"Final justice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Griffin W. E. B.)

NINE

[ONE] Matt pushed the End button on his cellular. "Washington's on his way here," he announced. "And so are Coughlin, Lowenstein, and Quaire."

"What's that all about?" D'Amata asked.

Matt shrugged. "He wants the three of us here."

"Was he in the office?" D'Amata asked.

"He didn't say."

"Then we have to go on the premise that he-they-may be two minutes away," D'Amata said. " 'Jesus is coming, look busy.' How can we best do that?"

"I don't know about you two, but I'm going back to doing the scene," Slayberg said, and walked out of the kitchen.

"Emperors and people like that like to be welcomed when they go someplace," D'Amata said. "Matt, why don't you and I go outside and wait?"

They left the apartment by the rear door. There was a uniform standing at the foot of the stairway, and other uniforms were standing just inside the POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape. On the other side of the tape there were not only more spectators than Matt expected-Cheryl Williamson's body had been taken away; the show was over-but more than a dozen representatives of the print, radio, and television press.

He didn't see Mickey O'Hara, and wondered where he was. Mickey was usually the first press guy at the scene of a murder.

The answer to that came when-ignoring questions several of the journalists called out-they walked around the end of the building to the front. There, behind the yellow-and -black POLICE LINE tape were even more spectators and representatives of the press, and Mickey O'Hara was among them. To make sure they didn't cross the tape, two uniforms stood directly in front of the press, one male, one female, both looking as if they had left the Academy as long as two weeks ago.

On the inside of the tape, there were a number of police officers, in uniform, and others with badges visible on their civilian clothing. Captain Alex Smith, the Thirty-fifth District commander, and Lieutenant Lew Sawyer were talking to a woman with a badge on her dress, whom Matt remembered after a moment to be Captain Helene Durwinsky, the commanding officer of the Special Victims Unit, and a man with a lieutenant's badge hanging on his suit jacket. He saw Detectives Domenico and Ellis, of Special Victims, standing a few feet from the white shirts, with several other detectives Matt didn't recognize.

"You got the word?" Captain Smith said.

There was no question what "the word" was, but Matt didn't know if Smith was speaking to him or Joe D'Amata.

"With no explanation, sir," D'Amata replied.

"It may have something to do withPhil's Philly," Captain Smith said dryly. "On which-according to my wife, one of Phil's most devoted listeners-about forty-five minutes ago, Mrs. McGrory spoke at some length about Miss Williamson being raped and tortured while the police stood not caring outside her door."

"Oh, shit!" D'Amata said.

"I just talked to her," Matt said. "I used her kitchen to talk to the brother. She didn't say anything about talking to that ass…Phil's Philly."

Phil's Philly was a very popular radio talk show. Philadelphians dissatisfied with something in the City of Brotherly Love could call the number, and be reasonably sure both of a sympathetic ear on the part of Phil Donaldson, and that Mr. Donaldson would then call-on the air-whoever had wronged the caller, to indignantly demand an explanation, an apology, and immediate corrective action.

"Well, she did," Captain Smith went on. "My wife said that Phil's first call was to Commissioner Mariani, and when Commissioner Mariani 'was not available' to take the call, Phil called the mayor. Who made the mistake of taking the call."

Three unmarked cars pulled up shortly thereafter, within moments of each other. Television and still cameras recorded Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Captain F. X. Hollaran as they walked into the apartment complex, ducked under the POLICE LINE tape, and walked up to Captain Smith's group. Smith and Sawyer, who were in uniform, saluted.

The press then recorded the same out-of-the-car-and-under -the-tape movement of Captain Henry C. Quaire and Lieutenant Jason Washington, and then turned their attention to Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein.

Lowenstein ducked under the tape and then spoke, while the cameras rolled, to the two young uniformed officers standing in front of the assembled press.

"Do you know who I am?" Lowenstein demanded, firmly, as flashbulbs went off and television cameras followed his movements.

"Yes, sir," both young officers replied, in unison.

"Most of the ladies and gentlemen of the press will respect this crime scene tape," Lowenstein said, pointing to it. "That one"-he pointed to Mickey O'Hara-"will more than likely try to sneak under it. If he does, use whatever force you feel is appropriate. Like breaking his arms and legs."

"Yes, sir," both young officers said, earnestly, in unison.

Mickey O'Hara laughed with delight.

Chief Lowenstein then walked up to the group around Deputy Commissioner Coughlin. The uniformed officers saluted him.

"I can't believe you did that!" Coughlin said, not quite able to restrain a smile. "What the hell was that about?"

Chief Lowenstein was one of a tiny group of senior police officers who was not awed by either Deputy Commissioner Coughlin's rank or his persona, possibly because they had graduated from the Police Academy together and had been close personal friends ever since.

