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

FIVE

[ONE] Inspector Wohl and Detective Payne were alone in Wohl's office at the Arsenal. Payne's laptop was on Wohl's coffee table, and Payne was bent over it, using it as a notebook, as he reported to Wohl on his investigation of the sudden affluence of Captain Cassidy.

Wohl held up his hand to Detective Payne to stop; he was about to answer his cellular phone.

He picked the cellular up from his desk and answered it. "Wohl."

Then he slipped the cellular into a device on his desk, which activated a hands-off system.

"Are you there, Inspector?" Jason Washington's deep, resonant voice came from the speaker.

"Just putting the phone in the whatchamacallit, Jason."

"Lieutenant Washington reporting for duty, sir."

"Do I have to tell you this wasn't my idea, Jason?"

"I understand it was the mayor's inspiration of the day," Washington said.

"Well, just for the record: Lieutenant, you are designated the senior investigating officer for the mayor's task force investigating the murders at the Roy Rogers. You will report directly to me. Now, is there anything you feel you need to facilitate your investigation?"

"No, sir."

"If there is, you will promptly let me know?"

"Yes, sir."

"We now go off the record," Wohl said. "Who told you?"

"The commissioner. Off the record. He also told me about Matt. I thought Matt would have called me."

"Me, too," Wohl said. "Detective Payne, why didn't you telephone Lieutenant Washington and inform him of your spectacular performance?"

"He's there?" Washington asked.

"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Well, Detective Payne?"

"I thought," Matt said, raising his voice so the microphone on Wohl's desk would pick it up, "Tony would tell you."

"As indeed he did. When can we expect your services, Sergeant?"

"Homicide's wastebaskets need emptying, do they, Jason?" Wohl asked, innocently.

"I'm not a sergeant yet."

"You will be, as I understand it, at approximately nine-thirty tomorrow morning. May I assume that you will report for duty immediately thereafter?"

"Your wastebaskets must be overflowing," Wohl said.

"I have nothing so mundane in mind for Sergeant Payne, Inspector. His first duty will be to supervise Detective Harris, and Harris's team."

Matt thought:That will be a blind man leading the guide dog around.

"Tony's somehow fallen from grace?" Wohl asked.

"Actually, Peter, it was Tony's idea. He figures Matt can keep other people from looking over his shoulder. And we all know what a splendid typist Sergeant Payne is."

Wohl considered that-the problem of how rookie Sergeant Payne will fit into Homicide has been solved. Jason said it was Tony's idea, but I suspect Jason was involved. Matt will follow Harris around, relieve him of as many administrative details as possible, and since he is both bright and aware of his massive ignorance of Homicide procedures, he will keep his mouth shut, do whatever Tony "suggests"- which will include making sure that the rest of Tony's team does what Tony wants them to do, and when- and in the process learn a hell of a lot-and grunted his agreement.

"Tony hasn't come up with anything on the doers?" Wohl asked.

"They're out there somewhere, Peter," Washington said. "I think it highly unlikely that the mob imported two professionals from New York to stick up a Roy Rogers."

Wohl chuckled.

"One distinct possibility, Peter, is that these two master criminals, once they have gone through the-best estimate- less than fifteen hundred dollars they earned on this job, will do it again."

"Yeah," Wohl agreed, seeing both the likelihood of a second or third or fourth robbery before they were-almost inevitably-caught, and the likelihood that once they were arrested, they could be identified in a lineup as the Roy Rogers doers.

"There is an obvious downside to that," Washington went on. "Their willingness to use their weapons…"

"Compounded by the fact they know they are already facing Murder Two," Wohl interjected.

"… and there will be no greater penalty if they use them again," Washington finished for him.

"Or they may really go underground," Matt said, "knowing they're wanted for Murder Two."

"The cheap seats have been heard from," Wohl said.

"I was about to make reference to wisdom from the mouths of babes," Washington said. "Except, of course, he's right."

"God, don't tell him that. His ego needs no buttressing."

"Actually, Peter, he will bring a fresh approach, which may very well be useful. Yesterday, when Tony walked Coughlin and our new sergeant through the Roy Rogers, Matt wondered aloud why Doer Two put his revolver under Charlton's vest. Tony was somewhat chagrined that question hadn't occurred to him."

"Is that significant?"

"Never leave a stone unturned…" Washington began.

"… or the stone under the stone," Wohl finished.

