Free Why Me? by Donald E. Westlake

in New York: funneling to the FBI some of the CIA’s data on various foreign insurgent groups potentially involved with the Byzantine Fire. He was, in fact, just speaking about the Armenians, in an amused and dismissive but not entirely comprehensible manner, when the phone rang in Zachary and Freedly’s small office here on East 69th Street, and the blow fell: Chief Inspector Mologna had given a statement to the press.
    â€œHarry, we’re going to have to look at this,” Zachary said. He had white spots beside his nose and the general air of a man whose parachute doesn’t seem to be opening.
    â€œI’ll come with you,” Cabot said.
    So the three of them went down to the monitor room, where news programs were watched and taped, and the tape of the Mackenzie-Mologna interview was run for them, and that’s when Zachary’s jaw became very square and Freedly’s moustache became very drooped.
    The part that galled the most was where Mologna thanked the FBI for its assistance in “rounding up” the jeweler Skoukakis and the arrested Cypriots, implying very clearly that it was the New York Police Department which had done the lion’s share of the said rounding up. “They weren’t even in the case!” Zachary cried. “They’ve never been in the case! Running around after second-story men!”
    They watched the tape to the end, then watched it through a second time, and in the ensuing silence Freedly said, thoughtfully, “Has he blown security, Mac? Do we have a complaint over his head, to the Commissioner?”
    Zachary thought about that for a second or two, then reluctantly shook his head. “There was no lid clamped,” he said. “We naturally assumed we were all gentlemen, that’s all; we’d agree on a joint announcement at the proper time.” (In fact, Zachary had been planning a unilateral announcement of his own late tomorrow morning—being federal, he naturally thought in terms of the national media, requiring an earlier deadline—and part of his rage was at Mologna having stolen a march on him.) “Let’s go back upstairs,” he said, lunging to his feet like an angry FBI man. He thanked the monitor room technicians in a curt but manly way, and they left.
    In the elevator Freedly, still casting about for revenge, said, “Well, has he hampered our investigation?”
    â€œOf course he has! The son of a bitch.”
    â€œWell, then.”
    The elevator door opened and they headed down the corridor. Harry Cabot said, “If I were Chief Inspector Mologna—” (he pronounced it right) “—and I were charged with hampering your investigation, I would point out that you people are concentrating on foreign nationalist groups. By publicly stating that the investigation is aimed at domestic thieves, I have lulled your actual suspects and therefore aided your investigation.”
    â€œShit,” said Zachary.
    â€œDitto,” said Freedly.
    Back in the office, Zachary sat at his desk while Freedly and Cabot shared the sofa. Zachary said, “When we turn up the ring, Bob, when we rub Mo-log-na’s nose in it that it wasn’t one of his hole-in-corner little burglars, we’ll have our own little press conference.”
    Freedly made no response. He merely sat there, a very dubious look on his face. Zachary said, “Bob?”
    â€œYes, Mac?”
    â€œ You don’t think it was just a burglar, do you?”
    â€œMac,” Freedly said, with obvious reluctance, “I’m not sure.”
    â€œOh, Bob !” Zachary said, in a tone of utter betrayal.
    â€œIt wasn’t the Greeks,” Freedly said. “According to Harry here, it’s looking more and more like it wasn’t the dissident Turks. It’s pretty surely not the Armenians.”
    â€œThere’s still the Bulgarians,” Zachary said.
    â€œYe-ess.”
    â€œAnd our friends of