“I thought you would never say that,” Matt replied.
Matthews took money from his pocket.
“I understand Special Operations now runs Dignitary Protection, ” he said.
“I don’t know. I haven’t reported in yet. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I’ve been assigned to liaise between the Bureau and the Secret Service for the Vice President’s visit.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, for example, when the Secret Service big shot arrives at 30th Street Station from Washington tomorrow morning, I will be a member of the official welcoming party.”
“You get to carry his bags? Boy, you are moving up in the FBI, aren’t you?”
Why am I unwilling to tell him, “Whoopee, what a coincidence, me too!”
“Screw you, Matt,” Matthews said, chuckling. “Look, if you can find out who’s going to run this for the Police Department, it would be helpful to me. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure, Jack. I’ll ask around.”
At quarter to seven the next morning, half an hour early, Officer Tom O’Mara pulled Staff Inspector Peter Wohl’s unmarked car to the curb in front of the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building.
And then he didn’t know what to do. It was an office building, and it was Sunday, and it was closed. Detective Payne had told him he lived on the top floor. That was a little strange to begin with. Who lived in an office building?
He got out of the car and walked to the plate-glass door and looked in. There was a deserted lobby, with a polishing machine next to a receptionist’s desk, and nothing else. O’Mara walked to the edge of the sidewalk and looked up. He couldn’t see anything. But then when he glanced back at the building, he saw a doorbell, mounted on the bricks next to the door where you could hardly see it.
He went to it and pushed it. He couldn’t hear anything ringing. He decided the only thing he could do was just wait. He went to the car and leaned on the fender.
A minute or so later, a Holmes Service rent-a-cop appeared in the lobby and looked out curiously. O’Mara walked to the door as the rent-a-cop unlocked it.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m a police officer,” O’Mara said.
“I never would have guessed,” the rent-a-cop said, and then when he saw the look on O’Mara’s face added, “I retired in 1965 out of the Third District.”
“Does a detective named Payne live here?”
The rent-a-cop motioned him into the building and pointed at an elevator.
“Take a ride to the third floor. Payne lives up there. You’ll see a doorway with an intercom.”
“Thank you.”
Matt Payne, obviously fresh from a shower, was buttoning his shirt when O’Mara climbed the flight of stairs from the third floor.
“I decided making coffee would be a waste of effort, sorry,” he said.
“Nice apartment,” O’Mara said.
“If you’re a midget,” Payne said. “Give me a minute to get my pants on.”
“I’m early.”
“You get the worm, then,” Payne said as he walked to the rear of the apartment.
O’Mara looked around the apartment. There was an oil painting of a naked lady mounted to the bricks of the fireplace.
It would be nice, Officer O’Mara thought, to have a place like this to bring a girl to. He had thought of getting an apartment, but every time he brought the subject up, his mother had a fit. There would be enough time to get his own apartment later, when he was married. The thing he had to do now was learn to save his money, and renting an apartment when there was a perfectly good room for him to use at home would be like throwing money down the toilet.
He wondered if Payne brought the Detweiler girl here. She seemed to be a nice girl, even after what he’d heard about her being on drugs.
“I like your picture,” O’Mara said. “The inspector’s got one like it.”
“Yeah, I know,” Payne said. “Mrs. Washington gave me that one.”
“Sergeant Washington’s wife?”
“Yeah,” Payne said, walking to the fireplace mantel and picking up his Chief’s Special snub-nosed revolver and slipping it into a holster that fit inside his waistband.
“Is it hard to get through the qualification?” O’Mara asked.
“What?”
O’Mara pushed his coat aside to reveal his standard-issue Smith & Wesson Military and Police revolver, which had a six-inch barrel and was time and a half as large as the snubnose.
In order to carry anything but the issue revolver, it was necessary to go through a test—“the qualification”—at the range at the Police Academy.