"You were, as I recall, an apt pupil," Washington said. "It might be. It opens avenues of inquiry. 'Is Doer Two a cop hater?' for example. 'Is he someone who knew, and intensely disliked, Kenny Charlton?' 'Did Stan Colt-which brings us to that-use the under-the-vest technique in one of his cinema fantasies?' "

"Yeah," Wohl agreed. "What about Stan Colt?"

"The commissioner didn't mention that Sergeant Payne's services will be required in Dignitary Protection when Stan Colt comes to our fair city?"

"No," Wohl said, simply. "He didn't."

"He apparently made a very good impression on Monsignor Schneider," Washington said, "as incredible as that might sound. I am to lose his services temporarily whenever the Colt people think they need him."

"Can't you get me out of that?" Matt asked.

On the other hand, that would give me a lot of time with Terry.

"No," Washington said. "Peter-Tony just walked in, shaking his head ruefully-you asked if there is anything I need. I just thought of something."

"It's yours," Wohl said.

"I'm a little short of wheels. Sergeant Payne, obviously, will no longer be needing his sparkling new Crown Victoria."

"Okay," Wohl said. "And to prove what a fully cooperating fellow I am, I will even have Sergeant Payne deliver it to you, tomorrow when he reports for duty."

"It's always a pleasure dealing with you, Inspector," Washington said, and the line went dead.

Peter removed the cellular phone from the hands-off system, laid it on the desk, and turned to Matt.

"Now, where were we?"

The telephone on his desk buzzed, and Wohl answered it.

The conversation was very brief.

Wohl said "Yes, sir" three times, "Yes, sir, at three" once, and "Yes, sir" one final time.

He looked at Matt again. "The commissioner thinks it would be a very good idea if I were to be at the Monti Funeral Home at three," he said, "to coincide with the visit of the mayor, and his announcement that he has formed a task force to quickly get the Roy Rogers doers."

Matt nodded.

"Now, where were we?" Wohl asked again.

[TWO] When the Hon. Alvin W. Martin got out of the mayoral limousine at the Monti Funeral Home on South Broad Street in Yeadon, just outside the city limits, he paused long enough on the sidewalk to tell the press that he would have an announcement to make as soon as he had offered his condolences to Mrs. Charlton and the Charlton family.

Then he made his way into the funeral home itself, where he found the long, wide, carpeted central corridor of the building about half full of men with police badges on their uniforms, or hanging from breast pockets of suits, from chains around the necks, or on their belts.

Each of the badges had a narrow, black "mourning band"-sliced from the elastic cloth around the bottom of old uniform caps-across it.

The mayor spotted Deputy Commissioner Coughlin at almost the end of the corridor. Commissioner Mariani had told him that Coughlin knew Mrs. Charlton, and would escort him into the "viewing room" where Charlton's body was laid out, wait until the mayor paid his respects at the casket, then introduce him to Mrs. Charlton, and finally lead him out of the viewing room.

Coughlin was in the center of a group of seven men. Mayor Martin recognized first Mr. Michael J. O'Hara of theBulletin- no camera, and in a suit. What the hell is he doing here? And with these people?-and then Captain Hollaran, Coughlin's executive assistant- or whatever the hell his title is-and Lieutenant Jason Washington. The others he could not remember having met-or, for that matter, even seen- before.

One was in the special uniform of the Highway Patrol, and as Martin drew closer, he saw the insignia of a captain. That made him the Highway Patrol's commanding officer.That little fellow is the head of Highway Patrol? There was another captain, a large man with an imposing, even somewhat frightening, mien- Jesus, I'd hate to get on the wrong side of him!-in a standard police captain's blue tunic and white shirt uniform.

The other two men-young men, one in his twenties, the other maybe ten years older-in Coughlin's group didn't look like policemen. Both were wearing gray, single-button suits very much like the suit the mayor was himself wearing- I'll give three to two that they get their clothes in the same place, and that place is Brooks Brothers. They look like lawyers. I'll give even money that's what they are.

Well, I would have lost that one, he thought, as the older of the lawyers turned toward Commissioner Coughlin- probably to tell him he spotted me-and in doing so, his previously concealed breast pocket came into view. There was a black-banded badge hanging from it.

Martin extended his hand and smiled just a little as he reached Coughlin.

"A sad occasion, Commissioner," he said.

"Indeed it is," Coughlin said. "Mr. Mayor, I don't believe you know any of these officers?"

"Aside from Captain Hollaran and Lieutenant Washington, I'm really sorry to say I don't," Martin said. "Good to see you, Jason, Captain."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mayor," they said, almost in unison.

