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

THREE

[ONE] Matt Payne dropped Lieutenant McGuire and Sergeant Nevins at the Roundhouse, and then-after thinking it over for a moment at the parking lot exit-headed back toward Center City rather than toward the Delaware River and Interstate 95, which would have taken him to Special Operations headquarters.

Inspector Wohl would expect him to come to the Arsenal-still called that, although the U.S. Army was long gone-directly from the meeting with Dignitary Protection, but that couldn't be helped. He needed a quick shower and a change of linen. The cold sweat he had experienced had been a bad one, and had produced an offensive smell. Sometimes, the cold sweats just left him clammily uncomfortable, but sometimes they were accompanied by an unpleasant odor, which he thought was caused by something he had eaten. He hoped that was the reason; he didn't want to think of other unpleasant possibilities.

He went over to Spruce Street, and west on it past Broad Street to Nineteenth, where he turned right and then right and right again onto Manning. Manning was more of an alley than a street, but it gave access to the parking garage beneath the brownstone mansion on Rittenhouse Square that housed the Delaware Valley Cancer Society.

The 150-year-old building had been converted several years before to office space, which, as the owner of the building had frequently commented, had proven twice as expensive as tearing the building down and starting from scratch would have been.

Inside, the building-with the exception of a tiny apartment in the garret-was now modern office space, with all the amenities, including an elevator and parking space for Cancer Society executives in the basement. Outside, the building preserved the dignity of Rittenhouse Square, thought by many to be the most attractive of Philadelphia's squares.

When the owner-the building had been in his family since it was built-had authorized the expense of converting the garret, not suitable for use as offices, he thought the tiny rooms could probably be rented to an elderly couple, perhaps, or a widow or widower, someone of limited means who worked downtown, perhaps in the Franklin Institute or the Free Public Library, and who would be willing to put up with the inconvenience of access and the slanting walls and limited space because it was convenient, cheap, and was protected around-the-clock by the Wachenhut Security Service.

It was instead occupied by a single bachelor, the owner's son, Matthew M. Payne, because the City of Philadelphia requires that its employees live within the city limits, and the Payne residence in Wallingford, a suburb, did not qualify.

The owner of the building had decreed that two parking spaces in the underground garage be reserved for him. Both his wife and his daughter, he thought, would appreciate having their own parking spaces in downtown Philadelphia, and it was, after all, his building.

Matt Payne pulled the unmarked Crown Victoria into one of the two reserved parking spots. The second reserved parking spot held a silver Porsche 911 Carrera, which had been his graduation present when he had finished his undergraduate work at the University of Pennsylvania.

He carefully locked the car, then trotted to the elevator, which was standing with its door open. He pressed 3, the door closed, and the elevator started to move. Once he was past the ground floor, he pulled his necktie loose and began to open his shirt. The buttons were open nearly to his belt when the door opened, and he started to step out onto what he expected to be the third floor.

It was instead the second. Two female employees of the Delaware County Cancer Society had summoned the elevator to take them to the third floor, which was occupied by the various machines necessary to keep track of contributors, and the technicians-all of whom were male-and was seldom visited by anyone not connected with the machines.

The ladies recoiled at the unexpected sight of a partially dressed male-obviously in the act of undressing even further, and from whose shoulder was slung a rather large pistol-coming out of the elevator at them.

"Sorry," Matt Payne said, gathering his shirt together with both hands, and indicating with a nod of his head that they were welcome to join him in the elevator.

The ladies smiled somewhat weakly and indicated they would just as soon wait for the next elevator, thank you just the same.

He pushed 3 again, and the elevator rose one more floor.

When the door opened, there was no one in sight. Matt crossed the small foyer quickly, pushed the keys on a combination lock on a door, shoved it open, and went up the stairs to his apartment two at a time.

Not quite ninety seconds later, he was in his shower-a small stall shower; there wasn't room for a bathtub-when his cell phone went off.

He stuck his head and one arm out from behind the shower curtain.

"Payne."

There was no direct response to that. Instead, Matt heard a familiar voice say, somewhat triumphantly, "Got him, Inspector!"