"You all looked guilty as hell," Lowenstein said. "Playing right into Philadelphia Phil's hand. I decided a little levity was in order."

"I hope Mickey doesn't try to get past the tape," Captain Hollaran said. "That female uniform's got her eye on him."

Deputy Commissioner Coughlin followed the nod of Hollaran's head, saw a very determined, very slight, very young female police officer, her baton in her hands, glowering at Mickey O'Hara, who outweighed her by fifty pounds. Coughlin had a very difficult time not laughing out loud.

He returned his attention to the group and settled his eyes on Matt.

"Sergeant," he ordered, "take us someplace where we can talk privately."

"Yes, sir," Matt said. "Will you follow me, please, Commissioner? "

He led the procession to the front stairs of the building and up them to Cheryl Williamson's apartment. This was not the time, he decided, to take further advantage of Mrs. McGrory's hospitality.

He led the procession into Cheryl Williamson's kitchen. It was crowded with all of them in it.

"This will all seem a lot less amusing if that little scene is on the six o'clock news, and the mayor sees it," Coughlin said. "Jesus, Matt!"

"I'd rather have that on the tube," Lowenstein said, "than poor Smitty here on it trying to explain the law that kept his uniforms from taking the door when-maybe, just maybe-the doer was inside raping and murdering the young woman."

"You don't think he was inside when the uniforms were here?" Coughlin asked.

"We don't know, Denny. Maybe he was already gone when the uniforms arrived, but if Smitty says that, in addition to explaining the law, it'll look as if he's loyally covering for his men."

Coughlin grunted.

"If, however," Lowenstein said, "some very senior officer, after half an hour personally investigating the facts, went down there and said the same thing…"

"You don't mean me?" Coughlin snorted.

"… we could almost count on Mickey doing a thoughtful piece for theBulletin explaining when the cops can and cannot take a door," Lowenstein finished, "and probably getting into how hard we're working, routinely, to get this guy."

"Routinely?" Coughlin said. "Matt, you weren't in the mayor's office with the commissioner and me. The mayor doesn't want this solved in due time, he wants it solved in time for the six o'clock news."

"Who's the lead detective, you, Joe?" Lowenstein asked.

"Yes, sir," D'Amata said.

"What are the chances for that?"

"Not good, sir," D'Amata said.

Lowenstein gestured with both his hands:Give me more.

"We have no idea who he is, other than he's a four-star psychopath," D'Amata said. "We have only one thing that might lead us to him."

"Which is?"

"He left his camera behind, and Matt Payne-"

"How do you know it's his camera?" Lowenstein interrupted.

"He took pictures of the victim, sir."

"How do you know that?"

"It's a digital camera, sir," Matt Payne said. "I downloaded the images from the flash memory card into my laptop."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. You're saying you have pictures the doer took of the victim?"

"Yes, sir," Matt said, and pushed his way through everybody jammed into the kitchen, and brought the pictures up on the screen of the laptop.

"My God," Dennis V. Coughlin said.

"How long have you had these?" Lowenstein demanded.

"Not long, sir," Matt said. "I was calling Lieutenant Washington to tell him when he said you were all headed here."

"And how can you locate the doer by his camera?" Lowenstein challenged.

"I'm not sure I can, sir. But I know that type camera. It comes with a program that…" He stopped, trying to think of a way to explain simply the Kodak camera replacement program.

"That what?"

"The camera has a serial number," Matt said. "If we can get Kodak to tell us where they shipped it-"

"Who the hell are you?" Lowenstein demanded, nastily, interrupting him.

"Detective Lassiter, sir. Northwest."

Matt turned and saw her standing in the doorway. She looked a little stunned by Lowenstein's greeting.

"And what is so important that you felt you could just barge in here like this?"

"I just left the victim's mother," Olivia said. "She understands why the uniforms couldn't take the door. I thought I should tell Sergeant Payne. I heard about Philadelphia Phil- or whatever his name is-on my way back here."

"The victim's mother understands why the uniforms couldn't take the door?" Dennis V. Coughlin asked, and then, before she could answer, asked another question. "What were you doing with the victim's mother?"

"I sent her with the victim's brother when he went to tell the mother," Matt said.

Matt happened to be looking at Washington, whose expressive eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Yousent her?" challenged the lieutenant from Northwest Detectives who had been standing with Smith and others when they first had gone outside.

"Yes, sir."

"You gave one of my detectives orders?"

"Not now," Lowenstein said, sharply, then turned his attention to Detective Lassiter. "You're sure the victim's mother understands about the door?"

"Yes, sir. I told her how that works," Olivia said. "She seemed to understand. She even calmed the brother down about it. All she wants is for us to catch the doer."

"What's in the envelope?"

"A picture of the victim, sir," Olivia said, and handed it to him. "I borrowed it from the mother."

Lowenstein looked at it, then handed it to Coughlin.