"This is Inspector Peter Wohl, of Special Operations," Coughlin said, and the older lawyer put out his hand.

"How do you do, sir?"

"Captain Sabara, his deputy," Coughlin went on, "and Captain Pekach of Highway Patrol."

When the mayor had shaken their hands, Coughlin gestured toward the "other lawyer."

"And this is Detective Payne, Mr. Mayor."

"Is it indeed? Congratulations on the exam, Detective Payne."

"Thank you."

What I'm looking at here is the police establishment. A politically correct police establishment. Coughlin and Hollaran, the Irish cops of fame and legend; God only knows what the rough-looking one is, Eastern European, maybe; Wohl sounds German; Payne looks like a WASP. And Jason Washington representing the Afro-Americans- what did Washington say, "all cops are blue?" All we're missing is a Jew.

As if on cue, a large, stocky, ruddy faced, barrel-chested man with a full head of curly silver hair, a badge with a mourning strip on it hanging from his pocket, walked up to the group. He was Chief Inspector of Detectives M. L. Lowenstein.

"Afternoon," he said.

"Thank you for coming, Chief Lowenstein," the mayor said. "I really wanted you here when I make the announcement. "

Lowenstein nodded at him, then put out his hand to Detective Payne.

"I saw The List, Matt," he said. "Congratulations."

He knows Payne, too? That young man really gets around.

"Thank you."

"Have you seen Denise?" Coughlin asked Lowenstein.

"Sarah and I went to the house Monday evening," Lowenstein said, and looked at Commissioner Mariani. Neither the commissioner nor the mayor had trouble translating the look: I've already expressed my condolences, so there's no reason for me to be here again, except for this political bullshit about a task force.

"Anytime you're ready, Mr. Mayor," Coughlin said. "I'll take you in."

"Right," the mayor said, and nodded, and followed Coughlin into the viewing room.

It was a large room, with an aisle between rows of folding chairs. Up front, the first row of chairs on the right was upholstered. Mayor Martin saw the heads of two children on either side of a gray-haired woman-the widow and their kids-and of several other adults- -family members, probably.

Officer Kenneth J. Charlton was laid out in a gray metal casket in the center of the room. As he walked down the aisle behind Charlton, the mayor could see his face, and then enough of the body to see that Charlton was to be buried in his uniform.

Coughlin stopped in the aisle next to the first row of chairs, and the mayor realized he was expected to approach the casket alone.

There was a prie-dieu in front of the casket, which made the mayor uncomfortable. So far as he was concerned- he had learned this from his father, the Rev. Dr. Claude Charles Martin, now pastor emeritus of the Second African Methodist Episcopal Church-prie-dieux were a Roman Catholic device, or maybe Catholic/Episcopal device, of which he did not approve.

So what the hell do I do now? Ignore it, as Pop would have me do, and stand by the casket looking thoughtfully down at the body? Or use the damn thing, and feel- and perhaps look- hypocritical?

He dropped to his knees onto the padded prie-dieu and bent his head. And looked at the face of Officer Charlton.

You poor bastard. Goddamn the animals that did this to you!

The anger took him by surprise.

Lord, forgive my anger. But what we have here is a good man who put his life on the line to protect other human beings. And lost it.

Lord, take him into Your arms, and give him the peace that passes all understanding.

He's wearing his badge. Will they take it off? Or bury him with it?

Probably take it off.

Give it to his family?

Or is there some sort of memorial with the badges of the other cops who've been killed in the line of duty?

They have their pictures hanging in the lobby of the Roundhouse, but I can't remember if their badges are there, too. 1 Lord, protect this man's wife and children, and give them the strength to get through this ordeal.

Make them wise in Your ways, Dear Lord, and grant them Thy peace.

Give the police the wisdom to find the people who did this to this Thy servant, Lord.

And quickly, before they kill someone else.

Lord Jesus, guide my steps with Thy almighty hand.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

The mayor took one more look at the face of Officer Kenneth J. Charlton, and then got somewhat awkwardly off the prie-dieu.

Then he turned and walked toward the widow and the children.

Mrs. Charlton stood up, then urged the boy and the girl to their feet.

"Mrs. Charlton, I'm Alvin Martin…"

"It was good of you to come, Mayor."

"… and you have my most sincere condolences, and my…"

"This is Kenny Jr., and this is Deborah."

"Kenny, Deborah, your father was a brave man who died a hero. You can be very proud of him."

