Part 23 (1/2)

”I've got to get a suit,” Tiny said. ”Mom said she put them in a cedar bag.”

”Probably in your room,” Foster Lewis, Sr., said. ”Am I permitted to ask why you need a suit?''

”Certainly,” Tiny said. He followed his father into the kitchen and took a china mug from a cabinet.

”Well?” Foster Lewis asked.

”Well, what? Oh, do you want to know why I need a suit?''

”I asked. Where were you when I asked?”

”You asked if you were permitted to ask, and I said, 'Certainly,' but you didn't actually ask.”

”Wisea.s.s.” His father chuckled. ”There's a piece of cake in the refrigerator.”

”Thank you,” Tiny said, and helped himself to the cake.

”You know a Homicide-ex-Homicide-detective named Harris? Tony Harris?”

”Yeah. Not well. But he's supposed to be good.”

”You are now looking, sir, at his official errand runner,” Tiny said.

”What does that mean?”

”I suppose it means that if he says 'Go fetch,' I go fetch, happily wagging my tail.”

”If you're being clever, stop it,” his father said. ”Tell me what's going on.”

”Well, I was told to report to a Captain Sabara at Highway. When I got there, he wasn't, but Inspector Wohl called me into his office-”

”You saw him?” Foster Lewis, Sr., asked.

”Yeah. Nice guy. Sharp dude. Nice threads.”

I was on the job, Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis thought, for two or three years before I ever saw an inspector up close.

”Go on.”

”Well, he said that Harris has the Magnella job, and that he needed a second pair of hands. He said it would involve a lot of overtime, and if I had any problem with that to say so; he didn't want any complaints later. So I told him the more overtime the better, and I asked him what I would be doing. He said-that's where I got that-that if Harris said 'Go fetch,' I was to wag my tail and go fetch. He said the detail would last only until Harris got whoever shot Magnella, but it would be good experience for me.”

”That's it?”

”Well, he gave me a speech about what not to do with the car-”

”What car?”

”A '71 Ford. Good shape.”

”You have a Department car?”

”Yeah. Unmarked, naturally,” Tiny said just a little smugly.

”My G.o.d!”

”What's wrong?”

Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., thought, When I got out of the Academy, I was a.s.signed to the 26th District. A potbellied Polack sergeant named Grotski went out of his way to make it plain he didn't 't think there was any place in the Department for n.i.g.g.e.rs and then handed me over to Bromley T. Wesley, a South Carolina redneck who had come north to work in the s.h.i.+pyards during the Second World War and had joined the cops because he didn't want to go back home to Tobacco Road.

I walked a beat with Bromley for a year. When he went into a candy store for a c.o.ke or something, he made me wait outside. For six months he never used my name. I was either ”Hey, You!” or worse, ”Hey, Boy!” I was told that if I turned out okay, maybe after a year or so, I could work my way up to a wagon. The son of a b.i.t.c.h made it plain he thought all black people were born r.e.t.a.r.ded.

Bromley T. Wesley was an ignorant bigot with a sixth-grade education, but he was a cop. He knew the streets and he knew people, and he taught me about them. Between Wesley and what I learned on the wagon, when I went out in an RPC by myself for the first time I was a cop.

What the h.e.l.l is Peter Wohl thinking of, putting this rookie in civilian clothes instead of in a wagon, at least?

”Nothing, I suppose,” Lieutenant Lewis said. ”It's a little unusual, that's all. Eat your cake.”

ELEVEN.

The normally open gate of the Detweiler estate in Chestnut Hill, like the gate at the Browne place in Merion, was now both closed and guarded by rent-a-cops.

When Matt pulled the nose of Penelope Detweiler's Mercedes against the gate, one of them, a burly man in a blue suit, came through a small gate within the gate and looked down at Matt.

”May I help you, sir?”

”We're returning Miss Detweiler's car,” Matt said.

” 'We,' sir?”

”I'm a cop,” Matt said, and jerked his thumb toward Jason Was.h.i.+ngton, who was following him in the unmarked Ford. ”And so is he.”

”You expected?”

”No.”

”I'll have to call, sir.”

”Tell them it's Matt Payne.”

The rent-a-cop looked at him strangely and then said, ”Matt Payne. Yes, sir.”

He went back through the small gate, entered the gate house, and emerged a moment later to swing the left half of the double gate open. He waved Matt through.

H. Richard Detweiler, himself, answered the door. He had a drink in his hand.

”Boy, that was quick!” he said. ”Come in, Matt.”