A mental picture of police officer Paul T. O'Mara came to Payne's mind. Officer O'Mara, a very neat, very wholesome-looking young officer in an immaculate, well-fitting uniform, was sitting at his desk in the outer office of the commanding officer of Special Operations. Officer O'Mara was Inspector Wohl's administrative assistant.

He had assumed that duty when the incumbent-Officer M. M. Payne-had been promoted to detective.

Officer O'Mara, like Inspector Wohl, was from a police family. His father was a captain, who commanded the Twenty-fifth District. His brother was a sergeant in Civil Affairs. His grandfather, like Peter Wohl's father and grandfather, had retired from the Philadelphia police department.

More important, his father was a friend of both Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Chief Inspector (Retired) Augustus Wohl. When Officer O'Mara, who had five years on the job in the Traffic Division, had failed, for the second time, to pass the examination for corporal, both Commissioner Coughlin and Chief Wohl had had a private word with Inspector Wohl.

They had pointed out to him that just because someone has a little trouble with promotion examinations doesn't mean he's not a good cop, with potential. It just means that he has trouble passing examinations.

Not like you, Peter, or, for that matter, Matt, the inference had been. You're not really all that smart; you're just good at taking examinations.

One or the other or both of them had suggested that what Officer O'Mara needed was a little broader experience than he was getting in the Traffic Division, such as he might get if it could be arranged to have Personnel, with your approval, of course, assign him to Special Operations as your administrative assistant, now that Matty got himself promoted, and the job's open.

Officer O'Mara's performance as Wohl's administrative assistant had been satisfactory. He was immensely loyal, hard-working, and reliable. The trouble with Officer O'Mara, as Detective Jesus Martinez had often pointed out, was that he had been at the end of the line when brains were passed out, and an original thought and a cold drink of water would probably kill him.

Inspector Wohl came on the line a moment later.

"When's the meeting going to be over?" he asked without any preliminaries.

"It's over, sir."

"You're en route here?"

"Actually, sir, I'm in the shower."

"You had planned to come to work today?"

"Yes, sir. I will be there directly."

The line went dead.

Shit! Another three minutes, and when he asked, "You're en route here?" I could have said, "Yes, sir."

I wonder what's going on?

Why did he put the arm out for me?

[TWO] Twenty minutes later-after having twice en route responded to radio requests for his location-Detective Payne entered the walled collection of aging red-brick buildings once known as the U.S. Army Frankford Arsenal and now somewhat hopefully dubbed the "Arsenal Business Center" by the City of Philadelphia.

When business had not rushed to the Arsenal, the city had given its permission for two units of the police department to occupy some of the buildings. One was the Sex Crimes Unit, and the other the far larger Special Operations Division, which previously had been operating out of a building at Castor and Frankford Avenues. Built in 1892, the Frankford Grammar School had rendered the city more than a century of service before being adjudged uninhabitable by the Bureau of Licenses Inspections.

It had then served as Special Operations Division Head-quarters-with Inspector Peter Wohl installed in what had been the principal's office-until space had "become available" in the Arsenal Business Center. Just as soon as funds became available, the city intended to demolish the old school. Unless, of course, itreally died of old age and fell down by itself, thereby saving the city that expenditure.

Matt drove through the collection of old and mostly unused Arsenal buildings until he came to one of the "newer" buildings-the cornerstone was marked 1934-and drove around it, looking for a place to park. There were none. Even the spot reserved for COMMISSIONER was occupied.

He finally parked a block away and then trotted to the Special Operations headquarters building. Inspector Wohl was now housed in the ground-floor office of what had once been the office of the Arsenal's commanding officer.

He pushed open the door from the corridor to Wohl's outer office.

Officer O'Mara pushed a lever on his intercom.

"Sir, Detective Payne is here."

"Send him in."

Matt knocked politely at the door and waited for permission to enter.

"Come in, please," Inspector Wohl called.

Matt pushed the door open.

There were five people in the room. Inspector Peter Wohl, sitting behind his desk; Captain Michael J. Sabara, fortyish, a short, barrel-chested Lebanese, who was Wohl's deputy; Captain David Pekach, the weasel-faced, fair-skinned, small, wiry thirty-seven-year-old commanding officer of the Highway Patrol; and, sitting side by side on Wohl's couch, two white shirts Matt was really surprised to see in Wohl's office: Deputy Commissioner (Patrol) Dennis V. Coughlin and his Executive Officer, Captain Francis X. Hollaran.

