Final Justice

by W. E. B Griffin

  He then had a very hard time making the previously charming English-speaking proprietor understand that he would like, at the very least, a photocopy of the sales slip and would really like to have the sales slip itself.

  Then he had an inspiration.

  “What I really would like to have are several digital images of you. First in the act of separating that sales slip from the fanfold,” Matt said. “And then another of you initialing the sales slip.”

  “And you have a camera?”

  “No. But I thought if I bought one . . .”

  “How interesting! I just happen to have a splendid, latest-model, state-of-the-art Kodak—a DC910 with fast-charge lithium batteries—that I could let you have at a substantial discount.”

  “The pictures, you understand, would be useless to me unless I had the actual sales slip itself?”

  “You do have a credit card?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course you do. And nothing would give me greater pleasure than to cooperate with the police in this investigation. ”

  A total of $967.50 and fifteen minutes later, Matt put a Ziploc bag in his briefcase. It held the original sales slip and a flash memory card holding images of the proprietor tearing the sales slip free from the others in the fanfold stack; initialing the sales slip; of himself initialing the sales slip; of himself and the proprietor each holding a corner of the sales slip; and a final shot of himself putting the sales slip in the Ziploc bag.

  Counsel for the defense, he thought, would, considering the pictures, have a hard time raising doubt in the minds of a jury that he had acquired the real sales slip.

  And he could give the Kodak DC910, with fast-charge lithium batteries, to his mother. She had expressed admiration for the camera he had given Amy, and it seemed only just that his mother get one that cost twice as much as Amy’s.

  Now all he had to do was find Mr. H. Ford, of 400 Lincoln Lane, Detroit, Michigan.

  He walked back down through Times Square to the parking lot, and got into the Porsche. On his cellular telephone, he established contact with a Detroit directory assistance operator, who regretted to inform him they had no listing for a Mr. H. Ford at 400 Lincoln Lane in Detroit.

  Matt had been prepared to be disappointed.

  “Have you got a special listing for the Homicide Bureau, maybe Homicide Unit, something like that, of the Detroit police department?”

  “Just the basic police department number.”

  “Give me that, please.”

  “Homicide, Sergeant Whaley.”

  “Sergeant, my name is Payne. I’m a sergeant in Homicide in Philadelphia.”

  “What can we do for Philadelphia?”

  “I’m working a job where the doer left his camera at the scene. I traced it to the store where it was sold. According to their records, it was sold to a Mr. H. Ford of Lincoln Road in Detroit.”

  “And you’re beginning to suspect there is maybe something a little fishy about the name and address, right?”

  “To tell you the truth, yes, I am.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “Maybe he once went to Detroit,” Matt said. “Have you got any open cases of murder, or rape, or murder/rape where the doer tied the victim to a bed and then cut the victim’s clothes off with a large knife?”

  “Nice fellow, huh? That all you got?”

  “This happened last night.”

  “You do know about the NCIC in Philadelphia?”

  “We have inside plumbing and everything,” Matt said. “And I don’t mean to in any way undermine your faith in the FBI, but sometimes we suspect they don’t give us everything out of their databases, including stuff we’ve put in.”

  “I can’t think of any job like that offhand,” Sergeant Whaley said. “But I’ll ask around. You said your name was Payne?”

  Matt spelled it for him and gave him Jason Washington’s unlisted private number in the Roundhouse.

  “I’ll ask around, and if I turn up anything, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Thank you very much,” Matt said.

  He pushed the End button, put the key in the ignition, and started to drive out of the parking lot.

  The attendant jumped in front of the car, waving his arms.

  It was necessary for Matt to dig out the credit card again, and sign a sales slip for $35.00 worth of parking before he could put the Porsche in gear and head downtown toward the Lincoln Tunnel.

  He looked at his watch; it was quarter past five.

  When he came out of the New Jersey exit of the Lincoln Tunnel, it looked very familiar and he wondered why. He rarely went to New York City, and when he did, he almost never drove, preferring the Metroliner, a really comfortable train on which one did not have to keep one eye open for the New Jersey State Police for being in violation of speeding and/or drinking laws.