"It'll come in handy," Lowenstein said. "You know about the doers' camera?"

"No, sir."

"You ever been on television, Detective?" Lowenstein asked.

"No, sir."

"Well, unless I'm mistaken, when Commissioner Coughlin goes outside in a couple of minutes, to tell the press why the officers couldn't take the door, he's going to want you to go with him, to repeat what you just said about the mother understanding. Could you handle that?"

"I'd rather not-"

"That's not what I asked," Lowenstein snapped.

"Yes, sir, I can handle that."

"I haven't said I'm going outside to talk to the press," Coughlin said.

"Oh, excuse me, Commissioner, I thought you had."

"I just had a brilliant idea, Chief Lowenstein," Coughlin said. "Since you're so good at it, I'll reassign you to Public Relations."

"Unless we do something, we'll all look as stupid as the mayor thinks we are," Lowenstein replied, unabashed. "You got a better idea, Denny?"

"No," Coughlin said. "As a matter of fact, I was trying to think of a way to thank you that wouldn't go directly to your head."

"You're welcome," Lowenstein said. "Can I make another suggestion?"

"How can I stop you?"

"Detective Lassiter has dealt very well with the mother and the brother. We don't know that possible problem has gone away permanently…"

"And you want to detail her to Homicide for this job so she can sit on them?" Coughlin asked.

"That, too, but what I was thinking was that you could say, 'Detective Lassiter, who has been detailed to Homicide for this investigation, has spoken to Miss Williamson's brother and her mother. They have found no fault with police procedures, isn't that right, Detective?' "

"I don't know," Coughlin said, doubtfully.

"You have any problems with Northwest detailing Detective Lassiter to Homicide for this job, Captain Quaire?" Lowenstein asked.

"No, sir," Quaire said.

"Lieutenant Washington?"

"No, sir."

"You, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir," the lieutenant from Northwest Detectives said.

"Okay, done," Lowenstein said.

He gestured toward the kitchen door.

"You're on, Commissioner," he said.

Coughlin exhaled audibly, straightened his shoulders, and marched through it. Captain Frank Hollaran and Detective Lassiter followed him.

"There's a TV in the living room," D'Amata said. "There's aChannel Six Live camera out there."

D'Amata got it turned on and tuned to Channel Six by the time Coughlin, Hollaran, and Lassiter appeared on the screen as they came out of the walkway between the two buildings.

Coughlin marched to the massed press, with Olivia Lassiter following him. When he stopped, just inside the crime scene tape, she moved to his side.

There were shouted questions from a dozen reporters, to which Coughlin, his arms folded on his stomach, paid no attention whatever. Finally, almost in confusion, the questions died out.

"I'm Deputy Commissioner Coughlin," he said, finally. "I will take a few questions, one at a time."

Most of the reporters raised their hands; several shouted questions.

Coughlin pointed at one of the reporters who had raised her hand.

"If you can get thesegentlemen to behave, I'll take your question."

One of the reporters who had been shouting a question said, disgustedly, "Oh, for Christ's sake!"

Another voice, female, very clearly answered her colleague with, "Why don't you shut the fuck up, you asshole? Some of us have deadlines."

Coughlin pointed to a reporter holding a microphone with aChannel Six Live sign on it.

"I don't want to tell you your business," he said, very politely, "but I really hope someone bleepedthat question before it got on the air."

That brought laughter. When it died down, he pointed to the reporter he had selected before.

"Commissioner, what's happened here?"

"A murder," Coughlin said, "of a young woman named Cheryl Williamson."

"Not a rape and murder?"

"We don't know that yet. The medical examiner will make that determination."

"Is it true that somebody called 911, the cops came, and then refused to enter the apartment, while the murderer was inside?"

"A few minutes before two this morning, Miss Williamson's neighbor called 911, reporting that her mirror had fallen off the wall. Two patrol cars-not just one-of the Thirty-fifth District responded, and were here in just under four minutes. They listened to what the neighbor said, that she suspected that something had happened in Miss Williamson's apartment that had caused her mirror to fall off the wall. The officers rang Miss Williamson's doorbell and knocked at the door. They did that at both the front and rear doors. And they looked for signs of a forced entry and found none. There were no lights on in the apartment, and they could hear no sounds. They concluded there was no one in the apartment."

"And left?"

"And left."

"Why didn't they go in the apartment?"

"Because that would be against the law," Coughlin said. "Without sufficient cause, police have no right to break into anyone's home."

"The neighbor said, you said, that she thought something had happened in the apartment. That's not sufficient cause?"

"If there had been any sound, even any lights burning, any indication of forced entry, I'm sure they would have entered the apartment. There wasn't, and they didn't."

"And how do you think her family will react to that explanation? "

"This is Detective Lassiter," Coughlin said. "She can answer that better than I can."