There was no response.

"If there is ever anything I can do for you, I want you to call me. You understand?"

Kenny Jr. and Deborah nodded their heads but didn't look at him.

The mayor nodded at Mrs. Charlton, then turned and walked to the aisle and then down it.

His press relations officer was waiting for him in the corridor outside the viewing room.

He led the mayor to another viewing room where the press was waiting for him. The press relations officer had arranged Mariani and the other police department brass in a line against the wall, and he handed the mayor two three-by-five cards on which the essence of the announcement had been printed in large letters.

The mayor glanced at them quickly, then turned to face the press.

"This is a very sad day," he began. "Both a citizen-a single mother of three-and a police officer have lost their lives as a result of a brutal attack that affects not only their grieving survivors but every citizen of Philadelphia.

"This sort of outrage cannot be tolerated, and it will not be. I have ordered the formation of a task force to be commanded by Inspector Peter Wohl of the Special Operations Division…"

[THREE] When Matt Payne, driving the unmarked Crown Victoria, came down Pennsylvania Route 252 and approached the driveway to his parents' home in Wallingford, he looked carefully in the rearview mirror before applying the brake. Two-fifty-two was lined with large, old pine trees on that stretch, and the drives leading off it were not readily visible. He had more times than he liked to remember come uncomfortably close to being rear-ended.

Wallingford is a small Philadelphia suburb, between Media (through which U.S. 1, known locally as the "Baltimore Pike," runs) and Chester, which is on the Delaware River. It is not large enough to be placed on most road maps, although it has its own post office and railroad station. It is a residential community, housing families whom sociologists would categorize as upper-middle-income, upper-income, and wealthy, in separate dwellings, some very old and some designed to look that way.

Brewster Cortland Payne II had raised his family, now grown and gone, in a large house on four acres on Providence Road in Wallingford. It had been in the Payne family for more than two centuries.

What was now the kitchen and the sewing room had been the whole house when it had been built of fieldstone before the Revolution. Additions and modifications over two centuries had turned it into a large rambling structure that fit no specific architectural category, although a real estate sales-woman had once remarked in the hearing of Mrs. Patricia (Mrs. Brewster C.) Payne that "the Payne place just looked like old, old money."

The house was comfortable, even luxurious, but not ostentatious. There was neither swimming pool nor tennis court, but there was, in what a century before had been a stable, a four-car garage. The Payne family swam, as well as rode, at the Rose Tree Hunt Club. They had a summer house in Cape May, New Jersey, which did have a tennis court, as well as a berth for their boat, a fifty-eight-foot Hatteras calledFinal Tort V.

Matt made it safely into the drive, and as he approached the house, saw a two-year-old, somewhat battered, GMC Suburban parked with one of its front wheels on the grass beside the parking area by the garage. It had been Brewster Payne's gift to his daughter, Amelia Payne, M.D., not because she needed such a large vehicle, but in the hope that the truck-sized-and truck-strong-vehicle would keep her alive. Amy Payne's inability to conduct a motor vehicle over the roads of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania without, on the average of once a week, at least grazing other motor vehicles, street signs, and on memorable occasion, a fire hydrant, was almost legendary.

Amy Payne was in the kitchen with her mother and Mrs. Elizabeth Newman, the Payne housekeeper, when Matt walked in. They were peeling shrimp. Amy was a not-quite-pretty young woman who wore her hair short, not for purposes of beauty but because it was easier to care for that way.

Mrs. Newman was a comfortable-looking gray-haired woman in her fifties. Patricia Payne was older than she looked at first glance. She was trim, for one thing, with a luxuriant head of dark brown, almost reddish hair, and she had the fair skin of the Irish.

"Well, if it isn't the famous soon-to-be Sergeant Matthew Payne," Amy greeted her brother. "How good of you to find time in your busy schedule for us."

"Amy!" Patricia Payne protested.

"Got another fire hydrant, did you, Sigmund?" Matt said, as he walked to the table and kissed his mother.

"You were on television," Patricia Payne said. "I guess you know."

"That wasn't my idea," Matt said. "The mayor's press guy grabbed my arm and said 'You stand there.' "

"You did look uncomfortable," his mother said. "Well, I guess congratulations are in order, aren't they?"

"That's what I came out to tell you," Matt said. "How did you find out?"

"Not from you, obviously," Amy said.

"Hey, I tried to call when I found out," Matt said. "Didn't I, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, he did."

