. And Milham’s personal life was nearly as fucked up as his own. The Mayor had gotten up on a moral high horse at Martha Peebles’ party because Milham had gotten involved with his wife’s sister, and, worse, was using this as a basis to suspect that Milham was somehow involved in the Kellog shooting.

Milham, Matt reasoned, would not only be up and awake, but might welcome some company.

Matt made an illegal U-turn on South Broad Street and headed for the Roundhouse.

Matt had been to Homicide often enough to know how to get past the wooden barrier. There was a little button on the inside of the barrier, which activated the solenoid that opened the gate.

There were half a dozen detectives in the room, one of whom looked up, registering surprise, when he saw Matt. And then he gestured with his finger across the room to where Wally Milham sat at a desk before a typewriter.

Matt walked over to him. It was a moment before Milham became aware that he was standing there.

“Well, I expected you, but not so soon,” Wally Milham said.

“Excuse me?”

Milham pushed a memorandum across his desk. Matt picked it up.