Three minutes later, his scraped face had been cleaned with both hydrogen peroxide and alcohol. He had manfully tried, and failed, not to wince when the alcohol stung painfully.
“Let’s look at the leg,” she said.
“What’s wrong with the leg?”
“The fence got that, too, I guess. In the car, I saw it. It’s all bloody.”
Three minutes after that, his leg had been treated with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide and painted with Mercurochrome, but not bandaged.
“Your trousers are ruined,” Olivia said.
“I noticed.”
“And let me see what you did to your hand.”
“I guess I scratched it the same place I tore my pants, going over the fence.”
She took his left hand in both of hers.
“That’s a puncture wound,” she said.
He didn’t reply.
“You just can’t leave it like that,” she said.
He didn’t reply.
She looked up at him. Their eyes met.
“What?” she asked.
“You know goddamn well what, Mother.”
“I’m not your goddamn Mother.”
“I know,” he said, softly. “Your move.”
She had not taken her eyes from his. She took her left hand from his and raised it to his unmarked cheek.
“Oh, God!” she said.
Ninety seconds later, atop the white comforter on her bed, while still partially clothed, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne came to know each other, in the biblical sense of the term.
And in the next half hour, now completely devoid of clothing, and between the sheets, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne twice came to know each other even better.
TWELVE
Matt Payne awoke at five minutes to six. For a moment, he wondered why so damned early-he had two alarm clocks to make sure he was awakened at seven-and then he remembered some of what had happened the night before, and thought that might have something to do with it.
“Jesus Christ!” he said in wonderment, then went to his bathroom, which his father had described as being somewhat smaller than those found on old Pullman railroad cars.
He examined himself in the mirror over the toilet.
What the hell happened to my face?
He remembered.
Sliding along the concrete driveway in hot pursuit of the critter in the hot car who’d run the red light and slammed into the Caravan.
“Nevertheless, sir, minor facial blemishes aside, you look like the well-laid man of fame and legend!” he said aloud.
He smiled at the memories of other of the previous evening’s activities.
However, a moment later, when in an habitual act he reached inside the shower stall to open the faucet that would long moments later bring hot water all the way from the basement to the garret apartment, his hand really hurt him.
Shit! The goddamn-what did she say? — “puncture wound.”
When he came out of the shower, the damned thing still hurt, and it looked angry.
“Shit!”
He had two thoughts, one after the other.
Maybe Olivia would know what to do with it. Do I put a bandage on it? Soak it in hot water? What?
Maybe, if I called, she might say, “I’ll come by on my way to work and have a look at it.”
That’s a very interesting prospect.
He went naked and dripping into his bedroom-which his father also compared unfavorably to a sleeping compartment on an old Pullman car-and picked up his cellular from the bedside table, where it lay beside his Colt Officer’s Model. 45.
Twenty seconds later, a sleepy female voice said, “Lassiter.”
“Good morning.”
“Oh, God!”
“I was calling to inquire whether your schedule is free for breakfast.”
“Oh, God! What time is it?”
“A little after six.”
There was no immediate response.
“For reasons I can’t imagine, I’m ravenous,” Matt said.
“I don’t even want to think about breakfast,” Olivia said. “My God, Matt!”
“My God, what, Olivia?”
“I haven’t even had time to think, and you want breakfast?”
“Think about what?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Everything!”
“What is there to think about?”
“You know I didn’t want that to happen.”
Oh, shit!
“Do I detect a slight tone of regret?”
“I didn’t say that, Matt,” Olivia said. “Oh, God!”
“May I infer, then, that it was not an entirely disappointing experience for you?”
Olivia giggled.
“Not entirely,” she said. “My God!”
“You keep saying ‘My God.’ ”
“I keep remembering what happened,” she said. “My God, I can’t believe I behaved like that!”
“For my part, it was an entirely delightful experience.”
“Was it?”
“Couldn’t you tell?”
“Oh, Matt! What are we going to do?”
“That brings us back to breakfast.”
“No. For one thing, I’m not hungry, and for another, I don’t want anyone to see us together.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not.”
“I don’t give a damn who sees us together. Anyway, we’re working together.”
“I do. I want to stay in Homicide.”
“Oh.”
“I need time to think, and if I see you, I won’t be able to think clearly.” She paused. “Matt, will you do me a big favor?”
“Name it.”
“Forget what happened last night.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that? It happened, and at the risk of repeating myself, I found it to be an entirely delightful experience.”
“I’m not saying it wasn’t,” she said. “My God, couldn’t you tell? What I’m saying is that I don’t want anybody even to guess about it until I can think about it, really think about it. Will you do that for me?”
“Whatever you say, Mother.”
“Thank you.”
“I suppose your having a look at my hand is entirely out of the question?”
“What’s wrong with your hand?” she asked.
That’s genuine concern in her voice.
“I believe you described it as a ‘puncture wound.’ ”
“And I also told you to stop at an emergency room on your way home. You mean you didn’t?”
“I seem to have forgotten that instruction. I must have had something else on my mind. Bleeding to death didn’t seem important at the time.”