What the hell is going on?

"I'm delighted, Detective Payne," Inspector Wohl said, sarcastically, "that you have managed to squeeze time for us into your busy schedule."

"There's one bastard I would really like to see shuffling around in shackles," Captain Hollaran said, handing something to Captain Pekach.

"You'd like to see him in shackles?" Captain Sabara replied. "I'd like to see him fry. I'd strap him in the chair myself."

Despite his somewhat menacing appearance, Captain Michael Sabara was really a rather gentle man. Matt was surprised at his vehemence.

"Fry"? "I'd strap him in the chair myself"?

Who are they talking about?

"You were saying, Detective Payne?" Inspector Wohl went on.

"Sorry, sir. I had to change my clothes," Payne said.

"When was the last time you got a postcard, Dave?" Commissioner Coughlin asked.

"I get one every couple of months," Pekach replied. "The one before this was from Rome. This one's from someplace in France."

"Probably from where he lives," Coughlin said, shaking his head. "The sonofabitch knows the French won't let us extradite him."

"Unless it had something to do with Monsignor Schneider, I don't think I want to hear why you had to change your clothes," Inspector Wohl said.

"Nothing to do with the monsignor, sir."

"Good," Inspector Wohl said. "I presume everything went well at the meeting?"

"Everything went well at the meeting," Matt said. "I e-mailed you, sir."

"So you did," Wohl said. "And I was delighted to hear that you think you're in love, but wondered why you thought you should notify me officially."

"You're in love, are you, Payne?" Captain Pekach asked.

"No, sir, I'm not."

"Then why did you tell Inspector Wohl you were, and as part of your official duties?" Commissioner Coughlin asked.

"It was a little joke, sir," Matt said.

Jesus, why the hell did I do that?

And damn it, I sent it to his personal e-mail address, so it wasn't official.

"You have to watch that sort of thing, Matty," Commissioner Coughlin said, his tone suggesting great disappointment in Matt's lack of professionalism.

"Who are you in love with, Payne?" Captain Sabara asked.

"There was a girl at the meeting," Matt said. "I…"

"The sort of girl you could bring home to dinner with your mother?" Sabara pursued.

"Or to dinner with my Martha?" Captain Pekach asked.

Martha was Mrs. Pekach.

"Sir?"

"More important," Sabara asked, "what makes you think this female is in love with you?"

I am having my chain pulled. Just for the hell of it? Or is there more to this?

"Actually, sir, I knew she was in love with me from the moment she saw me. I seem to have that effect on women."

There were smiles, but not so much as a chuckle.

"Let me put it to you this way, Matty," Commissioner Coughlin said, very seriously. "Theone thing a detective-or a newly promoted sergeant- doesn't need is a reputation as a ladies' man…"

What did he say- "or a new sergeant"?

"… it tends to piss off the wives of the men they're working with," Coughlin finished.

Now there was laughter.

"Congratulations, Matty," Coughlin said. "You're number one on the list."

He stood up, went to Matt, shook his hand, and put his arm around his shoulders.

"I'll be damned," Matt said.

"Damned? Probably, almost certainly," Wohl said. "But for the moment, we're all proud of you."

"Yeah, we are, Matt," Pekach said. "I don't think even our beloved boss was ever number one on a list."

"Yeah, he was," Coughlin corrected him. "Peter was number one on the lieutenant's list."

Officer O'Mara appeared at the door with a digital camera, lined them all up, with Matt in the middle, and took four pictures of them.

"There's a dark side to this," Pekach said. "Matt, you know Martha's going to have a party for you."

"She doesn't have to do that," Matt said.

"She will want to," Pekach said.

"I've got to go back to work," Coughlin said. He looked at Hollaran. "Frank and I would have been out of here long ago if Detective Payne hadn't found it necessary to take a bath in the middle of the morning."

"It was a matter of absolute necessity," Matt said.

"So we'll leave just as soon as Matty calls his father and mother and lets them have the good news."

"Sir?" Wohl asked, confused.

"You don't mind if I borrow him for a couple of hours, do you, Peter?"

"No, sir."

