The investigators

She pushed herself off him and got out of bed, then walked on tiptoes to peer out through the venetian blinds on the bedroom window.

There was enough light, somehow, for him to be able to see her clearly.

"My God, it's Uncle De

What the hell does De

"We had the foresight, you will recall," Peter said, chuckling, "to hide your car in my garage."

"You think he wants to come in?" Amy asked, very nervously.

On the one hand, Amy, you march in front of the feminist parade, waving the ba

"No," Peter said. "I'm sure all he wants to do is stand outside the door."

He got out of bed.

"You just get back in bed and try not to sneeze," Peter said. "And I will try to get rid of him as quickly as I can."

"I'll have to get dressed," Amy said.

"Why bother?" Peter said as he put on his bathrobe. "If he comes in the bedroom, I don't think he'll believe you were in here helping me wash the windows. Maybe you could say you were making a house call, Doctor."

"Screw you, Peter," Amy said. "This is not fu

But she did get back into the bed and pulled the sheet up over her.

Peter turned the lights off, then left the bedroom, closing the door.

Then he turned and knocked on it.

"Morals squad!" he a

"You bastard!" Amy called, but she was chuckling.

Peter turned the lights on in the living room, walked to the door, and opened it.

Chief Inspector De

In a cloud of Old Bushmills fumes, Peter's nose immediately told him.

"I was in the neighborhood, Peter," Coughlin said, "and thought I would take a chance and see if you were still up."

Peter had just enough time to decide, Bullshit, twice. I don't think you were in the neighborhood, and even if you were, you got on the radio to get my location, and if you did that, you would have asked the operator to call me on the phone to see if I was up, when Coughlin added:

"That's bullshit. I wanted to see you. Radio said you were home. I'm sorry if I got you up. You got something going in there, I'll just go."

Does he suspect Amy is in here with me?

"Come on in. I was about to go to bed. We'll have a nightcap."

"You're sure?" Coughlin asked.

"Come on in," Peter repeated.

Coughlin followed him into the living room, sat down on Peter's white leather couch-a remnant, like several other pieces of very modern furniture in the apartment, of a long-dead and almost forgotten affair with an interior decorator-and reached for the telephone.

As Peter took ice, glasses, and a bottle of James Jamison Irish whiskey from the kitchen, he heard Coughlin on the telephone.

"Chief Coughlin," he a

Peter set the whiskey, ice, and glasses on the coffee table in front of the couch and sat down in one of the matching white leather armchairs.

Coughlin reached for the whiskey, poured an inch into a glass, and took a sip.

"This is not the first I've had of these," he said, holding up the glass. "Mickey O'Hara came by the Roundhouse at six, and we went out and drank our di

"There's an extra bed here," Peter said, "if you don't feel up to driving home."

And then he remembered that not only was Amy in his bed, where she could hear the conversation, but that the moment she heard what he had just said she would decide he was crazy or incredibly stupid. Or, probably, both.

If De

Coughlin ignored the offer.

"The trouble with Mickey is that he has a nose like a bird dog, and people tell him things they think he would like to know," Coughlin said. "And he thinks like a cop."

"He would have made a good cop," Peter agreed.

He poured whiskey in a glass and added ice.

"After he fed me about four of these," Coughlin said, "he asked me whose birthday party it was we were all at at the Rittenhouse Club."

"We meaning you, me, Matt, and the FBI?"

Coughlin nodded.

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him that Matty had had a little run-in with a couple of FBI agents, and you and I were pouring oil on some troubled waters."

"Did he buy it?"

"He said he was naturally curious why a couple of FBI agents who don't even work in Philadelphia were following Matty around in the first place."

"He knew they had been following him? God, he does find things out, doesn't he?" Wohl said.

"Including some things that you and I didn't know," Coughlin said. "Like when those two FBI agents were waiting in the Special Operations parking lot to see if Matty was coming out, a Highway Patrol sergeant-Nick DeBenedito-thought they looked suspicious and went and tapped on their car window and asked them who they were."

Coughlin smiled, and Wohl laughed.

"It's not fu

"Oh, God!" Wohl said, laughing. "So within thirty minutes, it's all over Special Operations. The FBI with egg on its face again."

"That's fu

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't feel free to tell him until I'd first checked with you."

What do you call that? Passing the buck?

"So he's going to come see me?" Wohl asked. "First thing in the morning, no doubt?"

"Probably, since he didn't beat me here," Coughlin said, smiling. He held up his whiskey glass. "I told you, we mostly drank our di

Wohl didn't reply.

"So I decided to come here," Coughlin said. "And on the way I had a couple of other unpleasant thoughts."

"Oh?"

"Do me a favor, Peter, and don't decide before you think it over that this is the whiskey talking."

"I wouldn't do that, Chief," Peter said.

"Yes, you would. I would too, if you showed up at my place at this hour of the night with half a bag on."

Their eyes met for a moment, and then Coughlin went on.

"I'm worried about Matty," he said. "I'm sorry I went along with this 'cooperation' with the FBI business."

"I don't think you had much choice."

"I could have said no, and then gotten to Jerry Carlucci before Walter Davis did and told him why I said no."