“You’re bleeding now?”
More genuine concern.
He looked at his hand.
“No, but it looks unhealthy.”
“Matt, go to an emergency room, please. Right now. I’ll see you at work.”
“How about doing me a favor?”
“If you want me to come there, I will,” she said after a moment.
“What I want you to do is tell me now if you’re trying to… let me down gently.”
“Oh, God! If I was trying to dump you, kindly or otherwise, I would not have offered to come there.”
“You mean that?”
“You think last night was a one-night stand for me?”
“Oh, God, I hope not,” he said, and laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“I seem to have acquired your penchant for ‘Oh, God!’ ”
“Are you all right to drive with your hand?”
“Sure.”
“Then go to an emergency room and I’ll see you at work. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And we won’t look in each other’s eyes. Agreed?”
“With great reluctance.”
“Oh, God!” she said, and then there was the hiss that told him she had pressed the End key on her cell
ular.
Matt pulled the Porsche into the Emergency Trauma Center of Hahnemann Hospital on North Broad Street and parked beside a Sixth District wagon in the area with the sign POLICE AND EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY.
A man of about his age, wearing hospital greens and what looked like twenty-four hours of beard growth, stopped him as he was walking toward the hospital entrance.
He pointed wordlessly at the sign.
“I’m on the job,” Matt said, and pushed his jacket away from the badge on his belt with his sore hand.
“What did you do to the hand?”
“Fell over a fence,” Matt said.
The man waved his hand in a signal for Matt to follow him inside.
“You’re a doctor?” Matt asked.
“No, I wear this stuff because I like pastel colors.”
The paperwork didn’t take long.
The doctor was waiting for him in a treatment room.
“That’s nasty,” the doctor said. “Puncture wounds can be bad news. How’d you do it?”
“Going over a fence,” Matt said. “The top of the fence- the twisted ends of the wire?”
The doctor nodded. “Your tetanus up to date?”
“I suppose so.”
“Suppose doesn’t count,” the doctor said, as he opened a glass door in a white cabinet.
“This is going to hurt,” the doctor said.
It did.
And so did the injection of an antibiotic “as a precaution” in the other buttock.
“I hope you can shoot right-handed, Sherlock,” the doctor said. “For the next three, four days, that paw is going to be tender.”
“I’m right-handed. You going to put a bandage on it?”
“You want a bandage?”
“What I don’t want is people asking, ‘What did you do to your hand, it looks ghastly?’ ”
“I could paint the area with some lovely lavender antiseptic.”
“Just a simple large Band-Aid, please.”
“Okay. Why not?”
“Thank you.”
“You mind if I ask a couple of questions, Sherlock?”
“Shoot.”
“Why were you jumping over a fence?”
“I was chasing a guy who drove a stolen car through a red light and clobbered a family in a minivan.”
“You get him?”
Matt nodded.
“Good for you.”
“You said two questions.”
“Why did the cops stand around with their thumbs up their ass while that girl was being raped and murdered?”
Matt’s gluteus maximus began to ache as he got on the Roundhouse elevator. The doctor had said that both the tetanus booster and the antibiotic would probably cause “mild discomfort.”
The mild discomfort left his mind when he walked into Homicide and found that Detective Lassiter had already reported for duty. She was sitting at a desk with a telephone to her ear.
She was wearing a skirt and a double sweater. It didn’t matter. Her naked form was engraved forever in Matt’s mind.
She looked at him, then away.
“Already at it, Mother?” he said.
She looked at him, nodded, and then quickly looked away again.
“Captain wants to see you, Sergeant,” Detective Alonzo Kramer, a stocky, ruddy-faced, forty-three-year-old, said, pointing to Captain Quaire’s office.
Matt could see through the glass enclosure that Lieutenant Gerry McGuire, the commanding officer of Dignitary Protection, was with Quaire.
I wonder what that’s about?
Oh, shit! Stan Colt! I forgot all about that!
Quaire saw Matt coming and waved him into his office. “Good morning,” Matt said, politely.
“What happened to your face?” Quaire asked.
“I took a slide on a concrete driveway last night chasing a guy.”
Quaire gestured give me more with both hands.
“I almost had Lassiter home…”
“From where?” Quaire asked, smiling.
“From Liberties. Lieutenant Washington had us meet him there. And afterward, I took her home. She had to give her unmarked back to Northwest.”
“And what happened? Detective Lassiter didn’t do that to your face, did she, Sergeant?” Captain Quaire asked, mock seriously. He looked to see if Lieutenant McGuire shared his sense of humor. From his smile, it was obvious that he did.
“No, sir,” Matt said. “As we came down Knight’s Road, off Woodhaven, a fellow in a stolen Grand Am ran the Red Lion stoplight, rammed into a Dodge Caravan, and took off running.”
“I saw that in the overnights,” McGuire said. “I thought Highway bagged that guy. You got involved in that?”
“I saw it. I had to.”
Quaire made another give me more gesture with his hands.