"I'll wait for you outside, Matty," Coughlin said.

"Yes, sir."

There was a round of handshakes, and in a moment Matt and Wohl were alone in the office.

"Sit down, have a cup of coffee, and call," Wohl said. "You seem a little shaken."

Matt said aloud what he was thinking.

"I thought I was going to pass," he said. "Not number one, but pass. But now that it's happened…Sergeant Payne?"

"You'll get used to it, Matt," Wohl said, poured him a cup of coffee, and pointed to the couch, an order for him to sit down.

"Coughlin will wait," he said. "Prepare yourself for another 'what you need is a couple of years in uniform' speech."

"Another? You know about the first?"

Wohl nodded. "And for the record, Matt, I think he's right."

"I don't want to be a uniform sergeant," Matt said.

"You need that experience," Wohl said. "End of my speech."

"Thank you," Matt said, sat down, took out his cellular, and started pushing autodial buttons.

It didn't take long.

Mrs. Elizabeth Newman, the Payne housekeeper, said:

"I thought you knew, Matt, your mother went to Wilmington overnight."

Goddamn it, I did know!

"Thanks, Elizabeth. I did know. I forgot."

On the second call, Mrs. Irene Craig, Executive Secretary to Brewster Cortland Payne, Esq., founding partner of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, arguably Philadelphia's most prestigious law firm, said, a certain tone of loving exasperation in her voice, "I left two messages on your machine, Matt. Your dad went to Washington on the eight-thirteen this morning, and is going to spend the night with your mother in Wilmington."

And I got both of them, too, goddamn it!

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Craig. Forgive me."

"No, I won't. But I love you anyway."

On the third call, a nasal-voiced female somewhat tartly informed him that Dr. Payne would be teaching all day, and could not be reached unless it was an emergency.

"Thank you very much. Tell Dr. Payne, please, that unless we have her check within seventy-two hours, we're going to have to repossess the television."

"Amy always teaches all day on Monday," Inspector Wohl said.

Inspector Wohl knew more about Dr. Payne's schedule than her brother did. They were close friends, and on-and-off lovers.

Matt looked at him but said nothing.

"Low-ranking police officers should not keep Deputy Commissioners waiting," Wohl said. "You might want to write that down."

"Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir."

Deputy Commissioner Coughlin was standing on the stairs to the building waiting for him.

"You drive, Matty," he ordered. "Frank had things to do. You can either drop me at the Roundhouse later, or I'll catch a ride somehow."

"Yes, sir. Where are we going?"

"The Roy Rogers at Broad and Snyder," Coughlin said. "You heard about that?"

"Yes, sir. I ran into Tony Harris at the Roundhouse this morning. Did they get the doers?"

"Not yet," Coughlin said. "We will, of course. We should have already. I'd like to know why we haven't."

And en route, I will get the speech.

I really hate to refuse anything he asks of me.

And he's right- and Peter made it clear he agrees with him- I probably would learn a hell of a lot I don't know and should if I went to one of the districts as a uniform sergeant.

But I don't want to be a uniform sergeant, spending my time driving around a district waiting for something to happen, getting involved in domestic disturbances, petty theft, and all that.

I like being a detective. I like working in civilian clothing.

And I didn't come up with that ruling that the high-five guys get their choice of assignment. They offered that prize, and I won it, fair and square, and I want it.

That's what I'll tell him.

When all else fails, tell the truth.

"What did your mother have to say?" Commissioner Coughlin asked.

"My father went to Washington," Matt replied. "He's going to meet Mother in Wilmington, and they'll spend the night. So I'll have to wait until they get back to tell them. And I couldn't get Amy on the phone; she teaches all day on Monday."

"Is he still pushing you to go to law school?"

Here it comes: "Maybe you should think about it, Matt."

"With great subtlety and even greater determination."

"He means well, Matty," Coughlin said.

"I know."

"What's Peter got you working on?" Coughlin asked.

I'm not supposed to tell you. But on the other hand, you're Deputy Commissioner Coughlin. You have every right in the world to ask.

"A cop-on-the-take question. Captain Cassidy, of the Eighteenth, is driving to his new condominium at Atlantic City in his new GMC Yukon XL. He gave his old one-last year's- to his daughter, who is married to a sergeant in the Eleventh. They also have a condo at the shore."

