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Sergeant Francis Hollaran was Chief Inspector Coughlin’s driver, a somewhat inexact job description that really meant his function was to do whatever possible, whenever possible, to spare his chief from wasting his time.

But it was more than that. Most of the inspectors and chief inspectors of the Philadelphia Police Department had learned what was expected of very senior supervisors by serving as “driver” to a chief inspector earlier in their careers.

“It’ll take me a couple of minutes, Inspector,” Roberts said.

Captain David Pekach pulled into the space reserved for the commanding officer of the Highway Patrol in the parking lot of the Special Operations Division at Castor and Frankford avenues and got out of the car.

A handsome young Irishman in a Highway Patrol sergeant’s uniform stepped out of the shadows and extended a mug of coffee to him.

“I thought you might need this,” he said with a smile.

Sergeant Jerry O’Dowd was on the manning charts as the administrative assistant to the commanding officer, Highway Patrol. He performed essentially the same duties for Captain Pekach as Sergeant Hollaran performed for Chief Inspector Coughlin, and in fact, everybody thought of him as Pekach’s driver. But, as a captain, Pekach, who really needed someone to run intelligent interference for him, was not authorized a driver, and to assign him one would have further antagonized a large number of inspectors and chief inspectors in the department who believed that Highway Patrol and Special Operations White Shirts were already enjoying far too many perquisites.

Naming O’Dowd as Pekach’s administrative assistant had been Wohl’s idea.

Pekach took the coffee mug.

“The question, Jerry, is how did you know I would probably need a cup of coffee at”—he looked at his watch—“ten minutes to four in the morning?”

“Jack Malone called me,” O’Dowd said. “He said he didn’t know what was going on, but that Inspector Wohl had put out the arm for you, and that Inspector Weisbach called in saying he would be unavailable until further notice. I figured you might need me.”

“I probably will, and I appreciate your coming, but until I find out what the hell is going on, I think you better wait in my office—out of sight. Malone meant well, but he really shouldn’t have called you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As soon as I find out what’s going on, I’ll let you know,” Pekach said and, carrying the coffee mug, went into the schoolhouse.

There was no one in the former principal’s office that now served as the office of the Special Operations commander and his deputy. Pekach even had to turn on the lights.

The first person to appear, five minutes later, was Sergeant Jason Washington.

“What the hell is going on, Jason?” Pekach greeted him. When Washington didn’t immediately reply, Pekach added: “The inspector told me to meet him here.”

“I have something delicate to say,” Washington said. “Under the circumstances—which I will explain if Peter Wohl doesn’t arrive in the next few minutes to explain himself—I believe that while Wohl certainly would like to have Captain Sabara here, he may have forgotten—”

“And Mike would be pissed not to be here, right?”

Washington nodded.

Pekach reached for one of the telephones on the desk of Officer Paul T. O’Mara, Wohl’s administrative assistant.

He was not quite through dialing when Wohl walked in the office. He stopped dialing.

“Weisbach here yet?” Wohl asked.

“No, sir,” Washington and Pekach said in chorus.

“Who are you calling?” Wohl asked.

“Mike,” Pekach said.

“Whose idea was that?”

“Mine,” Pekach said, as Washington held up his hand like a guilty child.

Wohl, smiling, shook his head.

“Whichever of you two is really to blame, thank you very much,” he said. “As I was coming up Frankford Avenue, I thought of him, and of Tony Harris, McFadden, Martinez—”