"And she told me you and Dad were going to be overnight in Wilmington," Matt said, and added, "I even tried to call you, Sigmund Freud."

"I thought that had to be you. Sophomoric humor."

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Patricia Payne said.

"He told the receptionist to tell me they were going to repossess my television unless they got paid," Amy said.

"Matt, you didn't," Patricia Payne said, but her face revealed that she found a certain element of humor in the situation.

"I walked into the office, and the receptionist, all embarrassed, whispered in my ear and said that the finance company had called-"

Mrs. Newman laughed out loud.

"I'm going to get you for that, wiseass," Amy said.

"I put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator after Denny called," Patricia Payne said. "Go get your father and we'll open it. He's in the living room."

"Uncle Denny called?" Matt asked.

"We're invited to the promotion ceremony," Patricia said. "Denny's very proud of you. We all are."

"You, too, Sigmund?" Matt asked.

Dr. Payne gave him the finger.

"And that goes for your boss, too," she said. "We had dinner Monday night and he didn't say a goddamn word."

"All Peter knew was that The List was out. He didn't know when the promotion would come through, except that it wasn't going to be anytime soon. That's probably why he didn't tell you."

She snorted.

Matt walked out of the kitchen, down a narrow corridor, and through a door into a rather small, comfortably furnished room with book-lined walls, and the chairs arranged to face a large television screen.

Brewster C. Payne was sitting with his feet up on the matching ottoman of a red leather armchair, one of two. He was a tall, angular, dignified man in his early fifties.

He had a legal brief in his lap and his right hand was wrapped around a glass of whiskey.

"You were on the boob tube," he said. "You looked distressed. "

"I was," Matt said, and then went on: "Amy's pissed that Uncle Denny told you before I did. For the record, I tried to call just as soon as I found out."

"That's not why she's… somewhat less than enthusiastic, " Brewster Payne said. "I think she was hoping you'd fail the test and leave the police department."

"Mother's got champagne in the fridge," Matt said, changing the subject. "But I'd rather have a quick one of those."

Payne pointed at a bottle of scotch, sitting with a silver water pitcher, a silver ice bowl, and several glasses. Matt helped himself, and while he was doing so, Brewster Payne rose from his chair. When Matt raised his glass, his father held out his glass and touched Matt's.

"It's what you want, Matt, so I'm happy for you. And proud. Number one!"

"Thank you."

"You can stay for supper? We bought some shrimp on the road from Wilmington…"

"Sure. I made shrimp last night for Chad and Daffy, but what the hell…"

"We could thaw a steak."

"Shrimp's fine. Daffy was playing matchmaker again. I'd already met her. She's from Los Angeles. She's handling, I guess is the word, Stan Colt when he comes to town. His real name is Stanley Coleman."

"I saw it in the paper. Are you involved with that somehow? "

"Peter sent me to a meeting to see what Dignitary Protection is going to need to protect Super Cop. Monsignor Schneider-who sitteth at the right hand of the Bishop-was there. I think he's a cop groupie. He knew all about Doylestown. Anyway, he asked for me by name. When Super Cop, aka Colt aka Coleman comes to town, I'll be temporarily assigned to Dignitary Protection. Terry said he's interested in very young women. That ought to make it interesting."

"Is that the young woman's name, 'Terry'?"

"Terry Davis. Two 'r's and a 'y.' She said her father's a lawyer with movie connections, and he got her the job with GAM. Which stands for Global Artists Management."

"I think I know him," Brewster Payne said. "If it's the same fellow, he masterfully defends, whenever challenged, the motion picture industry's amazingly imaginative accounting practices."

"Interesting," Matt said. "If you happen to bump into him…"

"I'm getting the impression that you are somewhat taken with this young lady, and therefore not entirely unhappy with the prospect of protecting… what did you call him? 'Super Cop'?"

"She's a blonde. Nice legs," Matt said. "And she knows how to peel shrimp. What more can one ask for?"

"What indeed?" Brewster Payne said.

"Matt," Patricia Payne said at the door, "I told you I was going to open a bottle of champagne."

"I needed a little liquid courage to face Sigmund Freud," Matt said.

She turned without replying, and after a moment, her son and husband followed her into the kitchen.

The three women were standing around the chopping block in the middle of the kitchen. They each held a champagne glass, and there were two more on the chopping block. And something else, wrapped in a handkerchief.

Matt and his father picked up the champagne stems.

"To Sergeant Payne," Patricia Payne said, and they all touched glasses.

