“’Morning, Matt,” Carlucci said. He was a tall, large-boned, heavyset man, wearing a well-tailored, dark blue suit, a stiffly starched, bright-white shirt, a dark, finely figured necktie, and highly polished black wing-tip shoes.

He did not seem at all pleased to see Lowenstein.

“I need a minute of your time, Mr. Mayor.”

“Here, you mean,” Carlucci said, on the edge of unpleasantness, gesturing around at the traffic circling City Hall.

A citizen recognized His Honor and blew his horn. Carlucci smiled warmly and waved.

“Yes, sir,” Lowenstein said.

Carlucci hesitated a moment, then got back in the limousine and waved at Lowenstein to join him. Fellows, after hesitating a moment, got back in the front seat. The Mayor activated the switch that raised the divider glass.

“OK, Matt,” Carlucci said.

“A police officer has been shot,” Lowenstein began.

“Dead?” the Mayor interrupted. There was concern and indignation in the one word.

“Yes, sir. Shot in the back of his head.”

“Line of duty?”

“His name is Kellog, Mr. Mayor. He was an undercover officer assigned to the Narcotics Unit. He was found in his home about an hour ago.”

“By who?”

“When he didn’t show up for work, they sent a Twenty-fifth District car to check on him.”

“He wasn’t married?”

“Separated.”

“Has she been notified?”

“They are trying to locate her.”

“Get to the goddamned point, Matt.”

“The story is that she’s moved in with another detective.”

“Oh, Jesus! Do you know who?”

“Detective Wallace J. Milham, of Homicide.”

“Isn’t he the sonofabitch whose wife left him because she caught him screwing around with her sister?”

Mayor Carlucci’s intimate knowledge of the personal lives of police officers was legendary, but this display of instant recall surprised Lowenstein.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is what you’re trying to tell me that this guy, or the wife, is involved?”

“We don’t know, sir. That is, of course, possible.”

“You realize the goddamned spot this puts me in?” the Mayor asked rhetorically. “I show up, or Czernich shows up, to console the widow, and there is a story in the goddamned newspapers, and the day after that it comes out-and wouldn’t the Ledger have a ball with that?-that she’s really a tramp, shacked up with a Homicide detective, and they’re the doers?”

“Yes, sir. That’s why I thought I’d better get to you right away with this.”

“And if I don’t show up, or Czernich doesn’t, then what?” the Mayor went on. He turned to Lowenstein. “So what are you doing, Matt?”

“Detective Milham is on the street somewhere. They’re looking for him. A good man, Joe D’Amata, is the assigned detective. Lou Natali’s already on his way to the scene, and probably Henry Quaire, too.”

“You ever hear the story of the fox protecting the chicken coop?” Carlucci asked nastily. “If you haven’t, you can bet that the Ledger has.”

“Henry Quaire is a straight arrow,” Lowenstein said.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t. I’m talking about appearances. I’m talking about what the Ledger’s going to write.”

“I don’t think Wally Milham has had anything to do with this. I think we’re going to find it’s Narcotics-related.”

“A man who would slip the salami to his wife’s sister is capable of anything,” the Mayor said. “I have to think that maybe he did. Or the wife did, and if he’s shacked up with her…”

“So what do you want me to do, give it to Peter Wohl?”

“Wohl’s got enough on his back right now,” the Mayor said.

You mean running an investigation of corruption that I’m not even supposed to know about, even though I’m the guy charged with precisely that responsibility?

“What’s the name of that mousy-looking staff inspector? Weis-something?”

“Mike Weisbach?”

“Him. He’s good, and he’s a straight arrow.”

You used to think I was a straight arrow, Jerry. What the hell happened to change your mind?

“What are you going to do? Have him take over the investigation?”

“The Commissioner’s going to tell him to observe the investigation, to tell you every day what’s going on, and then you tell me every day what’s going on.”

The Mayor pushed himself off the cushions and started to crawl out of the car, over Lowenstein. He stopped, halfway out, and looked at Lowenstein, whose face was no more than six inches from his.

“I hope, for everybody’s sake, Matt, that your Homicide detective who can’t keep his pecker in his pocket isn’t involved in this.”

Lowenstein nodded.

The Mayor got out of the limousine and walked briskly toward the entrance to City Hall. Lieutenant Fellows got quickly out of the front seat and ran after him.

Lowenstein waited until the two of them disappeared from sight, then got out of the limousine, walked to his Oldsmobile, and got in the front seat beside Harry McElroy.

“You get a location on Weisbach?”

“He’s in his car, at the Federal Courthouse, waiting to hear from you.”

Lowenstein picked a microphone up from the seat.

“Isaac Fourteen, Isaac One.”

“Fourteen.”

“Meet me at Broad and Hunting Park,” Lowenstein said.

“En route.”

Staff Inspector Michael Weisbach’s unmarked year-old Plymouth was parked on Hunting Park, pointing east toward Roosevelt Boulevard, when Chief Inspector Lowenstein’s Oldsmobile pulled up behind it.

“We’ll follow you to the scene,” Lowenstein said to Harry McElroy as he opened the door. “You know where it is?”

“I’ll find out,” McElroy said.

Lowenstein walked to Weisbach’s car and got in beside him.

“Good morning, Chief,” Weisbach said.

He was a slight man of thirty-eight, who had started losing his never-very-luxuriant light brown hair in his late twenties. He wore glasses in mock tortoise frames, and had a slightly rumpled appearance. His wife, Natalie, with whom he had two children, Sharon (now eleven) and Milton (six), said that thirty minutes after putting on a fresh shirt, he looked as if he had been wearing it for three days.

“Mike,” Lowenstein replied, offering his hand. “Follow Harry.”

“Where are we going?”

“A police officer named Kellog was found an hour or so ago shot in the back of his head.”

“I heard it on the radio,” Weisbach said as he pulled into the line of traffic.

“You are going to- observe the investigation. You are going to report to me once a day, more often if necessary, if anything interesting develops.” He looked at Weisbach and continued. “And I will report to the Mayor.”

“What’s this all about?”

“It seems that Officer Kellog’s wife-he’s been working plainclothes in Narcotics, by the way-moved out of his bed into Detective Milham’s.”

“Wally Milham’s a suspect?” Weisbach asked disbelievingly.

“He’s out on the street somewhere. Quaire is looking for him. I want you to sit in on the interview.”

“Then he is a suspect?”

“He’s going to be interviewed. The Mayor doesn’t want to be embarrassed by this. He wants to be one step ahead of the Ledger. If a staff inspector is involved, he thinks it won’t be as easy for the Ledger to accuse Homicide, the Department-him-of a cover-up.”

“Why me?” Weisbach asked.

“What the Mayor said was, ‘He’s good and he’s a straight arrow,’” Lowenstein replied, and then he met Weisbach’s eyes and smiled. “He knows that about you, but he doesn’t know your name. He referred to you as ‘that mousy-looking staff inspector, Weis-something.’”

Weisbach chuckled.

“He knows your name, Mike,” Lowenstein said. “What we both have to keep in mind is that the real name of the game is getting Jerry Carlucci reelected.”

“Yeah,” Weisbach said, a tone that could have been either resignation or disgust in his voice.

Staff Inspector Michael Weisbach, who was one of the sixteen staff inspectors in the Philadelphia Police Department, had never really wanted to be a cop until he had almost five years on the job.