"I've spoken to Miss Williamson's mother and brother," Olivia said. "They both told me they understand why the police did not break into the apartment. Mrs. Williamson said all that she wants is for the police to find whoever did this to her daughter before the same sort of thing happens to someone else."

"And what exactly did this guy do to her?"

"At this point, we don't even know it was a guy," Olivia said. "We just started the investigation. Commissioner, may I be excused?"

"Yes, you can, Detective, and I am about to excuse myself," Coughlin said. "Whenever we learn more, we will make it available to the press. Thank you."

"He's very good at that," Lowenstein said, in the apartment. "We look a lot better than we did five minutes ago."

Everyone agreed, but no one said anything.

Lowenstein looked around and found Jason Washington.

"You know O'Hara's cell phone number?"

"Yes, sir."

"I think it would be a very good idea for you to meet with him, now. Take Payne and Lassiter with you."

"Yes, sir."

"As for the rest of you, one or two at a time, not all at once, get out of here and let the Homicide people do their job."

There were nods of understanding and a few "Yes, sir"s.

Chief Inspector of Detectives Lowenstein had two more thoughts:

"If you don't mind a suggestion, Sergeant Payne," he said. "I think that you personally should try to run down connecting the camera with the doer."

"Yes, sir."

"And I think it might be useful if you asked Dr. Payne to look at those pictures. Do you think she would be willing to do that?"

"I'm sure she would, sir."

"Chief," Captain Durwinsky said, "I'd like to have copies of those pictures as soon as I can have them. We may be dealing with the same doer."

"How can that be done, Payne?"

"All I need is access to a computer with a digital photo program and a color printer," Matt said.

"We've got one at Special Victims," Durwinsky said. "That's not far."

"Okay," Lowenstein said. "There it is. O'Hara, Special Victims, your sister and running down the doer via the camera. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

"O'Hara first, Chief?" Captain Durwinsky asked.

"Yeah, Helene," Lowenstein said. "O'Hara first. I would like to see at least one story in the newspapers that doesn't gleefully point out our many failures and all-around stupidity. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. Now everybody get to work."

Lowenstein walked out of the apartment.

[TWO] In the hope that it wouldn't be seen, Michael J. O'Hara of the Philadelphia Bulletin parked his Buick Rendezvous behind the Oak Lane Diner at Broad and Old York Road. The Rendezvous, with its array of antennae, was known to other members of the Philadelphia press corps, and some of his colleagues were even bright enough to be able to spot an unmarked car, and wonder what O'Hara was up to with the cops.

Mickey entered the diner and, after looking around, found Lieutenant Jason Washington, Sergeant Matt Payne, and that good-looking detective who'd come out of the crime scene with Denny Coughlin to face the press, at a banquette in the rear, drinking coffee.

He walked to them and slid in beside Washington.

"Well, isn't this acoincidence!" O'Hara said. "Mind if I sit down?"

"I hoped you parked that conspicuous vehicle of yours where it will not attract the attention of the Fourth Estate?" Washington asked.

"Jesus!" Mickey said, his tone suggesting that Washington should have known the question was unnecessary. He smiled at Detective Lassiter. "I'm Mickey O'Hara."

"Yes, sir, I know who you are," Olivia said.

Mickey shook his head sadly, gave out a long sigh, and turned to Matt.

"You're in luck, Matthew," O'Hara said. "This beauty-this young beauty-calls me 'sir,' which means she has decided I am too old to merit her interest."

"As obviously you are," Washington said.

"Then, speaking with the wisdom of a senior citizen, my beauty, let me advise you to beware of this young man. While some think of him as the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line, others more accurately describe him as the Casanova of Center City."

"That's not funny, Mick," Matt flared.

"Which part?"

"The Wyatt Earp part," Matt said. "As a matter of fact, both parts."

"One day, my beauty…"

"My name is Lassiter," Olivia said.

"One day,Lassiter, my beauty," O'Hara went on, "not so long ago, in an alley of our fair city, Wyatt Earp here put down a very bad guy who was shooting at both of us with a.45. I meant nothing but respect in dubbing him Wyatt Earp."

"As disassociated as I am from the realities of life," Washington said, "I actually thought you would be interested in learning what has transpired at 600 Independence."

"Iknow what happened at 600 Independence. A citizen called 911 when she heard strange noises in the next apartment. Two uniforms responded, and they all stood around chatting and not taking the door while the doer worked his wicked way on the victim. What else do I need to know?"

"You know why they didn't-couldn't-take the door?"

"This is not at all what I expected when you called, Jason, my oversized old pal," Mickey said.

"Excuse me?" Washington said.

"When you summoned me, I expected to find you, Tony Harris, and that black kid from the Roy Rogers-you do recall asking if I would mind going over the whole thing from Step One once again with the aforementioned?"

"That's at five o'clock this afternoon. That's when you said you'd be free and when the kid gets off work," Washington said.