Matt took a sip and set it down.

"I've got something for you," she said. "I wanted the family to be together when I gave it to you."

She picked up the handkerchief and handed it to him. Even before he unwrapped it, Matt knew what it was. It was a police badge, and he knew whose.

"Your father's," she said.

Matt looked at the sergeant's badge, Number 471, of the Police Department of the City of Philadelphia.

"When Denny called," Patricia Payne went on, "he said that he could arrange for you to be assigned your father's number if I wanted. I told him I thought you would like that. And he asked me if I happened to still have it, and I told him I'd have to look. I found it. It was in the attic. And your father's off-duty gun, the snub-nosed.38."

He looked at his mother but didn't say anything.

"Your father was a good man, Matt," his mother said. "A good police officer."

"I have two fathers," Matt said, his voice breaking. "My other father is a good man, too."

Brewster Payne looked at him.

"Write this down, Matt. Never reply to a heartfelt compliment. You never can come up with something worth saying."

He put his arm around Matt's shoulder, and then embraced him.

"Give that to Denny before the ceremony tomorrow," Patricia Payne said. "He'll know how to handle it."

Matt nodded, and slipped the badge into his pocket.

"Under the circumstances," Brewster Payne said, picking up his whiskey glass, "barring objections, I think I'll have another of these."

"Me, too," Matt said.

"First, we'll finish the champagne," Patricia Payne said. "And then we'll all have a drink."

Matt had just turned onto I-476 in Swarthmore to return to Philadelphia when the S-Band radio in the Crown Victoria went off: "S-Twelve."

He pulled the microphone from under the center armrest.

"Twelve."

"Meet the inspector in the 700 block of North Second."

"Got it. En route. Thank you," he said.

It was entirely possible that a crime had been committed in the 700 block of North Second Street, requiring his professional attention. But it was far more likely that he was going to find Inspector Wohl inside the premises at 705 North Second, which was known as Liberties Bar, and was the preferred watering hole of the Homicide Bureau.

I wonder what that's all about?

I wonder why he didn't call me on the cell phone?

Tomorrow, I will no longer be S-Twelve.

There was a somewhat battered, three-year-old Crown Victoria parked on Second Street in front of Liberties Bar. And a last year's Crown Victoria, three brand-new Crown Victorias, and a Buick Rendezvous.

When Matt walked into Liberties, the drivers of these vehicles were sitting around two tables pushed together along the wall, across from the ornately carved, century-old bar. They were Deputy Commissioner Coughlin, Chief Inspector Lowenstein, Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant Washington, Detective Harris, and Michael J. O'Hara, Esq.

There was a bottle of Old Bushmills Irish whiskey, a bottle of Chivas Regal, a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and two bowls, one with cashews, the other with stick pretzels, on the table.

"What's going on?" Matt asked, slipping into a chair at the table beside Harris.

"I am interrogating a witness to the Roy Rogers job," Harris said, nodding at O'Hara. "And getting nothing out of him."

"Jesus, Tony," Mickey said. "The bastards took a shot at me!"

Matt poured scotch into a glass.

"It would behoove you to go easy on that tonight, Detective Payne," Wohl said. "Which is the reason we put the arm out for you. We didn't want you to go off somewhere and get smashed by yourself."

"Yes, sir," Matt said, and picked up the drink and took a sip. Then he took his father's badge from his apartment and slipped it to Denny Coughlin.

"Mom found that, and said to give it to you," he said.

Coughlin looked at the badge, then laid it on the table.

"What's that?" Lowenstein asked.

"Jack Moffitt's sergeant's badge," Coughlin replied. "I remember the day he got it." He looked at Matt and said, "I don't want to hand this to your mother a second time. You understand me?"

Matt's mouth ran away with him.

"Color me careful."

"Watch your lip, Matty!" Coughlin said.

"That would make a good yarn," Mickey O'Hara said. " 'New Sergeant Gets Hero Father's Badge.' "

"Which you won't write, right?" Lowenstein said.

"Okay," Mickey said, shrugging his shoulders and reaching for the bottle of Old Bushmills.

"I loved Jack like a brother," Coughlin said. "And he had a lot of balls. But he wasn't a hero. His big balls got him killed. He answered a silent alarm without backup…"

"I remember," Lowenstein said. "I had North Detectives when it happened."

"Jack knew better," Coughlin said. "He could still be walking around if he'd done what he was trained-ordered-to do."

