Final Justice boh-8

by W. E. B Griffin

  Terry had looked very good indeed when he went into the party, and she did in fact seem glad to see him. And he’d even gotten along with the people Chad and Daffy had in. Many of them he’d known all his life. Usually, however, when he saw them socially, they gave him the impression that he’d done something terrible that had moved him far below the salt. Like being a cop. So he didn’t often see them socially. When he did, he often, in Daffy’s words, showed his ass, and embarrassed everybody.

  Tonight there had been none of that, with one minor exception.

  “I didn’t know, Payne, until I saw you on the tube, that you were a sergeant,” J. Andrew Stansfield III had said, coming up to where Matt was looking out the windows onto the Delaware.

  “That’s right, Stansfield.”

  Matthew M. Payne, Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV, and J. Andrew Stansfield III had graduated from Episcopal Academy together. Stansfield had gone on to Princeton, then the Harvard School of Business Administration, and then found employment with Stansfield amp; Stansfield, Commercial Realtors.

  “I’m afraid I actually don’t know what that means,” Stansfield said.

  “It means I make four percent more than I made when I was detective,” Matt said. “It comes to right over two thousand a year.”

  “That’s all?” Stansfield said, genuinely surprised.

  Then his face showed that he suspected Payne was pulling his leg.

  “Well, there are certain professional privileges,” Matt said.

  “For example?”

  “For example, when Terry and I leave here for the Four Seasons, my car is parked right outside on the cobblestones of Stockton Place,” Matt said. “If you tried to park there, Stansfield, you’d be towed.”

  “Yes, I know,” J. Andrew Stansfield had said, nodding and seeming a bit confused. Terry Davis had squeezed his arm, and when he looked at her, her eyes were smiling.

  And Terry had smelled very nice indeed in his Porsche on the way to the Four Seasons, where he was able-because Sergeant Al Nevins of Dignitary Protection was there awaiting the arrival of Stan Colt and wanted to talk to him-to park very near the door.

  “We’re playing games later,” Nevins said. “The limo will take Colt and the Bolinskis-”

  “Bolinski as in ‘The Bull’?” Matt interrupted.

  Nevins nodded.

  “-the limo will take them back to the Ritz, where they will go inside, get on the elevator, go to the basement and out into the alley, where they will get into a Suburban and go to La Famiglia.”

  “Clever,” Matt said.

  “With a little luck it will work,” Nevins said.

  Casimir Bolinski, L.L.D., Esq., whom Matt had never met before, turned out to be a very nice guy who would have been perfectly happy to stay in an anteroom off the dining room with Matt and Terry-whom he knew-during the banquet, had not his wife found him.

  “Honey, we’re going to La Famiglia after this. I don’t want to eat any of that fancy French food…”

  “You’re going to go in there and sit next to the cardinal and the monsignor, you’re going to drink only water, and when they introduce you, you’re going to hand him this.”

  She handed him an envelope containing a check.

  “Jesus Christ, Antoinette! That much?”

  “You graduated West Catholic,” Mrs. Bolinski said. “You owe them. They tossed Mickey and Stan out. They don’t. Anyway, it’s deductible.”

  Mrs. Bolinski, looking not unlike a tugboat easing an aircraft carrier down a river, had then escorted her husband into the dining room.

  Terry Davis again smelled delightfully in the Porsche on the way from the Four Seasons to La Famiglia, but there he couldn’t park the Porsche in front, and instead had to take it to the adjacent parking lot.

  There were red plastic cones-the kind used to mark lanes on highways-in the first half-dozen parking places by the entrance.

  But Terry held his hand as they walked from where he finally found an empty slot, which he decided was more than enough compensation for the inconvenience.

  At dinner, he found himself seated beside Casimir Bolinski, Esq., and across from Michael J. O’Hara, who, sensing they had an appreciative audience in Terry Davis, entertained her with stories of their time at West Catholic High School.

  The cardinal had not come to La Famiglia, but Monsignor Schneider was there, sitting beside Stan Colt.

  More than once, during a meal that began with an enormous antipasto and ended with spumoni onto which a shot of Amaretto had been poured, Miss Davis’s knee brushed against Matt’s. Often enough to allow himself to think it wasn’t entirely accidental.

  And there was another indication of good things to come at the first of the two goodnight and farewell sessions. The first was held inside the restaurant.

  “You’re just going to have to come to the coast, Matt,” Stan Colt said. “You make him come, Terry.”

  “I will,” Terry had said, and squeezed his arm again.

  Matt was surprised when they actually left the restaurant that the Classic Livery body wagon with darkened windows wasn’t waiting on the sidewalk for Colt and party, but then he saw Sergeant Nevins and half a dozen men he knew to be detectives discreetly lining the path to the parking lot.

  When they got there, Matt saw that the body wagon, Mickey O’Hara’s Buick Rendezvous, a black Oldsmobile, and three unmarked cars were in the spaces that had been blocked off by the red lane markers.

  There was a second goodnight and farewell session there. Monsignor Schneider seemed reluctant to say good night, making Matt wonder how deep the cleric had gone into the wine.