"Then you called again, Jason, twenty minutes ago, and asked if I was free to come here now, and I said yes, and I walk in here, and not only do I get Wyatt Earp and the beauty here, instead of the expected aforementioned, but you ask me the really dumb question 'do I know why Hyde and Cubellis didn't take the victim's door?' "

"How'd you know their names?" Olivia blurted.

"I wouldn't want this to get around, my beauty, but some of my friends are cops."

"And?" Washington asked.

"What you've got are two nice young cops who are sick about maybe being outside doing nothing while this critter was doing what he did to the girl-that's their first reaction- and second, they are naturally a little worried that the mayor is going to hang them out to turn in the wind. I don't intend to let that happen. I'm going to do one of my famous think pieces. My working slug is 'A tough call, but the right one.' "

"Thanks, Mick," Washington said. "That's what I was hoping to hear."

"It would help if I knew a little about the doer, or maybe what he did to her."

"All we really know about him is that he is unquestionably a psychopath," Washington said.

"Isn't that a given with a rapist?"

"This guy is sick, Mick," Washington said.

"How do you know that?"

Washington hesitated just perceptibly.

"Not for publication?"

"Agreed."

"Show him the pictures, Matt," Washington ordered, and added: "He left his camera behind."

Matt took his laptop from his briefcase and slid it across the table.

"You know how to work Photo Smart?"

"Another unnecessary question."

"The pictures are in 'Wilifoto,' " Matt said.

O'Hara turned the laptop on and started the Photo Smart program.

"This fellowis a bit odd, isn't he?" Mickey said, looking at the first picture, and then, as he ran through the images, twice added: "Jesus H. Christ!"

"May I see those?" Olivia asked.

"No," Mickey said. "You really don't want to see them."

"I'm a cop, Mr. O'Hara," she said.

"Of that I have no doubt, my beauty," O'Hara said, as he turned the computer off and closed the lid, "but you are also indisputably a very nice young woman. My sainted mother would never forgive me if I showed those images to a very nice young woman."

He slid the laptop back across the table.

"You going to get him?" he asked.

"Still off the record?" Washington asked. O'Hara nodded. "All we have right now is the camera. They're serially numbered, and we're going to try that."

"Good luck," O'Hara said, getting to his feet. "This guy needs bagging, and soon."

"I'll keep you posted, Mick," Washington said.

"I'm counting on that," O'Hara said. He looked at Olivia. "Remember what I said about the Casanova of Center City, my beauty."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Mickey!" Matt said.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," O'Hara proclaimed, and walked out of the diner.

"We have a transportation problem," Washington said. "I rode out here with Captain Quaire. I have to get back…"

Matt reached into his pocket and handed him the keys to his unmarked car.

"I'll ride with Lassiter," he said.

"I'm going to have to give my car back to Northwest," she said.

"You are very bright youngsters," Washington said. "I'm sure you'll be able to sort this out." He slid across the banquette and stood up, and added: "You can have your car back later-sometime after I meet with Tony, O'Hara, and the kid from the Roy Rogers. Okay if I leave it at the Roundhouse, the keys with the uniform in the lobby?"

"Fine," Matt said.

"Welcome to Homicide, Detective Lassiter," Washington said. "And I wouldn't worry too much about Sergeant Payne. His Lothario reputation is really far darker than the facts justify."

He walked away from the table.

After a moment, Olivia asked, "Special Victims?"

"I'm thinking," Matt said. "Sometimes that takes a little time."

"And I'd like to see those pictures."

He didn't reply.

"I'll be right back," he said.

She watched as he walked to a pay telephone booth in the front of the diner and looked in the yellow pages telephone book. He punched at the keys of his cellular for a moment, then returned to the table.

"What?" Olivia asked.

"Watch," he said, and pushed the Call button on his cellular phone.

"Center City Photo? I need to talk to someone about Kodak digital cameras."

Getting the correct number at Kodak from Center City Photo was like pulling teeth. The Eastman Kodak Company in Rochester, New York-once Matt had identified himself as Sergeant Payne of the Philadelphia police department Homicide Unit-was very cooperative. It would take them a little time to run the serial number down-was there a number where he could be reached?

Their call came as Olivia was pulling up before the Special Victims building at the Frankford Arsenal.

Their records indicated that a digital camera with that serial number had been shipped, as part of an order for a dozen identical cameras, five months before, to Times Square Photo amp; Electronics, 17 West Forty-second Street, New York City.

"That camera comes with an overnight FedEx replacement, right?"

"That's right, Sergeant, it does. And I checked to see if that program had been activated for that camera. It hadn't."

Oh, shit. But what did I expect? That this critter was going to leave a trail for me?

"But that sometimes happens," the lady from Kodak went on. "People sometimes don't activate the program until they have problems with the camera."