"Dennis, how would you judge Dutch Moffitt's behavior?" Jason Washington's sonorous voice asked.

Coughlin looked at him, obviously annoyed at the question.

"Was that an excess of male ego-'I'm Dutch Moffitt of Highway Patrol. I can handle this punk by myself'?" Washington pursued. "Or a professional assessment of the situation in which he found himself, with the same result?"

Coughlin looked at him for a long moment before deciding if and what to answer.

"Dutch said, 'Lay the gun on the counter, son. I don't want to have to kill you. I'm a police officer.' Was that the right thing to do? I think so. I would like to think that's what I would have done. I would also like to think I would have looked around for a second doer. Dutch didn't, and the junkie girlfriend shot him."

"I worked with Dutch," Peter Wohl said. "I can't believe he didn't look for a second doer. He had trouble keeping his pecker in his pocket, but he was a very good street cop."

"Your mother never told you, 'Don't speak ill of the dead,' Peter?" Coughlin said. "Especially in front of the deceased's nephew?"

Wohl shrugged, unrepentant. Coughlin had another thought.

"Your grandmother's going to be in the mayor's office tomorrow, Matty. I thought she had a right to be."

"Oh, shit!" Matt blurted.

Coughlin glared angrily at him.

"I was going to tell her later," Matt said, somewhat lamely. "Maybe even go by."

"She's your grandmother, Matt," Coughlin said, on the edge of anger.

"I don't like the way she treats my mother," Matt said.

"Don't tell me she's still pissed that Jack's widow married Payne?" Lowenstein asked.

"It's a religious thing, Matt," Coughlin said. "Patricia raised Matt as an Episcopal after Payne adopted him."

"You Christians do have your problems, don't you?" Lowenstein asked. "How many angelscan fit on the head of a pin?"

Coughlin gave him the finger.

"I don't agree with her, Matty," Coughlin said. "You know that. But she's still your grandmother."

"Does my mother know she's coming?"

"If your mother knew, she would, being the lady she is, not go."

"Jesus-"

"Before you two continue with what is sure to be an indeterminable discussion of Mother Moffitt," Washington interrupted, "may I finish with my profound observation?"

Matt realized-wondering why it had taken him so long-that while no one at the table was drunk, it was also obvious that no one was on their first-or third-drink, either. He looked at the bottles. The Chivas Regal was half empty; the Jack Daniel's and the Old Bushmills were almost dry.

And Washington had even called Coughlin by his first name.

What the hell is this all about? Why are all these people sitting around here getting smashed?

"How could we stop you?" Mickey O'Hara asked.

Washington continued, "With the given that Sergeant Jack Moffitt was a good street cop, that Captain Dutch Moffitt was a good street cop, and that Officer Charlton had survived almost to retirement as a street cop, what mistake-indeed, whatfatal mistake-did all three of them make?"

"They weren't as good as they thought they were?" Mickey asked.

"Close, Michael," Washington said.

"Oh, shit, not that 'they didn't turn over the rock under the rock' crap again," Tony Harris said.

"Yes, indeed," Washington said. "That 'turn over the rock under the rock' crap again. If Sergeant Moffitt had looked around the gas station one more time, if Dutch had looked around the Waikiki Diner one more time, if Charlton had taken one more look…"

"I don't think that's such a profound observation, Jason," Coughlin said.

"More like self-evident," Lowenstein said.

"I was trying to make the point for Matt's edification," Washington said.

Coughlin looked at him, then at Matt.

"He's right, Matty," he said. "Pay attention."

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

"Would you like to see how your names will appear in tomorrow'sBulletin?" Mickey asked. "Or shall we go back to discussing Mother Moffitt?"

He took several sheets of paper from his inside jacket pocket and swung them back and forth.

"Curiosity underwhelms me," Wohl said, and held his hand out for the sheets of paper.

Slug-Mayor Forms Double Murder Task Force (Jack, don't bury this with the underwear ads. These slimeballs need catching. AND USE THE PICTURES) By Michael J. O'Hara Bulletin Staff Writer Photos by Jack Weinberg Bulletin Photographer Philadelphia-Mayor Alvin W. Martin, surrounded by the heavy hitters of the Philadelphia Police Department, and standing not far from where the body of Officer Kenneth Charlton lay in state in the Monti Funeral Home in the 2500 block of South Broad Street, this afternoon announced the formation of a special police task force to bring the two men who murdered Charlton and Mrs. Maria M. Fernandez during the robbery Sunday evening of the Roy Rogers restaurant on South Broad Street.