"Peter got it from Internal Affairs?" Coughlin asked.

"Until just now, I thought he got it from you," Matt said. "Either you or Chief Lowenstein. He said he wanted answers before Internal Affairs got involved."

Chief Inspector Matthew L. Lowenstein was chief of detectives.

"And have you? Come up with any answers?"

"Not so far."

"What have you got so far?"

"His major expense is the condo," Matt said. "The payment on the mortgage-$325,000-is about $2,400 a month. They furnished it from scratch, and the furniture payment is $323 a month. The Yukon-"

"What's aYukon?" Coughlin interrupted.

"I'm not really sure. What Cassidy has-and the old one, too, that he gave to his daughter-is the big GMC. Until I started this, I thought they called them 'Suburbans.' "

"Okay," Coughlin said.

"Anyway, he bought the new Yukon-no trade-in-with no money down, on a four-year note. That's $683 a month. That's about-"

"Thirty-four hundred a month," Coughlin interrupted. "Which is a large chunk out of a captain's pay."

"His house is paid for," Matt said. "He lives in Northeast Philly, not far from Chief Wohl."

"I know."

"He has two kids in school, one in Archbishop Ryan High School and the other in Temple. I don't know yet what that costs."

"It's not cheap."

"On the income side, in the last nine months, his mother, who lived with him, died. And so did a brother. An unmarried brother, in Easton. There was some insurance-I'm working on how much-and some property. I'm working on that."

"Gut feeling?"

"I don't think he's on the take," Matt said. "Not the type."

"You think you can tell by looking, do you, Matty?"

"The Black Buddha told me that just because you can't take your gut feeling to court, doesn't mean you should ignore it," Matt said.

"You better get out of the habit of calling him that, if you're going to Homicide."

"It doesn't make him mad," Matt argued. "He told me that Buddha was a very wise man, and 'God knows, I'm black.' "

Coughlin chuckled.

"Have you thought whatLieutenant Washington is going to think if you go to Homicide?"

That's two "if you're going to Homicide"s. Come on, Uncle Denny. Get the speech over with.

"Sure," Matt said.

"Aside from the fact that Captain Patrick Cassidy is an affable Irishman who is good to his wife and daughter, and probably has a dog named Spot, why aren't you made suspicious by his sudden new affluence?"

"There could be a number of explanations for it."

"I'm all ears."

"He cared for his mother for years. She could have left him money. Or the brother. Even if they didn't, I can hear his wife saying, 'Okay, that's over. Your mother's gone. I want a place at the shore.' "

"Even if they can't afford it?"

"I hope to find out they can," Matt said. "I was going to go to Easton today to check the brother's will."

"Was?"

"Here I am, at your orders," Matt said.

"We won't be at the Roy Rogers long," Coughlin said. "I just wanted a look around after the crime scene people did their business. I thought you might want to have a look, since you may go to Homicide."

That's two "if"s and a "may." Where's the speech?

"I would. Thank you."

They rode in silence for a minute or two, and there was no speech, which both surprised and worried Matt.

There has to be a hook in the two "if"s and a "may."

What's he done? Had a word with the commissioner, who will call me in and say that while I'm certainly entitled to go to Homicide, "the department has a real problem. They really need a sergeant with your experience in the Special Victims Unit and you'll certainly understand that the needs of the department are paramount, and I give you my word that you'll get to Homicide one day."

If that's what he's done, he certainly won't tell me.

Shit!

"Who were they talking about when I walked in?" Matt asked.

"Who's who?"

"The 'bastard' Frank Hollaran said he'd really like to see in shackles, that Mike Sabara wants to personally strap in the electric chair."

"Isaac 'Fort' Festung. The sonofabitch keeps sending Pekach postcards."

"Who is he?"

"You really don't know?" Coughlin asked, his surprise evident in his voice.

"No, I don't," Matt confessed. "The name sounds familiar… but no, I really don't know. What did he do?"

"How old are you, Matty?"

"Twenty-seven."

"I guess that's why you never heard of him. When you were seven years old-no, six; she was in the trunk for a year-Fort Festung beat his girlfriend to death, stuffed her body in a trunk, and put the trunk in a closet. When they finally found her, her body was mummified."