Am I going to get lucky?

"You don't have a phone number of Times Square Photo, by any chance, do you?"

She gave it to him.

"Thank you very much," Sergeant Payne said. "I really appreciate your cooperation."

The two people at Times Square Photo with whom Sergeant Payne spoke on his cellular were not nearly so cooperative. The first person, a male, spoke only a few words of English, and the second, a female he finally managed to get on the line, had only a few more words of English than did her male colleague.

These were sufficient, however, to make Sergeant Payne understand that she couldn't do nothing like consult her records of sale for just anybody, that she was trying to run a business, for Christ's sake, and at that moment she had customers she had to take care of. For Christ's sake.

"Did you understand me when I said this is Sergeant Payne of the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department? "

"No shit? Good for you. Good luck. Have a nice day."

And at that point she hung up.

"Sonofabitch!" Matt said, then, to Olivia, "Sorry."

"I have heard the expression before," Detective Lassiter said.

Matt held the key that automatically dialed the office of Amelia S. Payne, M.D. He was informed that Dr. Payne was with a patient.

"This is Sergeant Payne. This is official police business. Get her on the phone, please."

Dr. Payne came on the line thirty seconds later.

"Matt, this had better really be police business."

"It is. I'm working a murder."

"Not the one where the cops stood around outside her apartment shooting the breeze while the girl was murdered and raped?"

"I didn't know you listened to Philadelphia Phil, Amy."

"My secretary does. And it'sPhil's Philly."

"That's not exactly the way it happened, Amy."

"Of course not," she said, sarcastically.

"Are you scrapping with Peter again, or is there some other reason you're being such a bitch?"

"What do you want, Matthew?"

"The doer left his digital camera at the scene. With pictures of the act. Chief Lowenstein wants you to look at them."

"Just Chief Lowenstein?"

"Me, too, Amy, okay?"

"Okay. Bring them by. I'll take a look."

"I'm about to print them. I'll be there in thirty, thirty-five minutes."

"Okay," Amy said, and hung up.

[THREE] The Special Victims Unit did not have a color printer the quality of the one Mickey O'Hara had had theBulletin buy for him. It was slow, there were eight images, and Matt made what he quickly realized was an error when he pushed the button that caused the printer to make three prints of each image.

He needed a set for Amy, of course. And the price of using their printer was a set for Special Victims, and a third set was necessary for Jason Washington, both for his edification and to make sure there was no screwup when the Forensics lab finally got the flash memory card and made the official prints.

The result of this was that it took thirty-six minutes for the printer to do the job, and as they came slowly out of the printer Detectives Lassiter and Domenico had the opportunity to take good, long looks at all of them. Matt didn't give a damn about Domenico, but he was made uneasy by Detective Lassiter's reaction. Her face made it evident that she was trying and failing to examine the photographs with calm professionalism.

When they were finally outside, in Detective Lassiter's more than a little beat-up unmarked car, she looked at him for orders.

"We're a little pressed for time-What do I call you? 'Olivia' all right?"

"Fine, Sergeant."

"We're a little pressed for time, Olivia. I think you should meet my sister; you'll probably have to see her again, so we'll go to the university first. Then, since Washington grabbed my car, we'll go to my place so I can pick up my car. I'm going to New York. Then I want you to drop a set of pictures off at Homicide. If Lieutenant Washington is there-or Captain Quaire-give them to one of them. If not, seal the envelope and give it to the man on the wheel for Washington. Then I think you'd better go call on the Williamsons again. Get their statements."

"What do I do about getting this car back to Northwest Detectives?"

"We'll deal with that later," Matt said. "The priorities right now, I think, are to see if I can run this critter down through the camera store, and to keep the Williamsons happy."

"Happy?" she asked, sarcastically.

"You know what I mean."

[FOUR] "Well, what did you think of my sister?" Matt asked when they were back in the unmarked car outside the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.

"She's nice," Olivia said. "And she's a professor of psychiatry?"

"Too young, you mean?" Matt asked, and Olivia nodded. "She got her M.D. at twenty-four. I wouldn't want you to quote me, but she's smart as hell. And she really can get into the minds of psychopaths. This isn't the first time she's helped. She'll probably give us a pretty good picture of how this guy thinks."

"Where to now?" Olivia asked.

"The Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building, South Rittenhouse Square."

"What are we going to do there?"

"I live there," Matt said, and waited for her curiosity to overwhelm him. It didn't.

When she pulled to the curb in front of the Cancer Society Building, Matt said, "You've got my cellular number?"

"And you've got mine," Olivia said.

"See you later," Matt said.

"Right," Olivia said.

He got the Porsche out of the basement garage and headed for New York. When he was out of Center City traffic-on I-95 North-he slipped his cellular into a dash-mounted rack, which permitted hands-off operation, and punched in Joe D'Amata's number.

