existing coal-fired furnaces, after seventy-odd years of service, were beyond repair. In what he seriously regarded as the most dishonest act of his life, Peter Wohl chose not to notice that the repairs to the “heating system” consisted of “removing malfunctioning components” (the coal furnaces) and “installing replacement components ” (gas-fired devices that provided both heat and air-conditioning) .
He had also circumvented the City’s bureaucracy in the matter of awarding the various contracts. On one hand, his experience as a staff inspector had left him convinced that kickbacks were standard procedure when the City awarded contracts. The price quoted for services to be rendered to the City included the amount of the kick-back. On the other hand, he knew that the law required every contract over $10,000 to be awarded on the basis of the lowest bid. He was, in fact, consciously breaking the law.
He had come to understand, further, that it wasn’t a question of if he would be caught, but when. He didn’t think there would be an attempt to indict him, but there had been a very good chance that he would either be fired, or asked to resign, or, at a minimum, relieved of his new command when the Department of Public Property finally found out what he had done.
That hadn’t happened. The mayor had visited the Schoolhouse and liked what he found. And from a source Peter Wohl had in the Department of Public Property, Peter learned that the mayor had shortly thereafter visited the Department of Public Property and made it clear to the commissioner that he didn’t want to hear any complaints, to him, or to the newspapers, about how the old Frankford Grammar School building had been repaired.
There were several reasons, Wohl had concluded, why the mayor could have chosen to do that. For one thing, it would have been politically embarrassing for him had there been a fuss in the newspapers. He had appointed Wohl to command Special Operations, and look what happened!
Another possibility was that it was repayment of a debt of honor. Peter didn’t know all the details, or even many of them, but he had heard enough veiled references to be sure that when Jerry Carlucci had been an up-and-coming lieutenant and captain and inspector, Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl had gone out on the limb a number of times to save Carlucci’s ass.
Another obvious possibility was that since Carlucci had saved his ass, he was now deeply in Carlucci’s debt.
The last possibility was the nicest to consider, that the mayor understood that while Peter was bending, even breaking, the law he was not doing it for himself, but for the betterment of the Department. Peter didn’t like to accept this possibility; it let him off the hook too easily.
The road to hell, or more precisely to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania’s penal system, was paved, his experience had taught him, if not entirely with good intentions, then with good intentions and the rationalization you aren’t doing something really crooked, but rather something that other people do all the time and get away with.
“Is that all there is, Commissioner, one sergeant?”
“He just holds down the desk until there’s a dignitary to protect, ” Czernich said. “You didn’t know?”
“No, sir. I didn’t.”
“You don’t have any objections to this, Peter, do you?”
“No, sir. If you think this makes sense, I’ll give it my best shot.”
“If you run into problems, Peter, you know my door is always open.”
“Yes, sir. I know that, and I appreciate it, Commissioner.”
The commissioner stood up and offered his hand.
“Always good to see you, Peter,” he said. “Ask my girl to send Inspector Porter and Captain Quaire in, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a Plymouth station wagon in the driveway of Evelyn Glover’s ranch house in Upper Darby when Matt turned into it in the Porsche.
“You’ve got a visitor,” he said.
Evelyn tried to make a joke of it. “That’s no visitor, that’s my husband.”
As Matt stopped the car, a man, forty years old, tall, skinny, tweedy, whom Matt vaguely remembered having seen somewhere before, and who had apparently been peering into the kitchen door, came down the driveway.
Evelyn fumbled around until she found the tiny door latch, opened the door, and got out.
Matt felt a strong urge to shove the stick in reverse and get the hell out of here, but that, obviously, was something he could not do. He opened his door and got out.
He heard the tail end of what Evelyn’s husband was saying: “. . . so