  It was a moment before he understood.

  He saw it at least once a week, on television. The opening shot on The Sopranos was from the inside of New Jersey mob boss Tony Soprano’s GMC Suburban as he came out of the tunnel.

  Another segment of the TV show came to his mind. A New Jersey detective on the pad from the mob got caught at it, and jumped off a bridge.

  That made him think of Captain Patrick Cassidy, whose sudden affluence—including his new Suburban—he had found to be completely legitimate.

  If it had gone the other way, would Cassidy have taken a dive off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge? And would I have been at least tangentially responsible?

  His reverie was interrupted by the tinkling of his cell phone.

  “Payne.”

  “Where are you, Matthew?” Lieutenant Jason Washington’s deep, rich voice demanded.

  “I just came out of the Lincoln Tunnel on my way back.”

  “And what developed in New York?”

  “The camera was sold to an H. Ford of Lincoln Road in Detroit,” Matt said.

  “Well, one never knows. There is a credible legend that Jack the Ripper was the King’s brother.”

  “So I have heard. I’ve got the original sales slip, with a signature on it, in a Ziploc.”

  “How did you get that?”

  “I explained how important it was to the proprietor, and then bought a nine-hundred-dollar camera, after which he gave it to me.”

  “There’s a slim chance, if he signed it, we might get a print.”

  “Yeah.”

  Shit, I didn’t even think about that. Oh, Jesus! If there are prints on there, they’ll be the proprietor’s and mine. There’s no excuse for such stupidity.

  “You’re going to have to come to the office anyway, to get a property receipt for the sales slip, so I’ll leave the keys to your car in the FOP mug on my desk,” Washington said.

  “You mean I’m getting it back?”

  “You had doubts? I’m your lieutenant, Matthew. You can trust me,” Washington said, and added, “I’m driving Martha’s car, less because of spousal generosity than because she wanted to ensure my presence at a cultural event at the Fine Arts at seven-thirty.”

  “Have fun.”

  “If fortune smiles upon me, I may even be afforded the privilege of physical proximity to our beloved mayor.”

  Matt chuckled.

  “I am at the moment en route to meet with Tony, Mickey, and the witness from the Roy Rogers,” Washington went on. “If there are developments, call me between now and seven-thirty. ”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Otherwise, after ten, call me to report your progress or lack thereof. But do not call me while I am at the Fine Arts unless what you have to say is really important.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And drive carefully, always adhering to the posted speed limits of the Garden State, Matthew.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line went dead.

  [TWO]

  Detective Tony Harris, Amal al Zaid, and Michael J. O’Hara were sitting in the rearmost banquette of the Roy Rogers restaurant at Br
oad and Snyder Streets when Amal saw an automobile pull to the curb outside.

  “Get those wheels,” he blurted in something close to awe. “That’s an SL600!”

  “What’s an SL600?” Tony Harris asked, looking. “You mean the Mercedes?”

  "V-12 engine,” Amal al Zaid said. “Six liters!”

  A large black man in a dinner jacket got out of the Mercedes SL600.

  "V-12?” Tony asked. “No shit? What’s one of those worth?”

  "V-12,” Amal al Zaid confirmed. “That’s worth at least a hundred thousand bucks!”

  “Jesus,” Tony said.

  “More like a hundred and a quarter, kid,” Mickey O’Hara said. “Well, I guess that’s his coming-out present to himself.”

  “Excuse me?” Amal al Zaid asked.

  “What did he get, Tony? Ten to fifteen?” Mickey asked.

  Tony Harris shrugged.

  “Or was it fifteen to twenty?” Mickey mused. “Well, whatever, he’s out, obviously. Who said ‘crime doesn’t pay’?”

  Tony Harris raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  Amal al Zaid nearly turned around on the banquette to follow the guy in the tuxedo who had gotten out of the Mercedes-Benz SL600.

  “It looks like he’s coming in here!” Amal al Zaid said.

  “Why would a heavy hitter hood like that come in a dump like this?” O’Hara asked rhetorically.

  Lieutenant Jason Washington walked through the restaurant, slid onto the banquette seat beside O’Hara, quickly shook hands with O’Hara and Harris, and then smiled cordially at Amal al Zaid.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I really appreciate your time.”

  Amal al Zaid said nothing.

  “I’m Lieutenant Washington,” Jason said, oozing charm.

  He had told Tony Harris to ask the witness to meet them in the Roy Rogers in the belief he would be more comfortable there than he would have been, for example, in the Homicide unit in the Roundhouse.

  Amal al Zaid said nothing.

  “Actually, I’m Detective Harris’s—Tony’s—supervisor.”

  “You’re a cop?” Amal al Zaid asked, incredulously.

  “I realize that dressed like this—I’m going to sort of a party with my wife. . . .” He paused, and then asked, “What did Mr. O’Hara tell you about me?”

  “He said you just got out,” Amal al Zaid said.

  “Actually, sir,” Tony Harris said. “The phrases Mr. O’Hara used were ‘fifteen to twenty’ and ‘heavy hitter hood.’ ”

  Washington came out with his badge and photo ID, and showed it to Amal al Zaid.

  “Mr. O’Hara is an old friend,” he said. “Despite a well-earned reputation for a really weird sense of humor.”

  “I’m weird?” O’Hara asked. “You’re the first man in recorded history to walk into a Roy Rogers in a waiter suit.”

  “It’s not a waiter suit, you ignoramus.”

  “It looks like a waiter suit to me,” Mickey said. “What about you—Double-A Zee?”

  Amal al Zaid giggled and nodded his head in agreement.

  “Are you going to take our order, or is there something else Double-A Zee and I can do for the cops?” Mickey asked.

  Amal al Zaid giggled again.

  “Do you mind if he calls you that?” Washington asked.

  Amal al Zaid shook his head, “no.”

  “Can I call you that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you,” Washington said. “Okay, Double-A Zee, let me tell you where we are in finding the people who murdered Mrs. Martinez and Officer Charlton.” He paused.

  Amal al Zaid looked at him expectantly.

  “Just about nowhere,” Washington said, finally.

  “How come?” Amal al Zaid asked.

  Washington shrugged.

  “We’ve done—and are still doing—everything we can think of. We’re going to get them eventually. But the sooner we do, the sooner we can get them off the streets, the sooner they won’t be able to do the same sort of thing again. We don’t want any more people to die.”

  Amal al Zaid nodded his understanding.

  “An investigation is something like taking an automobile trip,” Washington said. “You can make a wrong turn and wind up in Hoboken when you really want to be in Harrisburg. I’m beginning to suspect that we’ve made a wrong turn, early on, and this is what this is all about.

  “What we have here, where this trip began, are the only two witnesses who seem to know what they’re talking about; the only two who kept their cool in terrifying circumstances—”

  “I was scared shitless,” Amal al Zaid corrected him.

  “Make that two of us,” O’Hara said.

  Amal al Zaid looked at him with gratitude.

  “Who kept their cool in terrifying circumstances,” Washington repeated, “the proof of which, Double-A Zee, is your behavior in this from the beginning. And Mr. O’Hara’s attempt to take a photograph when they came out of the restaurant—”

  “Attempt’s the right word,” Mickey said. “All I got is an artsy fartsy silhouette.”

  Washington ignored the comment.

  “So what we’re going to do now,” he went on, “is start from the beginning, once again, to see where we took the wrong turn. We’re going to do this very slowly, to see where what you saw agrees with what Mickey saw, or where it disagrees. Detective Harris”—he pointed to a huge salesman’s case on the banquette seat beside Harris—“has brought with him records and reports that he and others have compiled that he thinks will be useful. We’re going to see if what you and Mickey saw agrees or disagrees with what other people saw, or thought they saw, and if it disagrees, how it disagrees. You still with me, Double-A Zee?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “If either you or Mickey thinks of something—anything— or if you have a question while we’re doing this, speak up. I’ll do the same. Okay?”