"Jesus! And he sends Dave Pekach postcards from prison?" Matt asked, and then, remembering, added, "I thought Dave said from France."

"He did," Coughlin said. "Festung never went to prison. After Dave got a search warrant, found the body, and arrested him, his lawyer, now our beloved Senator Feldman, got him released at his arraignment on forty thousand dollars bail, and he jumped it."

"He was charged with murder and got out on bail?" Matt asked, incredulously.

"Yeah, that's just what he did," Coughlin said, "and he's been on the run ever since. A couple of months ago, they found him in France."

"And now he'll be extradited and tried?"

"He's already been tried. The onlyin absentia trial I ever heard about. The jury found him guilty, and Eileen Solomon sentenced him to life without possibility of parole."

"The D.A.?" Matt asked, surprised.

The Hon. Eileen McNamara Solomon had just been reelected as district attorney of Philadelphia, taking sixty-seven percent of the votes cast.

"Before she was D.A., she was a judge," Coughlin said. "And no, Matty, it doesn't look as if he'll be extradited. He's got the French government in his pocket. And knows it. And likes to rub it in our faces, especially Dave Pekach's. That's what the postcard was all about. He's still thumbing his nose at the system."

"I'll be damned," Matt said.

"Get the case out and read it. It's interesting," Coughlin said, and then, nodding out the windshield, "I wonder if they're just slow, or they got something."

Matt followed his glance. The crime scene van was parked on Snyder Street, fifty yards past the Roy Rogers restaurant.

"I think there's a place to park right in front of the van," Coughlin said. "You can drop me here."

"You want me to come in?" Matt asked, as he pulled to the curb.

"That's the idea," Coughlin said, as he got out of the car. "If you're going to Homicide, you might find this educational."

That's three "if"s and a "may."

[THREE] Matt had to show his badge to the uniform standing outside to get past him into the Roy Rogers, and then was surprised to find Coughlin waiting for him just inside the door.

The restaurant was empty except for a man Matt guessed was the manager, sitting with a cup of coffee at one of the banquettes near the door, and a forensic technician trying to find-or maybe lift-prints from a banquette at the rear of the restaurant, by the kitchen door.

And then the kitchen door opened, and Detective Tony Harris came through it, and saw Coughlin. He walked up to him.

"Commissioner," he said.

"Tony," Coughlin said, as they shook hands. Then Coughlin asked, "They found something?"

"Jason didn't think they found enough," Harris said. "That's why he sent them back."

"The famous Jason Washington's 'never leave a stone unturned' philosophy?"

"Never leave the stonesunder the stone unturned," Harris said.

"Can you walk it through for me, Tony? Bright Eyes here just might learn something."

"Sure," Harris said. "Two doers. They came through that door. Two young black guys, one of them fat. They-I got this primarily from a guy who works here-took a look around, then the fat one walked to the last booth on the left and sat down, and the other one sat in the first booth-where you are, Matt. My eyewitness, who was mopping the floor by the door, ducked into the kitchen. He looked out, saw the fat guy take a revolver-wrapped in newspaper-from his jacket, and told the kitchen supervisor. She called 911.

"The next thing my eyewitness knew, there was a shot." Harris pointed to the ceiling above where Matt was standing. "We recovered the bullet. Full jacket.38. If we can find the gun, we can most likely get a good match. Then the fat doer went into the kitchen…"

"Let's have a look," Coughlin said.

"Yes, sir," Harris said, and led them through the restaurant to the kitchen doors.

"We have a bunch of prints from both sides of the doors," Harris said. "All the employees had been fingerprinted, so we're running the ones we lifted against those."

He pushed the door open.

"My eyewitness was behind the door, with his back against the wall," Harris said. "He saw the fat doer grab the telephone, listen a moment-presumably long enough to hear she was talking to Police Radio-rip the phone from the wall, call her an obscene name, hold his revolver at arm's length, and shoot her. She slid down the wall, and then fell forward."

He pointed to the chalked outline of a body on the floor, and to blood smeared on the wall.

"Then the fat doer herded everybody but my eyewitness, who he didn't see, into the cooler, and jammed a sharpening steel into the padlock loops."

