When he got back to the underground garage at his apartment, Matt took the newspaper from the back seat. They had protected the upholstery from Penny’s incontinence, but when she had vomited, that had gone onto the floor carpet, where there were no newspapers.
He went up to his apartment and returned with Lysol and everything else in the under the sink cabinet he thought might be helpful in cleaning the carpet and getting rid of the smell.
It still smelled like vomitus, so he went back to the apartment and got the bottle of Lime after-shave Amy had given him for Christmas and sprinkled all that was left over the interior of the car.
It was three when he climbed the stairs for the last time.
The fucking smell has followed me up here!
He then realized that his suit was soiled, probably ruined.
Can you get that shit, accurate word, shit, out of suiting material?
He took his clothing off, down to his skin, put on a bathrobe, and then carried the suit, the shirt, the necktie, and the underwear down to the basement and jammed it into one of the commercial garbage cans.
Then he went back to his apartment and showered and shaved and waited for it to grow light by watching television. He fell asleep in his armchair at four-thirty. At five-thirty, the alarm went off.
At ten minutes to six, as Peter Wohl was measuring coffee grounds into the basket of his machine, his out-of-tune “Be It Ever So Humble” door chimes sounded.
He went quickly through the door, wondering who the hell it could be. Usually, a telephone call preceded an early morning call.
Unless, of course, it’s my father, who, I suspect, really hopes to catch me with some lovely in here.
It was Captain Richard Olsen, of Internal Affairs.
“Good morning, Swede,” Wohl said. “What gets you out of bed at this hour?”
“I need to talk to you, and I didn’t want it to be over the phone.”
Olsen wouldn’t do this unless he thought it was necessary.
“Come on in. I’m just making coffee.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. I remember the couch. What was her name?”
“What was whose name?”
“That interior decorator. You really had the hots for her.”
“I forget,” Wohl said.
“The hell you do,” Olsen chuckled.
“You had breakfast?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean you have to feed me.”
“There’s bacon and eggs. That all right?”
“Fine. Can I help?”
“You can make bacon and eggs while I get dressed,” Wohl said. “And I’ll finish the coffee.”
“Lanza is dirty,” Olsen said. “Or it goddamned well looks that way.”
“I hope it won’t require action between seven and nine this morning,” Wohl said.
“No.”
“Good, then I can get dressed,” Wohl said, and went into his bedroom.
When he came out, he said, “What I really am curious about is why you couldn’t have told me that on the phone?”
“We have a wiretap of questionable legality,” Olsen said.
“How questionable?”
“Absolutely illegal,” Olsen said.
“Oh, shit,” Wohl said. “And it was found? Are you in trouble, Swede?”
“The tap is gone, and we were not caught.”
“Who’s we? You knew about this?”
“No, of course not. Can I start at the beginning?”
“The bacon’s burning,” Wohl said.
Olsen quickly took the pan off the burner and quickly forked bacon strips out of it.
“Well done, not destroyed,” he said.
“Thank God for small blessings,” Wohl said. "I’ll make the eggs. Can you handle the toaster?”
“I don’t know. I used to think I could fry bacon without a problem. ”
“Give it a try. Tell me about the tap.”
“You remember I told you about Sergeant Framm and Detective Pillare losing Lanza at the airport, and your man Payne saving their ass?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, well, Framm was humiliated by that. So he thought he’d make up for it by being Super Cop. He tapped the Schermer woman ’s line.”
“How did you find out?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yeah, I think I better know.”
“He told me,” Olsen said.
“Oh, Jesus! Now I’m sorry I asked.”
“He means well, Peter. I think he just watches too many cop shows on the TV. They don’t have to get a warrant for a tap.”
“We do. I hope you told him that.”
“What do you think?”
“Not that we could use it, but what did he hear?”
“They tailed Lanza from the airport when he went off tour at midnight. He went to the Schermer woman’s apartment. At quarter to one, he was visited by Mr. Ricco Baltazari. . . .”
“The Ristorante Alfredo Ricco Baltazari?”
“One and the same. He stayed about ten minutes. While