“Your being taken to the NIKE site against your will constitutes kidnapping. That’s a federal offense. They will ask your help in identifying the people who committed this crime against you.”
“And I will tell them the same thing I told you. I have no idea. It was obviously a case of mistaken identity.”
“You don’t really believe that will make any difference to Vincenzo Savarese, do you?” Washington asked. “You are the man who not only introduced his beloved granddaughter to the use of cocaine, but put her in a dangerous situation where she was brutally raped.”
Washington walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, and then turned to look at Ketcham.
“Shortly after the FBI releases you—Mickey O’Hara of the Bulletin is outside, convinced that his many readers will be fascinated to learn about the stockbroker who was found in a deserted NIKE site wearing nothing but an overcoat—Mr. Savarese will learn you are still alive. The next time he abducts you, it will be to a place where no one will find you.”
Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham looked at Detective Jason Washington, licked his lips, and announced, “The bastard that did that to Cynthia is the one on the top.”
Washington said nothing.
Ketcham picked up the photograph of Officer Herbert Prasko of the Five Squad of the Narcotics Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department and held it up for Washington to see.
“He was dressed like a bum when he did it, but that’s the son of a bitch!”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Goddamn it, of course I’m sure. He handcuffed me to the toilet, and then did that to Cynthia. The filthy bastard!” Ketcham said, and then self-righteous outrage overcame his discretion. “And he stole twenty thousand dollars from me!”
“Nice job, Jason,” Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said to Sergeant Washington when Washington came back into the room adjacent to the interview room.
“The question, Chief,” Washington said, not quite able to convincingly pretend he was not interested in the compliment, “is now that we know, what are we going to do?”
“Who did he pick out?” Inspector Wohl asked.
“Officer Prasko,” Washington said as if he had something distasteful in his voice.
“What do we have on Prasko?” Wohl asked.
“The pertinent personnel documents are in my briefcase,” Washington said. “If memory serves, there was nothing significant—”
He stopped in midsentence when the door opened.
“I’ve taken my walk,” Mickey O’Hara said, “and am not in a receptive mood for a suggestion to take another one.”
“Mickey, what would it take for you to go home and call me in the morning?” Chief Coughlin replied. “With the understanding that I would fill you in completely then?”
“A blare of celestial trumpets, and a voice even deeper than Jason’s saying, ‘Mickey, my son, do what the nice old man asks you to do.’ Failing that . . .”
Wohl and Washington chuckled, which earned them a dirty look from Chief Coughlin.
“You agree to sit on it, right?” Coughlin said.
O’Hara nodded.
“Where’s Amy . . . Dr. Payne?” Coughlin asked.
“She has a rather touching faith in you to do the right thing,” O’Hara said. “But she is showing signs of impatience.”
Coughlin went to the door, located A. A. Payne, M.D., and waved her into the room.
“Amy, honey, you realize that you really have no business here—” Coughlin began.
“Uncle Denny, you know I love you,” Amy interrupted. “But right now, I think it had better be ‘Chief’ and ‘Doctor.’ ”
“Uncle Denny,” O’Hara said highly amused, “what the good doctor means is ‘cut the crap.’ ”
“That man wouldn’t be in there if it wasn’t for me,” Amy said gesturing through the one-way mirror at Ronald R. Ketcham. “I need the answer to two questions, and then you’ll be rid of me.”
“Fair enough,” Coughlin said after a just-perceptible pause. “What are the questions?”
“Did that man tell you what happened to my patient?”
“Yes, he did,” Coughlin said. “The information in your message is apparently the fact.”
“Do you have the name of the animal who did that to her?”
“What animal?” O’Hara asked. “Did what to who?”
Coughlin held his hand out to indicate Mickey should wait.
“Yes, we do,” Coughlin said.
“Can I tell my patient that he is about to be arrested?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Why not?” Amy snapped. “And don’t even think of telling me I’ve had my two questions.”
“Honey,” Peter Wohl began, and instantly realized that Coughlin and everybody else had instantly picked up on the term of endearment. He plunged ahead. “There are several investigations going on here . . .”