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“The woman who shot Dutch is a junkie. They have an ID on her, and on the guy, another junkie, who was involved. I think they’ll pick him up in a couple of days; I wouldn’t be surprised if they already have him. My phone answerer is blinking. A Homicide detective named Jason Washington’s got the job—”

“I know him,” August Wohl interrupted.

“I asked him to keep me advised. As soon as I hear something, I’ll let you know.”

“Why should he keep you advised?” August Wohl asked.

“Because the commissioner, for the good of the department, has assigned me to charm the lady from TV.”

“I saw the TV,” Wohl’s father said. “The blonde really was an eyewitness?”

“Yes, she was. She just made the identification, of the dead girl, and the guy who ran. Positive. I was there when she made it. The guy’s name is Gerald Vincent Gallagher.”

“White guy?”

“Yeah. The woman, too. Her name is Schmeltzer. Her father has a grocery store over by Lincoln High.”

“Jesus, I know him,” August Wohl said.

“Dad, I better see who called,” Peter said.

“He’s going to be at Marshutz & Sons, for the wake, I mean. They’re going to lay him out in the Green Room; I talked to Gertrude Moffitt,” Peter’s mother said.

“I’ll be at the wake, of course, Mother,” Peter said.

“Peter,” Chief Inspector Wohl, retired, said thoughtfully, “maybe it would be a good idea for you to wear your uniform to the funeral.”

“What?” Peter asked, surprised. Staff inspectors almost never wore uniforms.

“There will be talk, if you’re not at the house tonight—”

“You bet, there will be,” Peter’s mother interjected.

“People like to gossip,” Chief Inspector Wohl went on. “Instead of letting them gossip about maybe why you didn’t come to the house, let them gossip about you being in uniform.”

“That sounds pretty devious, Dad.”

“Either the house tonight, with his other close friends, or the uniform at the wake,” Chief Inspector Wohl said. “A gesture of respect, one way or the other.”

“I don’t know, Dad,” Peter said..

“Do what you like,” his father said, abruptly, and the line went dead.

He’s mad. He offered advice and I rejected it. And he’s probably right, too. You don’t get to be a chief inspector unless you are a master practitioner of the secret rites of the police department.

There was only one recorded message on the telephone answerer tape:

“Dennis Coughlin, Peter. You’ve done one hell of a job with that TV woman. That was very touching, what she said on the TV. The commissioner saw it, too. I guess you know—Matt Lowenstein told me he saw you—that the commissioner wants you to stay on top of this. None of us wants anything embarrassing to anyone to happen. Call me, at the house, if necessary, when you learn something.”

While the tape was rewinding, Peter glanced at his watch.

“Damn!” he said.

He tore off his jacket and his shoulder holster and started to unbutton his shirt. There was no time for a shower. He was late already. He went into the bathroom and splashed Jamaica Bay lime cologne from a bottle onto his hands, and then onto his face. He sniffed his underarms, wet his hands again, and mopped them under his arms.

He stripped to his shorts and socks, and then dressed quickly. He pulled on a pale blue turtleneck knit shirt, and then a darker blue pair of Daks trousers. He slipped his feet into loafers, put his arms through the straps of the shoulder holster, and then into a maroon blazer. He reached on a closet shelf for a snap-brim straw hat and put that on. He examined himself in the full-length mirrors that covered the sliding doors to the bedroom closet.

“My, don’t you look splendid, you handsome devil, you!” he said.