"D'Amata."

"Payne. I'm on my way to New York, unless you need me there."

"There's not much you can do here," D'Amata said. "The crime lab folks are just about finished. Slayberg's done the scene. We got statements from both McGrorys. What I'd like to do is get the Williamsons' statements."

"I got a statement from the brother," Matt said.

"Then just the mother, then."

"Olivia's on her way to the Roundhouse to deliver the pictures to Washington-"

"He's not there," D'Amata interrupted. "He called to say if I needed him, if we needed him, he's going to take another look at the Roy Rogers."

"He's going to meet with O'Hara, Harris, and the black kid witness at five o'clock, to start all over again."

"So he told me."

"Olivia's going from the Roundhouse to see the Williamsons."

"Olivia is, is she?"

"Fuck you, Joe."

"I think that's what they call 'verbal abuse of a subordinate, ' Sergeant. You'll be hearing from the FOP."

"Then fuck you twice, Joe," Matt said.

D'Amata laughed.

"You have the Williamson mother's address?" Matt asked.

"No, but I probably can get it from Detective Lassiter."

"I've got her cell number. You need it?"

"Yeah."

Matt gave it to him, then said, "Tell her that I said I want her to introduce you to the Williamsons as the lead detective on the case. Maybe 'senior homicide investigator' would be better."

There was a pause while D'Amata considered that.

"Lassiter's got them calmed down, and we want to show them how hard we're working, right?"

"Yeah. Make sense to you?"

"Yeah. ThatPhilly Phil asshole business is still dangerous. My wife called and asked me what the hell was wrong with the uniforms, they didn't take the door."

"Well, let's keep the Williamsons stroked."

"Consider it done," D'Amata said. "If anything comes up, I'll call you."

"Same here."

"That digital camera's a long shot, Matt. But let's hope we get lucky."

"Amen, Brother."

[FIVE] Sergeant Zachary Hobbs, a stocky, ruddy-faced forty-four-year -old, was holding down the desk in Homicide when Detective Lassiter walked through the outer door.

Detective Kenneth J. Summers, who should have been working the desk, was meeting a lengthy call of nature, which he blamed on something he must have eaten at the church supper of St. Paul's Lutheran Church the previous evening.

"Can I help you?" Hobbs asked. He was not immune to Detective Lassiter's looks.

"Lieutenant Washington?"

"I'm sorry, he's not here."

"Captain Quaire?"

"He's not here either. Can I do something for you?"

"Would you give whichever of them comes in first this envelope, please?"

She handed it to him.

"Sure." He weighed it in his hands. "What is it?"

"It's from Sergeant Payne," Olivia said.

Hobbs looked at her, waiting for her to go on. After a moment's hesitation, she did.

"It's photographs of the victim in the Independence Street job."

Sergeant Hobbs immediately tore the envelope open and looked at the eight photographs.

"Where the hell did Payne get these?" Hobbs asked.

"The doer forgot his digital camera at the scene. Sergeant Payne downloaded the images to his laptop, and Special Victims printed them for us."

"Next question: Who are you, Detective? How did you get them?"

"My name is Lassiter," Olivia said. "Northwest. I've been detailed to Homicide. Sergeant Payne told me to bring them here."

"Detailed? By who?"

"Chief Lowenstein," Olivia said.

"Well, so long as you're with us, Detective, you're certainly going to bring a little class to the premises," Hobbs said. "Where's the camera?"

"Detective D'Amata has it," Olivia said.

"Okay. As soon as either the boss or the Black Buddha comes in, I'll see they get these. They may want to talk to you…"

"I'll give you my cell phone number," she said, and did.

"Where will you be?"

"I'm going to take the victim's mother's statement," she said.

"Sergeant Payne told you to?"

"Yes, he did."

He looked at her a moment, then said, "Welcome, welcome. Would you be offended if I said you're the best-looking detective to come in here in my memory?"

"Not at all," Olivia said, and smiled at him. "Thanks."

"My pleasure," Hobbs said. "See you around."

In the best of all possible worlds, Olivia thought, as she left Homicide and the Roundhouse and got in her unmarked car, the encounter between herself and Sergeant Hobbs of Homicide would have been entirely professional and gender-neutral.

But the Philadelphia police department was not the best of all possible worlds, and Sergeant Hobbs had made it clear that he found her to be an attractive member of the female gender.

So what was wrong with that?

He wondered who the hell I was, which was natural, and he really wondered, which was even more natural, who haddetailed me, even temporarily, to Homicide. Once I told him Lowenstein, that was the end of it.

It really couldn't have gone any better.

When Olivia Lassiter, then just shy of her twenty-first birthday, and a junior at Temple University, majoring in mass market communications, had told her parents that she had taken, and passed, the entrance application for the Philadelphia police department, and that she intended to drop out of college to enter the Police Academy, their reaction had been the opposite of unbridled joy.