  But finally everybody was loaded into the vehicles, and they left. Terry took Matt’s hand again and then leaned against him, suggesting an arm around her shoulders would not be unwelcome. They walked through the parking lot toward the Porsche.

  The only problem now seemed where to go:

  My apartment’s a dump to begin with, and a mess after that quick shower and jump into the dinner jacket. And there’s probably something, hair, lipstick on a towel, whatever, that’ll give away that Olivia-screw her! — has been there.

  Terry’s staying at the Ritz-Carlton, but if we go there, she may not want them to know I went to her room, and it will be a brief kiss and I had a lovely time.

  Can I suggest another hotel?

  Screw it. The apartment it is.

  He opened the door to the Porsche for her, then got in and started the engine. He saw that the parking slot in front of him was empty.

  If there’s not a concrete block in the way, I can just drive through.

  There was not and he did.

  He turned left-the only entrance/exit was where he came in, and he would have to drive to the end of the line, and then out that way-and flicked the headlights onto high.

  “What the fuck is that?” he asked aloud, and then he accelerated rapidly and braked as quickly.

  “Oh, my God!” Terry said. She had seen what he had.

  There was a man propped up against the rear of one of the parked cars, his legs sprawled in front of him. A woman was kneeling beside him, wiping at his face. He was bleeding from the mouth.

  Matt jumped out of the car.

  “What happened?”

  “What does it look like?” the woman snapped. “We were mugged.”

  “I gave him my wallet, why did they have to do this?” the man asked, and spit. What looked like part of a tooth came out of his mouth.

  “Have you got a cell phone?” the woman demanded. “We need an ambulance.”

  Matt reached for his cell phone.

  “My God, they’re coming back!” the man said.

  Matt saw where he was looking.

  At the extreme end of the parking lot, there were two young men in dark clothes.

  “You’re sure that’s them?” Matt asked.

  “That’s them, that’s them, that’s them,” the woman said.

  “Stop right there,” Matt called, l
oudly. “I’m a police officer.”

  The two started running.

  One of them had what could be a sawed-off shotgun, or a softball bat.

  “Where the hell were you when we needed you?” the woman asked.

  Matt ran back to the Porsche and got in. He tossed his cellular into Terry’s lap.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Terry asked.

  He had the car moving before the door had closed.

  He wound it up in first, and touched the brake only as he reached the end of the lane of cars. As he turned left, the windshield of the Porsche suddenly reflected light all over.

  There was a boom.

  “You cocksucker!” Matt said, slamming on the brakes.

  The object in the man’s hand obviously was not a softball bat.

  There was another boom. Part of the windshield fell out.

  Matt dove out of the car, and half rolled, half crawled, between two parked cars.

  He pulled his Colt Officer’s Model. 45 from the small of his back and worked the action. A cartridge flew out. He’d had one in the chamber.

  That leaves five.

  He ran between the cars, dropped to his knees, and peered very carefully around the bumper of one.

  The two were climbing the chain-link fence at the end of the parking lot.

  Matt stood up, held the pistol in both hands, and called out, “That’s it. Just drop to the ground.”

  One of them dropped to the ground and one didn’t.

  For a moment, Matt didn’t know what to do.

  Then the second one dropped to the ground, reached into his jacket, and came out with a semiautomatic pistol and started firing it wildly.

  And then there was another boom, immediately followed by the sound of heavy lead shot striking metal and glass near him.

  Matt fired four times, taking out the shotgunner first, and then the man with the pistol. The shotgunner went down and stayed there. The man with the pistol didn’t. He began to scream in agony.

  Matt took the spare clip to the. 45 from where he had concealed it-behind the white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the dinner jacket- ejected the empty clip from the pistol, and slipped in the spare.

  Then, holding the weapon in both hands, he carefully walked up to the two men on the ground. The one with the shotgun was on his back, his head in a pool of blood. One of Matt’s shots had struck him, straight on, in the right cheek.

  The other one was screaming.

  Matt saw the pistol-at first glance in the dark, it looked like a Browning. 380-and keeping his eye on the man, bent over, carefully picked it up with two fingers on the grips, and then put it in his hip pocket.

  “You got anything else?” he asked, and patted the writhing man down to make sure he didn’t.

  Then he went back and picked up the shotgun on the ground near the body, and turned and walked quickly toward the Porsche and the victims.

  The first thing he saw was that only one headlight was working. And then he saw the pellet holes in the hood and door and windshield frame, and what was left of the windshield. Then he first smelled and then saw gasoline running from under the Porsche.

  “Jesus,” he said. He laid the shotgun on the roof and jerked Terry’s door open.

  She looked at him without comprehension.

  And then he saw that her face was bleeding.

  “Are you all right?”

  “All right?” she parroted.

  He unfastened her seat belt, reached into her lap, reclaimed his cellular, and then pulled her out of the car.

  There was blood on her dress, but when he put his hand to it, she pushed him away, as if he was taking liberties with her person. He led her around the corner and sort of leaned her against a Ford van.

  Then he went to the victims.

  “It’s over,” he said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “All right? All right?” the woman snapped at him. “What the hell is the matter with you? Are you drunk, or what? Can’t you hear that screaming?”