  O’Hara and Amal al Zaid nodded their understanding.

  “Let’s get some more coffee,” Washington said, waving for the attention of the shift manager, who was hovering nearby to see what he could see, “and then Tony can begin.”

  Tony Harris took a sheaf of paper from the salesman’s case, took off a paper clip, and divided it into four.

  “This is the chronology as I understand it,” he said, as he slid copies to Washington, O’Hara, and Amal al Zaid.

  “We know for sure that Mrs. Martinez called 911 at eleven-twenty P.M. We have that from Police Radio. And we know that at eleven-twenty-one, Police Radio dispatched Officer Charlton. So I sort of guessed the time of the events before that.”

  He waited until the shift manager had delivered a tray with coffee.

  “If I get any of these details wrong, Double-A Zee, even if it doesn’t seem important,” Harris said, “speak up. Same for you, Mickey.”

  Both nodded again.

  “Okay. Sequence of events,” Harris said. “Double-A Zee was standing there”—he pointed—“mopping the floor, when he saw the doers come into the restaurant. How long had you been there, Double-A Zee, when they came in?”

  “A couple of minutes.”

  “A couple is two. Maybe several?”

  “I keep the mop bucket right inside the kitchen door,” Amal al Zaid said. “What happened was when I cleaned the table—”

  “This table?” Harris interrupted.

  “Yeah. I see that the people who’d left had knocked a cup of coffee—what was left of one—on the floor. So I went in the kitchen, got the mop and bucket, and come back. It wasn’t a big spill, but it was right in front of the kitchen door—”

  “The one on the left?” Harris interrupted.

  “Yeah. The Out one, they come through with full trays and they couldn’t see the spill.”

  “I understand,” Harris said.

  “So I figured I better clean it up quick, and I did.”

  “And you’d been there a couple, like two, minutes and the doers came in
?”

  “Right.”

  “Why did you notice, Double-A Zee?” Washington asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were mopping the floor, paying attention to doing that. Why did you notice these two?”

  Amal al Zaid thought that over carefully before replying: “I looked at the clock over the door. They was standing under it.”

  “And why did you pay attention to them?” Washington asked, softly.

  “I could tell they was bad news,” Amal al Zaid said.

  “How?”

  “The way they was standing, looking around. Nervous, you know? And the . . . I dunno. I just didn’t like the look of them.”

  “Okay. So then what happened?”

  “Then they split up. The one stayed in front, and the short fat guy came toward the back, toward here. That was funny.”

  “You had finished mopping the spill by then?” Harris asked.

  “Yeah. Right. So I pushed the bucket back into the kitchen. And then I looked through the window and saw . . .”

  “The window in the right door, the In door?” Harris asked, pointing.

  “Yeah,” Amal al Zaid said. “And I saw him take off his shade—”

  “His glasses?” Harris interrupted. “Double-A Zee, I don’t remember you saying anything before about him wearing glasses.”

  “Not glasses, his shade.”

  When he saw the lack of understanding on Harris’s face, Amal al Zaid explained patiently, almost tolerantly: “You know, like a baseball cap, without a top.”

  “Oh,” Harris said, understanding.

  “The shade part was in the back,” Amal al Zaid went on. He pointed at his neck. “I guess it got in his way.”

  “How was that?” Washington asked, softly.

  “The wall,” Amal al Zaid said. “He was sitting where you are. That cushion is against the wall.” He pointed. “I guess when he sat down, his shade bumped into the wall. Anyway, he took it off.”

  “Okay,” Harris said. “I’m a little dense. Then what happened?”

  “Tony, would you hand me Mickey’s pictures?” Washington asked.

  “Any particular one?”

  “Better let me have all of them.”

  “I thought,” Amal al Zaid said, “the last time, you told me he took only one picture of these guys.”