"Both a citizen-a single mother of three-and a police officer have lost their lives as a result of a brutal attack that affects not only their grieving survivors but every citizen of Philadelphia," the mayor said, adding: "This sort of outrage cannot be tolerated, and it will not be." (Photo 1 L-R, Lowenstein, Mariani, Martin, Coughlin) Flanked by Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani, Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin, and Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein, Martin announced that Inspector Peter F. Wohl, the highly regarded commanding officer of the Special Operations Division, would head the task force. (Photo 2 L-R, Washington, Wohl, and Harris) Speaking to this reporter later, Inspector Wohl said it was not his intention to take over the investigation from Lieutenant Jason Washington, "who is beyond question the most skilled homicide investigator I know of," but rather to "ensure that Lieutenant Washington and his able team leader, Detective Anthony Harris, get whatever assistance they need from not only Special Operations, but the entire police department, so these criminals can be quickly removed from our streets." (Photo 3 L-R, Sabara, Wohl, Pekach, Sgt M. M. Payne, and Capt F. X. Hollaran) Wohl's deputy, Captain Michael J. Sabara, and Captain David R. Pekach, commanding officer of the elite Highway Patrol, nodded their agreement with both Wohl's cold determination and with his explanation of the difficulty sometimes encountered-as now-in identifying the perpetrators of a crime.

"The patrons of the Roy Rogers restaurant were terrorized by the cold brutality of these criminals. Shots were fired. Two people were killed, and everyone else's life was in danger. It's regrettable, but I think very understandable, that the horrified witnesses can't really agree on a description of the men we seek.

"This is not to say that we won't apprehend them, and soon, but that it will take a bit longer than we like."

Wohl went on to say that "it's only in the movies that a fingerprint lifted from the scene of a crime can be quickly matched with that of a criminal whose identity is unknown. There are hundreds of thousands of fingerprints in our files, millions in those of the FBI, and the prints we have in our possession will have to be matched to them one at a time until we get a match."

Wohl went on to explain that once the people sought are in custody, their fingerprints can be used to prove they were at the scene of the crime, "but until that happens, fingerprints won't be of immediate use to us.

"And once we have these people in custody, and can place them in a police lineup, there is no question in my mind-experience shows-that the witnesses to their crime will be able to positively identify them. This crime will not go unpunished."

Wohl said that police are already running down "a number of leads," but declined to elaborate. end Wohl slid the two sheets of paper across the table to Coughlin. Lowenstein leaned over so that he could read it, too.

"Magnificent story, Mickey," Wohl said. "There's just one little thing wrong with it. All those quotes from me are pure bullshit."

"Is the Black Buddha the most skilled homicide investigator you know of, or not?" O'Hara challenged.

"Of course I am," Washington said. "Let me see that when you're finished, Dennis, please."

"He is, but I didn't tell you that," Wohl said.

"But if I had asked, you would have said so, right? And I'm right about the fingerprints, right?"

"But I didn't even talk to you at the goddamn funeral home!"

"But if you had, you would have said what I said you said, more or less, right?"

"This'll be in the paper tomorrow, Mick?" Lowenstein asked.

"It will, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was on page one."

"Pity you couldn't have put in there that we had a late-night conference," Lowenstein said. "Martin would have loved that."

"I didn't know about the 'late-night conference' until I walked in here," O'Hara said. "When I heard on the command band that everybody was headed to the 700 block of North Second, I thought there was a war on here."

"Commissioner Coughlin and myself were conferring privately with Inspector Wohl," Lowenstein said, "when these underlings coincidentally felt the need for a late-night cup of coffee at this fine establishment."

There were chuckles.

"Nice story, Mickey," Coughlin said.

"Presuming the conference is over," Wohl said, as he got to his feet, "I am going home." He looked at Matt. "And so are you."

Coughlin stood up.

"Are we square with the tab here?"

"I'll get the tab," Mickey O'Hara said. "My pleasure."

"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and at the mayor's office at quarter to nine, Matty," Coughlin ordered. "And I expect you to be nice to your grandmother."

"I have, as always," Jason Washington said, getting to his feet, "thoroughly enjoyed the company of my colleagues. And I am sure you have all profited greatly from the experience. "

Detective Harris shook his head, then chuckled, then giggled, and then laughed. That proved contagious, and each of them was smiling, or chuckling, or laughing as they filed out the door onto North Second Street.