  “I’m calling for assistance,” Matt said. “Help will be here soon.”

  He punched in 911 on his cellular as he walked back to Terry.

  “Police Radio.” Mrs. Angelina Carracelli, who had been on the job for twenty-two years, answered his call on the second ring.

  “This is Sergeant Payne, 471. Shots fired. Officer needs assistance.”

  Mrs. Carracelli waited for the sergeant to provide greater details. When none were forthcoming, she said, “Sergeant?”

  “Radio,” Sergeant Payne said, a little distantly. “That’s not exactly accurate. I’m doing fine. I don’t need assistance. But there are people here who do.”

  “You said ‘shots fired,’ Sergeant?”

  “Oh, yes. Lots of shots fired.”

  “What is your location, Sergeant?”

  “I’m going to need two ambulances-no, three. And the fire department. There’s spilled gas.”

  “What is your location, Sergeant?”

  “I’m in the parking lot next to La Famiglia Restaurant on South Front Street.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Are you in uniform, Sergeant?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not in uniform,” Matt chuckled.

  Mrs. Carracelli made several quick decisions. First, that the call was legitimate, not someone’s idea of a joke. That there was something wrong with the sergeant. His voice was strange, and he sounded a little disoriented. He might be injured, or even wounded.

  She muted the telephone line and pushed the appropriate switches.

  Every police radio in Philadelphia heard three shrill beeps, and then the call:

  “Assist the Officer, South Front Street, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. Assist the Officer, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. All officers use caution, plainclothes police on the scene.”

  The three shrill beeps and the call were also heard in the Buick Rendezvous, which was carrying Mr. and Mrs. Casimir Bolinski up Market Street toward the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.

  “Shit,” Mr. Michael J. O’Hara said, as he put the Rendezvous into a screeching U-turn. “That’s where Matty is!” As they followed the black Suburban up Market Street in their unmarked Crown Victoria, Lieutenant Gerry McGuire and Sergeant Al Nevins heard the same call.

  McGuire found the microphone.

  “Dan Seven-four and Dan Seven-five, stay with the assignment,” he said into it, and then he tossed the microphone to Nevins as he desperately looked for a hole in the oncoming traffic on Market Street in which he could make a U-turn.

  “Radio,” Sergeant Nevins said to the microphone, “Dan Seven-one in on the Assist Officer on Front Street. Be advised there is probably an officer in plainclothes on the scene.”

  Mrs. Carracelli opened the telephone line.

  “Sergeant, identify your unit and give conditions.”

  “My name is Payne. Homicide,” Matt said. “There was an armed robbery, two black males, one pistol, one shotgun.”

  “Are there any injuries?” Mrs. Carracelli asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

  “One of the doers looks dead; the other’s alive. He’ll need Fire Rescue. At least one of the victims is going to need an ambulance. Maybe three victims. And I’m going to need the fire department. There’s gas on the ground.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “No, I’m fine. They missed me.”

  “Help is on the way.”

  “I can hear the sirens. Tell them I’m deep inside the parking lot.”

  “Help is on the way,” Mrs. Carracelli said, and muted the telephone line again.

  Three more shrill beeps went out over Police Radio.

  “All units responding to the Assist Officer on the unit block of South Front Street, be advised shots have been fired at police and there are plainclothes police officers on the scene. One
is inside the parking lot. All units be advised, the unit block of South Front Street, shots have been fired at police and there are plainclothes officers on the scene. One is inside the parking lot. Suspects in the shooting are two black males. Both have been shot and are still at the location.”

  Matt looked down at Terry.

  She looked up at him with horror in her eyes.

  “Help is on the way,” he said. “You can hear it…”

  “What about the… man who’s screaming? Can’t you do something for him?”

  “I’d like to put another round in the sonofabitch, is what I’d like to do.”

  “My God, I can’t believe you said that. You really are a cold-blooded sonofabitch, aren’t you?”

  Matt decided there was no point in arguing with her.

  “There will be help in a minute,” he said, and started walking back toward where he’d put the two men down.

  Halfway there, he pulled his bow tie loose and opened his collar.

  He was sweat-soaked.

  He looked at the cellular and punched in an autodial number.

  Detective Payne’s call was answered by Inspector Peter F. Wohl in his residence in the 800 Block of Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill, in Northwest Philadelphia.

  When Wohl’s cell phone-in a charging cradle on his bedside table-chirped, he was not wearing any clothing at all, and was engaged in chasing a twenty-eight-year-old female around his bedroom with the announced intention of divesting her of her sole remaining article of clothing, black nylon underpants.

  When the cell phone tinkled, Wohl said “Shit” and the young woman-having only moments before decided to let Peter work his wicked way with her-softly said, “Amen.”

  Amelia Alice Payne, M.D., knew Inspector Peter Wohl well enough to know that not only was he going to answer the phone, but that the odds were that it was something that would keep them from ending what had been a delightful evening in what she had thought was going to be a delightful way.

  The look on Peter’s face as he listened to what the caller was saying confirmed her worst fears, as did his almost conversational response to what the caller had said: