Coogan had absolutely no idea why Dolan had summoned Jerry Kellog to an early-morning meeting, or why Kellog hadnt shown up when he was supposed to, but a number of possibilities occurred to him, the most likely of which being that Kellog had simply forgotten about it. Another, slightly less likely possibility was that Kellog had overslept. Since his wife had moved out on him, he had been at the sauce more heavily and more often than was good for him.
It wasnt just that his wife had moved out on him-broken marriages are not uncommon in the police community-but that she had moved in with another cop. A police officer whose wife leaves the nuptial couch because she has decided that the life of a cops wife is not for her can expect the understanding commiseration of his peers. Kellogs wife, however, had moved out of a plainclothes narcs bed into the bed of a Homicide detective. That was different. There was an unspoken suggestion that maybe she had reasons-ranging from bad behavior on Kellogs part to the possibility that the Homicide detective was giving her something in the sack that Kellog hadnt been able to deliver.
The one thing Jerry Kellog didnt need right now was trouble from Sergeant Patrick J. Dolan, which could range from a simple ass-chewing to telling the Lieutenant he wasnt where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be, to something official, bringing him up on charges.
Tom Coogan wasnt a special pal of Jerry Kellog, but they worked together, and Kellog had covered Coogans ass more than once, so he owed him. He picked up his telephone, pulled out the little shelf with the celluloid-covered list of phone numbers on it, found Kellogs, and dialed it.
The line was busy.
Two minutes later, Coogan tried it again. Still busy.
Who the hell is he talking to? His wife, maybe? Some other broad? His mother? Something connected with the job?
Fuck it! The important thing is to get him over here and get Dolan off his back.
He tried it one more time, and when he got the busy signal broke the connection with his finger and dialed the operator.
This is Police Officer Thomas Coogan, badge number 3621. I have been trying to reach 555-2330. This is an emergency. Will you break in, please?
Theres no one on the line, sir, the operator reported thirty seconds later. The phone is probably off the hook.
Thank you, Coogan said.
The fact that the phone is off the hook doesnt mean hes not there. He could have come home shitfaced, knocked it off falling into bed, or on purpose so that he wouldnt be disturbed. Hes probably lying there in bed, sleeping it off.
That posed the problem of what to do next. He realized he didnt want to drive all the way over to Kellogs house to wake him up, for a number of reasons, including the big one, that Sergeant Dolan was liable to ask him where the fuck he was going.
He thought a moment, then reached for his telephone.
Twenty-fifth District, Officer Greene.
Tom Coogan, Narcotics. Whos the supervisor?
Corporal Young.
Let me talk to him, will you?
He knew Corporal Eddie Young.
Tom Coogan, Eddie. How are you?
Cant complain, Tom. Whats up?
Need a favor.
Try me. All I can say is no.
One of our guys, Jerry Kellog, you know him?
No, I dont think so.
He
lives at 300 West Luray Street. Hes supposed to be here. Our Sergeant is shitting a brick. Could you send somebody over to his house and see if hes there and wake him up and tell him to get his ass over here? Ive been trying to call him. His phone is off the hook. I think hes probably sleeping one off.
Give me the address again and its done, and you owe me one.
A nearly new Buick turned off Seventh Street and into the parking lot at the rear of the Police Administration Building of the City of Philadelphia. The driver, Mr. Michael J. OHara, a wiry, curly-haired man in his late thirties, made a quick sweep through the parking lot, found no parking spot he considered convenient enough, pulled to the curb directly in front of the rear entrance to the building, and got out.
A young police officer who had been on the job just over a year, and assigned to duty at the PAB three days before, intercepted Mr. OHara as he headed toward the door.
Excuse me, sir, he said. You cant leave your car there.
Mr. OHara smiled at what he considered the young officers rather charming naivete.
Its OK, son, he said. Im Commissioner Czernichs bookie.
Excuse me? the young officer said, not quite believing what he heard.
The Commissioner, Mr. OHara went on, now enjoying himself, put two bucks on a long shot. It paid a hundred ninety-eight eighty. When I come here to pay him off, he says I can park anywhere I want.
The young officers uneasiness was made worse by the appearance of Chief Inspector Heinrich Heine Matdorf, Chief of Training for the Philadelphia Police Department, whom the young officer remembered very clearly from his days at the Police Academy. It was the first time the young officer had ever seen him smile.
What did you tell him? Chief Matdorf asked.