Her father, a midlevel executive with an insurance company, had spoken his mind. "You're crazy. You have gone over the edge! You should be locked up for your own protection."

Her mother, a buyer for John Wanamaker amp; Company, had said more or less the same thing, then tried tears approaching hysteria, and said she was throwing her life and "the advantages Daddy and I have given to you" away.

Olivia had dropped out of Temple and entered the Police Academy and graduated and did a year working a van in the Ninth District, and then a second year in the Central City Business District. Truth to tell, she hadn't liked either job, and there had been a strong temptation to accept her father's offer to go back to college, get her degree, and make something of herself.

But that would have been admitting she'd made a mistake. And she hadn't been quite prepared to do that. She had been on the job just over a year when a detective's examination was announced. She took it, and passed it, ranking just high enough to get promoted-among the last few promoted from that list-eighteen months later.

That had put her in Northwest Detectives. From the first day, she'd liked being a detective, even though she was aware she was conducting a lot of investigations-of recovered stolen automobiles, in particular-that none of her new colleagues on the squad wanted to do.

It took her several years to pay off her car note and the furniture note, but that happened, too, about the time she realized she was no longer regarded by the squad as the "rookie broad," but as one of them.

She knew that she was not very popular with some of the wives and girlfriends of the guys on the squad-they seemed to suspect that the first order of business every day was to jump Detective Lassiter's bones-but there was nothing she could do about that, even if it was unfair as hell, and untrue. She had no interest, that way, in any of the guys.

She had taken the sergeant's exam, placing so low on the list that her chances of promotion were about as good as those of her being taken bodily into heaven. Her ego had been a little damaged-she hadn't thought she would dothat badly-but it really hadn't bothered her. She liked the squad, she liked Northwest Detectives, and a promotion would have meant not only leaving the Detective Bureau but almost certainly being put back in uniform. Since she had been on the job, she had compiled a long list of uniform sergeant's jobs she really would have hated.

The bottom line there was that she liked what she was doing and had no reason to feel sorry for herself. She had wondered idly about going someplace else as a detective, and had snooped around Special Victims and Major Crimes and Intelligence enough to know that she was better off with Northwest Detectives. The District Attorney's Squad was a possibility to think of, and so was Special Operations, and for that matter even Homicide.

Olivia thought of herself as a realist, and understood that her chances of getting assigned to Homicide-even in ten years-were practically nonexistent.

But now this had been dumped in her lap, this detail- however long it lasted-to Homicide. There was no question at all that Opportunity Had Knocked, but there was a big question about how to deal with it. If she played it right, there was a chance-slim, but a chance-that it would help her get into Homicide. Maybe not now. But later.

And if she screwed up somehow, in any way, she knew she could kiss any chances of getting into Homicide farewell forever.

Olivia had just turned onto North Broad Street when her cell phone buzzed. She fumbled in her purse for it and finally pushed Answer.

"Lassiter."

"D'Amata. You know who I am?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I want you to start thinking of me as the senior Homicide investigator on this case," D'Amata said. "Not just some ordinary Homicide schmuck."

"Okay. You want to tell me why?"

"Because when I told our beloved leader, Sergeant Payne, that I wanted to go with you to take the Williamson mother's statement, he said sure, but tell her to introduce you as 'the senior Homicide investigator on the case.' "

"He say why?"

"Our orders, Detective Lassiter, are to keep the Williamsons stroked. I think it's a good idea. Our leader is as smart as a whip."

"Okay. Whatever you say. I'm on North Broad, six blocks from City Hall, en route to Mother Williamson's. You need the address?"

"Yeah."

"404 Rockland. It's just south of Roosevelt Boulevard."

"I know where it is. I'll meet you there. On the street. Either I wait or you wait, okay? Payne wants us together."

"See you there."

Olivia pushed the End button and dropped the phone back into her purse.

Sergeant Matthew Payne, she thought, was very likely going to cause some sort of problems for her vis-a-vis making the best of her opportunity to try to get into Homicide.

She had known who Detective Payne was before he walked into Cheryl Williamson's living room. She had seen him on television when there had been the shooting in Doylestown, covered with that poor girl's blood, tears running down his cheeks. It had made her cry.

And, purely as a matter of female curiosity, when she finally got her hands on the new sergeants list, she had looked to see who had scored well.

Detective Payne of Special Operations had scored number one.

The first time she had seen him in the flesh was when he walked into Cheryl Williamson's living room. The first thing she'd thought was that he was even better looking than he'd looked on television, and the second thing wasChrist, not now. I have never before been physically attracted to anyone on the job. Not now, please, God, and not a hotshot like this one.

The one thing I could do for sure that would screw up my chances of getting into Homicide would be for me to get involved with their fair-haired boy. And I will not. Not. Not.