“Excuse me?” Washington said.
“When you summoned me, I expected to find you, Tony Harris, and that black kid from the Roy Rogers—you do recall asking if I would mind going over the whole thing from Step One once again with the aforementioned?”
“That’s at five o’clock this afternoon. That’s when you said you’d be free and when the kid gets off work,” Washington said.
“Then you called again, Jason, twenty minutes ago, and asked if I was free to come here now, and I said yes, and I walk in here, and not only do I get Wyatt Earp and the beauty here, instead of the expected aforementioned, but you ask me the really dumb question ‘do I know why Hyde and Cubellis didn’t take the victim’s door?’ ”
“How’d you know their names?” Olivia blurted.
“I wouldn’t want this to get around, my beauty, but some of my friends are cops.”
“And?” Washington asked.
“What you’ve got are two nice young cops who are sick about maybe being outside doing nothing while this critter was doing what he did to the girl—that’s their first reaction— and second, they are naturally a little worried that the mayor is going to hang them out to turn in the wind. I don’t intend to let that happen. I’m going to do one of my famous think pieces. My working slug is ‘A tough call, but the right one.’ ”
“Thanks, Mick,” Washington said. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”
“It would help if I knew a little about the doer, or maybe what he did to her.”
“All we really know about him is that he is unquestionably a psychopath,” Washington said.
“Isn’t that a given with a rapist?”
“This guy is sick, Mick,” Washington said.
“How do you know that?”
Washington hesitated just perceptibly.
“Not for publication?”
“Agreed.”
“Show him the pictures, Matt,” Washington ordered, and added: “He left his camera behind.”
Matt took his laptop from his briefcase and slid it across the table.
“You know how to work Photo Smart?”
“Another unnecessary question.”
"The pictures are in ’Wilifoto,’ ” Matt said.
O’Hara turned the laptop on and started the Photo Smart program.
“This fellow is a bit odd, isn’t he?” Mickey said, looking at the first picture, and then, as he ran through the images, twice added: “Jesus H. Christ!”
“May I see those?” Olivia asked.
“No,” Mickey said. “You really don’t want to see them.”
"I’m a cop, Mr. O’Hara,” she said.
"Of that I have no doubt, my beauty,” O’Hara said, as he turned the computer off and closed the lid, “but you are also indisputably a very nice young woman. My sainted mother would never forgive me if I showed those images to a very nice young woman.”
He slid the laptop back across the table.
“You going to get him?” he asked.
"Still off the record?” Washington asked. O’Hara nodded. “All we have right now is the camera. They’re serially numbered, and we’re going to try that.”
"Good luck,” O’Hara said, getting to his feet. “This guy needs bagging, and soon.”
“I’ll keep you posted, Mick,” Washington said.
"I’m counting on that,” O’Hara said. He looked at Olivia. “Remember what I said about the Casanova of Center City, my beauty.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mickey!” Matt said.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow,” O’Hara proclaimed, and walked out of the diner.
“We have a transportation problem,” Washington said. “I rode out here with Captain Quaire. I have to get back. . . .”
Matt reached into his pocket and handed him the keys to his unmarked car.
“I’ll ride with Lassiter,” he said.
“I’m going to have to give my car back to Northwest,” she said.
“You are very bright youngsters,” Washington said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to sort this out.” He slid across the banquette and stood up, and added: “You can have your car back later—sometime after I meet with Tony, O’Hara, and the kid from the Roy Rogers. Okay if I leave it at the Roundhouse, the keys with the uniform in the lobby?”
“Fine,” Matt said.
“Welcome to Homicide, Detective Lassiter,” Washington said. “And I wouldn’t worry too much about Sergeant Payne. His Lothario reputation is really far darker than the facts justify.”
He walked away from the table.
After a moment, Olivia asked, “Special Victims?”
"I’m thinking,” Matt said. “Sometimes that takes a little time.”
“And I’d like to see those pictures.”
He didn’t reply.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
She watched as he walked to a pay telephone booth in the front of the diner and looked in the yellow pages telephone book. He punched at the keys of his cellular for a moment, then returned to the table.
“What?” Olivia asked.
“Watch,” he said, and pushed the Call button on his cellular phone.
“Center City Photo? I need to talk to someone about Kodak digital cameras.”
Getting the correct number at Kodak from Center City Photo was like pulling teeth. The Eastman Kodak Company in Rochester, New York—once Matt had identified himself as Sergeant Payne of the Philadelphia police department Homicide Unit—was very cooperative. It would take them a little time to run the serial number down—was there a number where he could be reached?
Their call came as Olivia was pulling up before the Special Victims building at the Frankford Arsenal.
Their records indicated that a digital camera with that serial number had been shipped, as part of an order for a dozen identical cameras, five months before, to Times Square Photo & Electronics, 17 West Forty-second Street, New York City.
"That camera comes with an overnight FedEx replacement, right?”
“That’s right, Sergeant, it does. And I checked to see if that program had been activated for that camera. It hadn’t.”
Oh, shit. But what did I expect? That this critter was going to leave a trail for me?
“But that sometimes happens,” the lady from Kodak went on. “People sometimes don’t activate the program until they have problems with the camera.”
Am I going to get lucky?
“You don’t have a phone number of Times Square Photo, by any chance, do you?”
She gave it to him.
“Thank you very much,” Sergeant Payne said. “I really appreciate your cooperation.”
The two people at Times Square Photo with whom Sergeant Payne spoke on his cellular were not nearly so cooperative. The first person, a male, spoke only a few words of English, and the second, a female he finally managed to get on the line, had only a few more words of English than did her male colleague.
These were sufficient, however, to make Sergeant Payne understand that she couldn’t do nothing like consult her records of sale for just anybody, that she was trying to run a business, for Christ’s sake, and at that moment she had customers she had to take care of. For Christ’s sake.
“Did you understand me when I said this is Sergeant Payne of the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department? ”
“No shit? Good for you. Good luck. Have a nice day.”
And at that point she hung up.
“Sonofabitch!” Matt said, then, to Olivia, “Sorry.”
“I have heard the expression before,” Detective Lassiter said.
Matt held the key that automatically dialed the office of Amelia S. Payne, M.D. He was informed that Dr. Payne was with a patient.
“This is Sergeant Payne. This is official police business. Get her on the phone, please.”
Dr. Payne came on the line thirty seconds later.
“Matt, this had better really be police business.”
“
It is. I’m working a murder.”
“Not the one where the cops stood around outside her apartment shooting the breeze while the girl was murdered and raped?”
“I didn’t know you listened to Philadelphia Phil, Amy.”
“My secretary does. And it’s Phil’s Philly.”
“That’s not exactly the way it happened, Amy.”
“Of course not,” she said, sarcastically.
“Are you scrapping with Peter again, or is there some other reason you’re being such a bitch?”
“What do you want, Matthew?”
“The doer left his digital camera at the scene. With pictures of the act. Chief Lowenstein wants you to look at them.”
“Just Chief Lowenstein?”
“Me, too, Amy, okay?”
“Okay. Bring them by. I’ll take a look.”
“I’m about to print them. I’ll be there in thirty, thirty-five minutes.”
“Okay,” Amy said, and hung up.
[THREE]
The Special Victims Unit did not have a color printer the quality of the one Mickey O’Hara had had the Bulletin buy for him. It was slow, there were eight images, and Matt made what he quickly realized was an error when he pushed the button that caused the printer to make three prints of each image.
He needed a set for Amy, of course. And the price of using their printer was a set for Special Victims, and a third set was necessary for Jason Washington, both for his edification and to make sure there was no screwup when the Forensics lab finally got the flash memory card and made the official prints.
The result of this was that it took thirty-six minutes for the printer to do the job, and as they came slowly out of the printer Detectives Lassiter and Domenico had the opportunity to take good, long looks at all of them. Matt didn’t give a damn about Domenico, but he was made uneasy by Detective Lassiter’s reaction. Her face made it evident that she was trying and failing to examine the photographs with calm professionalism.
When they were finally outside, in Detective Lassiter’s more than a little beat-up unmarked car, she looked at him for orders.
“We’re a little pressed for time—What do I call you? ‘Olivia’ all right?”
“Fine, Sergeant.”
“We’re a little pressed for time, Olivia. I think you should meet my sister; you’ll probably have to see her again, so we’ll go to the university first. Then, since Washington grabbed my car, we’ll go to my place so I can pick up my car. I’m going to New York. Then I want you to drop a set of pictures off at Homicide. If Lieutenant Washington is there—or Captain Quaire—give them to one of them. If not, seal the envelope and give it to the man on the wheel for Washington. Then I think you’d better go call on the Williamsons again. Get their statements.”
“What do I do about getting this car back to Northwest Detectives?”
“We’ll deal with that later,” Matt said. “The priorities right now, I think, are to see if I can run this critter down through the camera store, and to keep the Williamsons happy.”
“Happy?” she asked, sarcastically.
“You know what I mean.”
[FOUR]
“Well, what did you think of my sister?” Matt asked when they were back in the unmarked car outside the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.
“She’s nice,” Olivia said. “And she’s a professor of psychiatry?”
“Too young, you mean?” Matt asked, and Olivia nodded. “She got her M.D. at twenty-four. I wouldn’t want you to quote me, but she’s smart as hell. And she really can get into the minds of psychopaths. This isn’t the first time she’s helped. She’ll probably give us a pretty good picture of how this guy thinks.”
“Where to now?” Olivia asked.
“The Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building, South Rittenhouse Square.”
“What are we going to do there?”
“I live there,” Matt said, and waited for her curiosity to overwhelm him. It didn’t.
When she pulled to the curb in front of the Cancer Society Building, Matt said, “You’ve got my cellular number?”
“And you’ve got mine,” Olivia said.
“See you later,” Matt said.
“Right,” Olivia said.
He got the Porsche out of the basement garage and headed for New York. When he was out of Center City traffic—on I-95 North—he slipped his cellular into a dash-mounted rack, which permitted hands-off operation, and punched in Joe D’Amata’s number.
