“Have you seen this morning’s Ledger, Mr. Mayor?”
“I was just about to.”
“After you finished your breakfast, you mean?”
“I thought I’d have a glance at it while I was eating my breakfast.”
“That’s probably a good idea, Mr. Mayor. The Ledger has some pretty startling, even unkind, things to say in an editorial about the police department generally, and you specifically.”
Oh, shit!
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, they do, I’m sorry to tell you. And I—and all the good folks out there listening in Phil’s Philly—would like to get your reaction to them.”
What the hell’s in this goddamn editorial?
“An editorial, you say, Phil?”
“That’s right, Mr. Mayor. They just about called for you to resign, after you fire Police Commissioner Mariani.”
Goddamn it! What the hell is the Ledger onto now?
"Did they say why, Phil? Or are they just still sore that I won the election?”
“No, it’s a little more serious than that, I’m afraid, Mr. Mayor. Now, I don’t want to put you on a spot, Mr. Mayor . . .”
The hell you don’t! That’s your stock-in-trade, you slimeball!
“. . . and if you haven’t read the Ledger. . . . So you read the Bulletin first, did you?”
You prick!
“Actually, Phil, I read both every day before I go to Center City, in no particular order, but I just haven’t had a chance to look at either so far today.”
“Well, what I’d like to do, Mr. Mayor, if you’re willing ...”
“Anything within reason, Phil.”
“How about I call you at the office at eleven?” Mr. Donaldson asked, reasonably. “By then you’ll have had plenty of time to read the editorial. . . .”
This is the last fucking time you’re ever going to get me on the phone. How stupid do you think I am?
“I may not be in the office at eleven, Phil.”
“Well, then, where will you be at eleven? Someplace without a telephone? I thought they were all over these days, like inside plumbing.”
“I really don’t know right now, Phil, where I’ll be at eleven. You have to understand . . .”
“You wouldn’t be trying to give me—and all the good folks out there listening in Phil’s Philly—the runaround, would you, Mr. Mayor?”
“Now, Phil, why would you say something like that?”
“Because that’s what it sounds like, Mr. Mayor.”
You sonofabitch, you got me!
“You call my office at eleven, Phil, and I’ll be happy to take your call.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“I give you my word, Phil.”
“I asked you to cross your heart and hope to die,” Phil said, paused, and added, “Just a little joke. I’ll take you at your word, Mr. Mayor, of course. And we’ll look forward to talking to you at eleven.”
“I look forward to it myself, Phil. It’s always a pleasure.”
“Have a nice breakfast, Mr. Mayor,” Mr. Donaldson said.
He broke the connection and leaned into his microphone.
“Well, you heard it folks, the mayor gave his word that he’d take my call—which means he’ll take our call—at eleven. That should be an interesting conversation. Make sure you tell all your friends to be tuned in. And now a word from the friendly folks at Dick Golden Ford on the Baltimore Pike. Be right back afterward.”
He turned off his microphone.
“Gotcha, you bastard!” he said.
[TWO]
Lieutenant Jason Washington was in the lieutenant’s office in Homicide when Matt and Olivia walked in. Matt was surprised; it was quarter to eight, and Washington usually showed up at ten or later.
As Matt walked toward the lieutenant’s office, Washington looked up, saw them, and motioned for them to come in.
“Good morning, Detective Lassiter,” he said.
“Good morning, sir,” Olivia said.
“Is there some reason you chose to answer neither your radio nor your cellular, Matthew? Or you, Detective, your cellular?” Washington asked.
“I turned the radio off when I was ferrying Colt around,” Matt said, “or he would have wanted to respond to anything that came over it. And obviously, I didn’t turn it back on this morning.” He took his cellular from his pocket. “And the battery is dead in this.”
“And you, Detective?”
Olivia had her cellular in her hand.
“I guess I didn’t turn it on this morning, sir,” she said.
“Need I say that I would be both disappointed and more than a little annoyed if this ever—the operative word is ‘ever’—happened again?”
“No, sir,” they said, almost in unison.
“Then the incident is closed,” Washington said.
“Have you seen the Bulletin this morning, Lieutenant?” Matt asked.
“With your image adorning page one? Indeed, I have. And so, I daresay, has most of the population of Philadelphia.”
“I wasn’t talking about my picture,” Matt said. “I meant this.”
He laid Section Three of the Bulletin, “Living Today,” open to page four, on the desk.
“Then you stand out like a cork bobbing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, for everyone else in Philadelphia is talking of nothing else. . . . What am I being shown?”
“Look at the guy on the ground in the picture,” Matt said.
Washington looked.
“You can doubtless imagine the odds against that fellow being our critter,” he said after a moment. “But if you wish to turn over the stone under the stone, why don’t you give them a call?”
“I already have.”
Washington looked at him with interest.
