The Goddamned Nun will appeal, of course, all the way to the Supreme Court, to get that scumbag out of jail. She may even be able to get away with it. Fighting the appeals will be both a pain in the ass and time-consuming. Right now, Phebus's time isn't all that valuable, and like Harry says, it will be a good learning experience for him.

"Let Phebus prosecute, Harry," Callis ordered. "But keep an eye on him. If there are problems, let me know."

Thirty-five-year-old Peter Frederick Wohl looked like-and was often mistaken for-an up-and-coming young stockbroker, or an attorney. He was fair-skinned, with even features, and carried 165 pounds on a lithe body just under six feet tall. He wore his light brown hair clipped short, and favored well-tailored, conservatively styled clothing, almost always worn with a crisply starched white button-down-collar shirt, regimentally striped neckties, and well-shined loafers. He drove a perfectly restored, immaculately maintained Jaguar XK-120 roadster, in the back of which could usually be found his golf clubs or his tennis racquet, or both.

He was in fact a police officer, specifically the youngest inspector-and in the Philadelphia Police Department inspector is the second senior rank, after chief inspector. On those very rare occasions when he wore his uniform, it carried a silver oak leaf, like those worn by lieutenant colonels in the Army or Marines.

Wohl was the commanding officer of the Special Operations Division, which was housed in a building at Frankford and Castor avenues that had been built in 1892 as the Frankford Grammar School. Wohl's small, ground floor office had been the office of the principal.

He glanced up from a thick stack of paper demanding his administrative attention at the clock on the wall and saw that it was quarter past four. He shook his head in resignation and shoved all the paperwork in the side drawer of his desk, locking it.

He took the jacket to a light brown glen plaid suit from a hanger on a clothes rack by the door and walked out of his office.

Officer Paul Thomas "Tommy" O'Mara, a tall, fair-skinned, twenty-six-year-old in a suit Wohl suspected he had bought from the Final Clearance Rack at Sears Roe-buck, got to his feet. Tommy O'Mara was Wohl's administrative assistant, and Wohl liked him despite the fact that his assignment had more to do with the fact that his father was Captain Aloysius O'Mara, commanding officer of the 17th District and an old friend of Peter's father-Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, Retired-than any administrative talent.

"I'll be with Chief Lowenstein in the Roundhouse, Tommy," Wohl said.

Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein was Chief of the Philadelphia Police Department Detective Division, and maintained his office in the Police Administration Building-universally called the Roundhouse because of its curved walls-at 8th and Race streets.

"Yes, sir."

"If he calls, I left five minutes ago," Wohl said.

"Yes, sir."

Tommy reminded Wohl of a friendly puppy. He tried very hard to please. He had five years on the job, all of it in Traffic, and had failed the examination for detective twice. Chief Wohl had asked his son to give him a job-working for Wohl meant an eight-to-five shift, five days a week-where he would have time to study for a third shot at the detectives' exam.

Wohl's previous administrative assistant had been a graduate, summa cum laude, of the University of Pennsylvania, who had ranked second on the list the first time he had taken the detectives' examination.

Wohl thought of him now, as he started out of the building. He glanced at his watch, shrugged, and started up the stairs to the second floor of the building, taking them two at a time. At the top of the stairs, he walked down a corridor until he came to what had been a classroom but was now identified by a sign hanging over the door as the "Investigations Section."

He pulled the door outward without knocking and went inside.

A very large (six feet three, 225 pounds) man sitting behind a desk quickly rose to his feet with a look of almost alarm on his very black face, holding his right hand out, signaling stop, and putting the index finger of his left hands to his lips, signaling silence.

Wohl stopped, smiling, his eyebrow raised quizzically.

The black man, who was Sergeant Jason Washington, chief of the Investigations Section, and Inspector Wohl were old friends, going back to the time Detective Washington, even then regarded as the best homicide investigator in the Philadelphia Police Department, had taken rookie homicide detective Wohl under his wing.

If Sergeant Washington had had his way, he would still be, as he put it, a simple homicide detective. And he would have cheerfully and with some eloquence explained why: A good homicide detective-and there was no question in anyone's mind, including his own, that Jason Washington had been the best of that elite breed-earned, because of overtime, as much money as a chief inspector. And for another, he had liked being the best homicide detective. It was intellectually challenging, stimulating work. He had routinely been given the most difficult cases.

Washington's friendship with Peter Wohl had been seriously strained when Wohl had had him transferred to the newly formed Special Operations Division eighteen months before. There had been no harsh words-Jason Washington was not only genuinely fond of Wohl, but regarded him as the second-smartest man in the Philadelphia Police Department-and by rationalizing that if he intended to retire from the department as at least an Inspector, now was the time to start taking the promotion exams, Washington had accepted his new duties.

Washington pointed to a full-length mirror mounted on the wall. In it was reflected the image of a good-looking young man with earphones on his head, seated before a typewriter. His face was contorted with deep frustration and resignation. His eyebrows rose in disbelief. He shook his head, then typed very quickly and very briefly.

It was comical. Wohl was tempted to laugh. And did.

"The tapes," Sergeant Washington said.

"Ah, the tapes," Wohl said.

The young man, whose name was Matthew M. Payne, and who had been Wohl's administrative assistant before his promotion to detective, sensed that he was the subject of their attention, and tore the earphones from his head.

"It is not kind to mock a young detective doing his best," he said.

"Chagrin overwhelms me," Sergeant Washington said.

Wohl walked to Payne's desk.

"How's it going?" he asked.

Payne pointed at the sheet of paper in the typewriter.

"Slowly and painfully," he said.

"Get anything?" Wohl asked.

"They speaketh in tongues," Payne said. "I have learned that they have a 'Plan B' and a 'Plan C,' but I have no idea what the hell that means."

"It's a dirty job," Wohl said, gently mocking, "but someone has to do it."

"Why me, dear Lord, why me?"

"Because you can type," Wohl said. "Where did you get that?" he asked, pointing to the dictating apparatus Payne was using.

"There's a place on Market Street, across from Reading Terminal," Payne said.

"You bought it?"

"It was either buy it or suffer terminal index finger using that thing," Payne said, pointing to a tape recorder, and miming-jabbing his index finger-as he added, "ahead three seconds, rewind three seconds, ahead three seconds. I was wearing out my finger."

"What did it cost?"

"Don't ask."

Wohl chuckled.

"How's it coming?"

"There are thirteen tapes. I am on number three."

"We still on for tomorrow?"

"Yes, indeed, sir. I wish to play for ten dollars a stroke, plus side bets. It would please me greatly to have you pay for this electronic marvel."

"Merion at twelve, right?"

"Bring your checkbook."