“D’Amata.”
“Payne. I’m on my way to New York, unless you need me there.”
“There’s not much you can do here,” D’Amata said. “The crime lab folks are just about finished. Slayberg’s done the scene. We got statements from both McGrorys. What I’d like to do is get the Williamsons’ statements.”
“I got a statement from the brother,” Matt said.
“Then just the mother, then.”
“Olivia’s on her way to the Roundhouse to deliver the pictures to Washington—”
“He’s not there,” D’Amata interrupted. “He called to say if I needed him, if we needed him, he’s going to take another look at the Roy Rogers.”
“He’s going to meet with O’Hara, Harris, and the black kid witness at five o’clock, to start all over again.”
“So he told me.”
“Olivia’s going from the Roundhouse to see the Williamsons.”
“Olivia is, is she?”
“Fuck you, Joe.”
“I think that’s what they call ‘verbal abuse of a subordinate, ’ Sergeant. You’ll be hearing from the FOP.”
“Then fuck you twice, Joe,” Matt said.
D’Amata laughed.
“You have the Williamson mother’s address?” Matt asked.
“No, but I probably can get it from Detective Lassiter.”
“I’ve got her cell number. You need it?”
“Yeah.”
Matt gave it to him, then said, “Tell her that I said I want her to introduce you to the Williamsons as the lead detective on the case. Maybe ‘senior homicide investigator’ would be better.”
There was a pause while D’Amata considered that.
“Lassiter’s got them calmed down, and we want to show them how hard we’re working, right?”
“Yeah. Make sense to you?”
“Yeah. That Philly Phil asshole business is still dangerous. My wife called and asked me what the hell was wrong with the uniforms, they didn’t take the door.”
“Well, let’s keep the Williamsons stroked.”
“Consider it done,” D’Amata said. “If anything comes up, I’ll call you.”
“Same here.”
“That digital camera’s a long shot, Matt. But let’s hope we get lucky.”
“Amen, Brother.”
[FIVE]
Sergeant Zachary Hobbs, a stocky, ruddy-faced forty-four-year -old, was holding down the desk in Homicide when Detective Lassiter walked through the outer door.
Detective Kenneth J. Summers, who should have been working the desk, was meeting a lengthy call of nature, which he blamed on something he must have eaten at the church supper of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church the previous evening.
“Can I help you?” Hobbs asked. He was not immune to Detective Lassiter’s looks.
“Lieutenant Washington?”
“I’m sorry, he’s not here.”
“Captain Quaire?”
“He’s not here either. Can I do something for you?”
“Would you give whichever of them comes in first this envelope, please?”
She handed it to him.
“Sure.” He weighed it in his hands. “What is it?”
“It’s from Sergeant Payne,” Olivia said.
Hobbs looked at her, waiting for her to go on. After a moment’s hesitation, she did.
“It’s photographs of the victim in the Independence Street job.”
Sergeant Hobbs immediately tore the envelope open and looked
at the eight photographs.
“Where the hell did Payne get these?” Hobbs asked.
“The doer forgot his digital camera at the scene. Sergeant Payne downloaded the images to his laptop, and Special Victims printed them for us.”
“Next question: Who are you, Detective? How did you get them?”
“My name is Lassiter,” Olivia said. “Northwest. I’ve been detailed to Homicide. Sergeant Payne told me to bring them here.”
“Detailed? By who?”
“Chief Lowenstein,” Olivia said.
“Well, so long as you’re with us, Detective, you’re certainly going to bring a little class to the premises,” Hobbs said. “Where’s the camera?”
“Detective D’Amata has it,” Olivia said.
“Okay. As soon as either the boss or the Black Buddha comes in, I’ll see they get these. They may want to talk to you. . . .”
“I’ll give you my cell phone number,” she said, and did.
“Where will you be?”
“I’m going to take the victim’s mother’s statement,” she said.
“Sergeant Payne told you to?”
“Yes, he did.”
He looked at her a moment, then said, “Welcome, welcome. Would you be offended if I said you’re the best-looking detective to come in here in my memory?”
“Not at all,” Olivia said, and smiled at him. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” Hobbs said. “See you around.”
In the best of all possible worlds, Olivia thought, as she left Homicide and the Roundhouse and got in her unmarked car, the encounter between herself and Sergeant Hobbs of Homicide would have been entirely professional and gender-neutral.
But the Philadelphia police department was not the best of all possible worlds, and Sergeant Hobbs had made it clear that he found her to be an attractive member of the female gender.
So what was wrong with that?
He wondered who the hell I was, which was natural, and he really wondered, which was even more natural, who had detailed me, even temporarily, to Homicide. Once I told him Lowenstein, that was the end of it.
It really couldn’t have gone any better.
When Olivia Lassiter, then just shy of her twenty-first birthday, and a junior at Temple University, majoring in mass market communications, had told her parents that she had taken, and passed, the entrance application for the Philadelphia police department, and that she intended to drop out of college to enter the Police Academy, their reaction had been the opposite of unbridled joy.
Final Justice Page 23