He pointed to the cooler door, then went on. "Then he went back into the restaurant, not seeing my eyewitness, and started to take wallets, et cetera, from the citizens. Doer Number One, meanwhile, is taking money from the cash register.

"Right about then, Kenny Charlton came through the door. Doer Number One is crouched behind the cashier's counter. Kenny saw him, the doer jumps up, wraps his arm around Kenny, wrestles with him. The fat doer then runs up, sticks his gun under Kenny's bulletproof vest, and fires. Kenny goes down. Doer Number One steps over Kenny's body, takes two shots at it, and then follows Doer Number Two out the door and down Snyder. Mickey O'Hara got their picture, but it's a lousy picture. No fault of Mickey's."

"Why did the fat doer stick his gun under Charlton's vest?" Matt asked. "Why not just shoot him in the head? Or the lower back, below the vest?"

Coughlin gave him a look Matt could not interpret, and finally decided it was exasperation at his having asked a question that obviously could not be answered.

Tony Harris held up both hands in a helpless gesture.

The restaurant manager walked up to them with three mugs of coffee on a tray.

"I thought you and the other detectives might like…"

"That's very nice of you," Coughlin said.

"Mr. Benetti, this is Commissioner Coughlin," Harris said.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry…"

"I like to think I'm still a detective," Coughlin said. "No offense taken."

"I… uh… don't know how to say this," Benetti said. "But I'm glad to see you here, Commissioner. I would hate to have what those animals did to Mrs. Fernandez and Officer Charlton… wind up as an unsolved crime."

"We're going to try very hard, Mr. Benetti, to make sure that doesn't happen," Coughlin said.

Benetti looked at Coughlin, then put out his hand.

"Thank you," he said, and walked away.

Coughlin looked over his shoulder, then pointed to one of the banquettes. He slid in one side, and Tony Harris and Matt into the other.

"Still no idea who these animals are?" Coughlin asked.

Harris shook his head, "no."

"The police artist's stuff is just about useless," Harris said. "Everybody saw somebody else. We're going to have to have a tip, or make them with a fingerprint."

Coughlin shook his head.

"One question, Tony. I want the answer off the top of your head. How would you feel about having Sergeant Payne in Homicide?"

Harris chuckled, then smiled.

"I heard The List was out," he said. "Good for you, Matt!"

"That doesn't answer my question, Tony," Coughlin said.

"Welcome, welcome!" Tony said.

"I should have known better than to try that," Coughlin said. "In law school, they teach you never to ask a question to somebody on the stand unless you know what the answer's going to be."

"Commissioner, you asked," Harris said. "What's wrong with Matt coming to Homicide?"

"He's too young, for one thing. He hasn't been on the job long enough, for another. I can go on."

"He's also smart," Harris said. "And he's a stone-under-the -stone turner. I didn't wonder why this bastard didn't shoot Kenny in the head, or lower back. Matt already thinks like the Black Buddha. The other stuff, we can teach him."

Coughlin snorted.

"And he's going to make a good witness on the stand," Harris said. "Think about that."

"I'll be damned," Coughlin said. "For a moment, I thought- I guess, to be honest, hoped-you were pulling my leg. But you're serious, aren't you?"

Tony Harris nodded his head. "I thought you'd be all for him coming to Homicide," he said.

Coughlin looked between the two of them but didn't respond directly.

After a moment, he asked, "Are you about finished here, Tony?"

"Just about."

"I need a ride to the Roundhouse."

"My pleasure."

"Matt's going to Easton on a job I gave Peter Wohl and Peter gave to Matt," Coughlin said. "And he'd better get going."

"What job's that?" Harris asked.

"One of those I'd rather not talk about," Coughlin said, looking at Matt. "But the sooner youknow something, Matt, the better."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"You sore at me, Matt?" Coughlin said.

"I could never be sore at you," Matt said.

Coughlin met his eyes and then nodded.

Then he pushed himself out of the banquette.

[FOUR] Matt started to head for the Schuylkill Expressway as the fastest way out of town. When he turned onto South Street, he punched the autodial button on his cellular, which caused Inspector Wohl to answer his cellular on the second ring.

"Matt, boss. Commissioner Coughlin's on his way back to the Roundhouse, and I'm on my way to Easton. Okay?"

"From the cheerful sound of your voice, I guess you again refused to listen to his sage advice?"

"He didn't offer any," Matt said. "He tried to sandbag me with Tony Harris."

"And?"

"Tony said I already think like the Black Buddha, they can teach me what I have to know, and 'welcome'-no, 'welcome, welcome'-to Homicide."

There was a moment's silence.

"He also told me he gave you the Cassidy job," Matt said.

Again there was a perceptible pause.

"If you come up with something unpleasant, give me a call," Wohl said. "Otherwise fill me in in the morning."

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

Wohl broke the connection without saying anything else.

At the next intersection-South and Twentieth Streets- Matt changed his mind about the Schuylkill Expressway and instead drove back to Rittenhouse Square, where he drove into the underground garage, parked the unmarked Ford, and got in the Porsche.

It had occurred to him that he hadn't driven the Porsche much lately, and it needed a run. What he liked best about the Porsche-something he somewhat snobbishly thought most people didn't understand-was not how easily you could get it up to well over 100, 120 miles per hour-a great many cars would do that-but how beautifully it handled on narrow, winding roads, making 60 or 70 where lesser cars would lose control at 50 or less. Such as the twenty miles or so of Route 611 between Kintnersville and Easton, where the road ran alongside the old Delaware Canal.

With the winding road, and a lot else on his mind- God, that was an unexpected compliment from Tony Harris, me thinking like Jason…

And it couldn't have been timed better. Uncle Denny had egg all over his face…

I wonder when the promotion will actually happen?

What am I going to do if Captain Cassidy's brother's will hasn't been filed in the courthouse? Some people don't even have wills. What do they call that, intestate, something like that?

With a little luck, the courthouse'll have a computer and I can do a search for all real estate in the name of John Paul Cassidy…

I've got to find out more about Whatshisname who stuffed his girlfriend in a trunk and sends Dave Pekach taunting postcards from Europe…

Uncle Denny said the body was (a) mummified and (b) in the trunk for a year? Didn't it smell?

I'll have to find out when Stan Colt is going to grace Philadelphia with his presence. I really would like to see more- a hell of a lot more- of Vice President Terry Davis…

Nice legs. Nice everything… -he didn't think about Route 611 passing through Doylestown, right past the Crossroads Diner, until the diner itself came into view.

Shit, Shit, Shit!

The mental image of Susan with the neat hole under her sightless eyes jumped into his mind.

No, goddamn it. No! Not twice in one day!

Think of something else.

Terry Davis in the shower.

A mummified body in a trunk. If you want to feel nauseous, think of a stinking, mummified body.

But (a) mummies don't stink. They look like leather statues, but they don't smell, (b) mummies are bodies that have gone through some sort of preservation process. They gut them, I think I remember from sixth grade, and then fill the cavity with some kind of preservatives- or was it rocks? sand?- and then wrap them in linen.

The body in this weirdo's trunk might have been dried out after a year, but, technically speaking, it wasn't mummified. After a year, why wasn't it a skeleton? Wouldn't the flesh have completely decomposed- giving off one hell of a stink- in a year?

There is a lot you don't know about bodies. And ergo sum, a sergeant of the Homicide Bureau should know a lot about dead bodies.

Maybe I can take a course at the university.

Not a bullshit undergraduate course, but a course at the medical school. Amy's a professor. She should (a) know and (b) have the clout to have her little brother admitted.

Christ, I'm going seventy-five in a fifty-five zone!

Sorry to be speeding, Officer. What it was, when I passed the Crossroads Diner, was that I naturally recalled my girlfriend with the back of her head blown out in the parking lot…

Terry Davis has long legs. Nice long legs.

Why do long legs turn me on?

Why do some bosoms, but not others, turn me on?

Why did Terry Davis turn me on like that?

She really does have nice legs.

And she smelled good, too.

He recognized where he was. What he thought of as "the end of Straight 611 out of Doylestown." The concrete highway turned into macadam, made a sharp right turn, then a sharp left turn, and then got curvy.

Right around the next curve is where we pick up the old canal.

I'll be damned! I'm not going to throw up.

And I'm not sweat-soaked.

Thank you, God!

He made the left turn and shoved his foot hard against the accelerator.