“It happened right in front of us. Lassiter called it in, then checked the people in the van, and I started chasing the guy.”
“And he gave you trouble?” Quaire asked, now seriously. “The face?”
“No, sir. While I was chasing him, I took a dive over a wire and scraped my face on a driveway. Then I tried going over a fence, and bruised my hand.”
“But you got the guy?”
“Yes, sir. Eighth District locked him up. But I’m going to have to go to Northeast Detectives to give a Detective Coleman a full statement. He only got the initial details for the affidavit ^3 last night.
“Why didn’t you give your statement last night?” Quaire asked.
“I wanted to get some antiseptic on my face.”
“So why didn’t you do the paperwork last night, after you went to the emergency room and got some antiseptic on your face?”
“I didn’t go to the emergency room last night. I went to Hahnemann this morning.”
Quaire nodded.
“Consider yourself as of right now on temporary assignment to Dignitary Protection,” he said, and added, to McGuire: “Getting Sergeant Payne to Northeast Detectives Division to give his statement is now your responsibility, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks a lot,” McGuire said.
“Captain, can’t I get out of that?” Matt asked.
"Ask Lieutenant McGuire,” Quaire said. “You are now working for him.”
“I’m working the Williamson job,” Matt said.
“You are now working the Stan Colt job, Sergeant Payne,” McGuire said. “Mr. Colt, who will arrive at approximately three-fifteen, told Monsignor Schneider, who told the cardinal, who told the commissioner, who told me, that he’s really looking forward to working with you.”
“What does that mean?”
Quaire and McGuire smiled at each other.
“I think,” McGuire explained, smiling broadly, “that when the monsignor-who apparently is one of your biggest fans- spoke with Mr. Colt, he told him about your many heroic exploits. I think Mr. Colt heard that when Harrison Ford was preparing to make the movie Witness he came here to spend time with a real, live Philadelphia homicide detective…”
“Jesus Christ!” Matt said.
“… and has apparently decided that what was good enough for Harrison Ford is good enough for him.”
“Harrison Ford is an actor. Colt is a goddamn joke!”
“Don’t let the monsignor hear you say that,” Quaire said. “Much less the commissioner.”
“And for that matter, I have one day on the job in Homicide. I am hardly an experienced-”
“Lie down, shut up, and take this like a man, Matt,” Quaire said. “You’re dead. The commissioner has spoken.”
“It’s a dirty job, Sergeant, but someone has to do it,” McGuire said, smiling broadly.
Quaire chuckled. Matt glared at McGuire, who didn’t seem to notice.
“Mr. Colt,” McGuire went on, “will arrive by private jet at North Philadelphia Airport at three-fifteen. He will be met by the commissioner-or possibly the mayor, if he can get free; or both-Monsignor Schneider, myself, four Highway Patrol bikes, t
wo of my people, representatives of the media, and of course you. Following what that good-looking press agent- What’s her name?”
“Terry Davis,” Matt furnished, automatically.
Jesus, Terry! She certainly dropped off my radar screen in a hurry after Olivia, didn’t she?
“-what Miss Terry Davis,” McGuire went on, “refers to as a ‘photo op,’ Mr. Colt and party will proceed-escorted by the Highway bikes-to the office of the cardinal, where there will be another photo op as the cardinal welcomes Mr. Colt back to Philadelphia…”
“He’s just a movie actor,” Matt said, shaking his head. “A lousy movie actor!”
“Who is about to raise several million dollars for West Catholic High School,” Captain Quaire said. “Which pleases the cardinal, and whatever pleases the cardinal pleases the commissioner.”
“… following which,” McGuire went on, “we will proceed to the Ritz-Carlton. Highway’s responsibility-the bikes- will end there. They’ll provide bikes to escort his limo to the events, but aside from that, it’s up to me to protect Mr. Colt from his hordes of fans, and you to keep him happy.”
“What makes him happy is young girls,” Matt said.
“Excuse me, Sergeant?” Quaire asked, coldly.
“Mr. Colt apparently likes young girls,” Matt said. “Very young girls.”
“Did you get that from one of the magazines in a supermarket checkout lane, or do you have another source of information? ” Quaire asked, sarcastically.
“Terry Davis told me,” Matt said. “I think she wants us to be prepared for that.”
“Oh, God!” Quaire said. “She wasn’t pulling your leg, Matt?”
“No, sir. I’m sure she was serious.”
“That should make this interesting for you, Gerry,” Quaire said.
“I don’t know how to handle something like that,” Matt said.
“We’ll just have to sit on him around the clock,” McGuire said. “If something like that gets in the papers, we’ll be held responsible.”
“He wants to see how real cops work,” Quaire said. “Show him. Everything from school crossing guards up. Keep him busy.”
“He’s going to want to see what he thinks is interesting,” Matt said. “Narcotics, Major Crimes, Homicide…”
“Vice,” McGuire said, chuckling.
“I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you, Gerry,” Quaire said. “And I don’t want him around here.”
“With all respect, sir, how do I tell him no?” Matt said.
Final Justice boh-8 Page 29
