“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Chief. How do I handle this?”
“You talk to the boyfriend. Do you think Washington has anything yet?”
“He’s had two hours. Let me find a phone, and I’ll find out.”
He started to push himself away from the table. Coughlin waved him back into it.
“Now that you’ve joined the upper crust, Peter,” Coughlin said smiling at him, “let me show you how the upper crust finds a telephone.”
He twisted around in his chair, caught a waiter’s eye, and put his balled fist next to his ear, miming someone holding a telephone. The waiter nodded and immediately brought a telephone to their table, plugging it into a socket on the table leg.
“Thank you,” Coughlin said smiling at Wohl, then dialed a number from memory.
Wohl thought it interesting that Coughlin had not found it necessary to ask for Washington’s number.
He either has a great memory—which is of course possible—or he has been calling that number frequently.
“How much were you able to learn about the boyfriend?” Coughlin began the conversation without any other opening comment.
Wohl smiled. He knew that Jason Washington had begun his police career walking a beat in Center City under Lieutenant Dennis V. Coughlin. They had been friends—and mutual admirers—ever since. Polite opening comments were not necessary. Washington would immediately recognize Coughlin’s voice and know what Coughlin wanted to know.
Coughlin, in an automatic action, had taken a small leather-bound notebook and a pencil from his pocket. He scribbled quickly on it as Washington replied.
“Sit on it until I get back to you. I’m with Wohl,” Coughlin said and hung up.
Now it was Peter Wohl’s turn to look at Coughlin with a question on his face.
“One boyfriend,” Coughlin said. “Ronald R. Ketcham, twenty-five, five-ten, brown hair, 165 pounds, no record except for traffic violations, lives in one of the garden apartments on Overbrook Avenue near Episcopal Academy . . .”
He looked at Wohl until Wohl indicated he knew the garden apartment complex, and then went on:
“. . . works for Wendell, Wilson, the stockbrokers in Bala Cynwyd. Has not been to work for three days, and has not been seen around his apartment. His car, a Buick coupe, is locked up in the garage. There are no signs of forcible entry into his apartment, and no signs of any kind of a struggle inside the apartment. He could, of course, be in Atlantic City.”
“Or passed through Atlantic City on his way to swim with the fishes,” Peter said.
“You think?”
“If Savarese found out this guy was with his granddaughter when she was raped.”
“How could Savarese know that?” Coughlin asked.
“How could he know she was raped?” Peter countered.
“Maybe he found this guy before Jason did.”
“If that’s the case . . .” Peter said.
“Yeah,” Coughlin said. “Savarese is now looking for the cop.”
“I’m tempted to say let him have him,” Peter said.
“You don’t even want to start thinking things like that, Peter,” Coughlin said almost paternally.
“The other thought I have been having, if this went down the way I think it did, was that—”
“It sounds like something an already dirty Five Squad cop would do?”
Wohl nodded.
“Knowing that another dirty cop would not turn him in,” Coughlin agreed.
Both of them fell silent for nearly a full minute.
“You open to suggestion, Peter?” Coughlin finally asked.
“Wide open,” Wohl said.
“Okay. Tell Jason to find out what else he can about Mr. Ketcham. I’ll put out a Locate, Do Not Detain on him. And I will think about what to do about our friend Vincenzo.”
“For example?”
“I know that you think it would probably be a good thing, but we really can’t permit Savarese to cut the limbs off this scumbag one at a time with a dull knife,” Coughlin said.
“My mouth ran away with me,” Peter said.
“So long as it wasn’t your heart,” Coughlin said.
“I wish we had more than ‘seems likely’ to tie somebody on Five Squad to the oral rape—”
“We don’t even have ‘seems likely,’ all we have is ‘could be,’ ” Coughlin interrupted. “What are you thinking?”
“We go into Calhoun’s safe-deposit box in Harrisburg. And then Jason explains to him that not only do we now have him with money he can’t explain, but that we are about to find out who raped this girl, and in his own best interests, he should tell us about everything.”
“Too many ‘ifs.’ There may be nothing in that box to incriminate him about anything. And if we go into the box,