“They wouldn’t tell me whether or not this guy had a knife,” Matt said. “Or whether he was just peeping in windows or trying to break in, or whether the window belonged to a young woman. . . .”
“And you have concluded, obviously, that this proves he did indeed have a knife, with which he was trying to break into the apartment of a young woman?”
“I think the possibility exists,” Matt said, a little lamely.
One of the telephones on the desk rang, and Washington had it to his ear before it could ring again.
“Homicide, Lieutenant Washington,” he said.
And a moment later,
“Yes, sir.”
And a moment later,
“Yes, sir. They are both here with me.”
And a final moment later,
“Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”
He put the handset in its cradle.
“Detective Lassiter, it is said that God takes care of fools and drunks. While you are certainly not a drunk, Sergeant Payne qualifies on both counts, and you have apparently been taken under his protective mantle.”
“Sir?” Olivia asked.
“The reason I attempted—and failed, and we now know why, don’t we?—to communicate with the both of you this morning was to relay the order of Deputy Commissioner Coughlin to get you both in here immediately, and keep you here until I had additional instructions from him.”
“I don’t understand,” Matt said. “Is he pissed about the picture? Olivia had nothing to do with that.”
Washington ignored the reply.
“Those were the additional instructions promised. We are to report to Commissioner Mariani forthwith.”
He stood up and gestured for them to precede him out of the office.
“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on?” Matt asked.
“Obviously, you haven’t had time to read the editorial page of the Ledger, have you?”
“No. What’s on the editorial page?”
“Among many other things, your photograph.”
Commissioner Mariani was sitting behind his desk. Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Inspector Wohl were sitting side by side on a couch,
and Captain Quaire was sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair just inside the door.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Washington said.
Matt and Olivia said nothing.
“I presume everyone has seen the Ledger?” Commissioner Mariani asked.
“No, sir,” Matt and Olivia said, in duet.
Mariani gestured impatiently to Captain Quaire to hand the newspaper to them.
Matt took it, and Olivia stepped close to him and read it over his shoulder.
“My God!” Olivia said.
“I’m sure you will understand why I have to ask this question, Detective,” Mariani said. “Did anything improper, or anything that could be construed as improper—say, by Philadelphia Phil—happen while you were in Mr. Colt’s hotel room?”
“No, sir,” Olivia replied, visibly shocked by the question.
“Were you ever alone with Mr. Colt at any time, for even a brief period?”
“No, sir. Matt . . . Sergeant Payne . . . was there all the time, and so was Detective . . . What’s his name, Matt?”
“Detective Hay-zus Martinez,” Matt furnished.
“I’m not surprised, but I had to ask,” Mariani said. “And what you did was only—acting on orders from Captain Quaire— explain to Mr. Colt your involvement in the Williamson murder? ”
“Yes, sir.”
“And there was absolutely nothing social about your visit to Mr. Colt?”
“He bought us dinner, sir.”
Mariani thought that over. It was obvious he hadn’t liked to hear that.
“Philadelphia Phil somehow got the mayor’s unlisted home number,” Coughlin said. “He called him, and asked him to respond to the Ledger editorial. The mayor said he hadn’t read it. Philadelphia Phil will call him at his office at eleven. The mayor’s going to have to take that call. All of Philadelphia Phil’s early-morning listeners heard him promise to take it.”
“And so far, according to Lieutenant Pearson of Northwest Detectives, Mr. Philadelphia Phil—” Mariani began.
“The bastard’s name is Donaldson,” Coughlin furnished. “Phil Donaldson.”
“Mr. Donaldson has called twice there asking to speak to Detective Lassiter,” Mariani went on, “and twice to Homicide, according to Captain Quaire, where he asked to speak to either her or Payne.”
Mariani let that sink in for a moment, then went on:
“Mr. Donaldson, as we all know, is a skilled interviewer. Moreover, it has been suggested to me that he is more than a little annoyed with Lassiter, for her having gotten Mrs. Williamson to say she understood why the uniforms couldn’t take the Williamson girl’s door, after he had painted the uniforms as . . . We all know what he said.”
“Commissioner, may I go off at a tangent?” Washington asked.
Mariani glared at him but nodded.
“Make it quick, Jason.”
“Just before we were all summoned here, sir, I was about to order Sergeant Payne and Detective Lassiter to immediately proceed to Daphne, Mississippi, to run down a lead in the Williamson case.”
“Sir, that’s Daphne, Alabama,” Matt said.
“ ‘Daphne, Alabama’?” Mariani parroted, incredulously.
“Yes, sir. I believe it’s on the Gulf of Mexico,” Washington said.
“Tell me about the lead, Jason,” Coughlin said.
“Why don’t you explain to the Commissioner what you think you may have, Sergeant Payne?” Washington said.
“Yes, sir. Sir, last night the Daphne police—actually it was a civilian from one of those community watch things— apprehended a man in what looked like the act of prying open the window of a young woman’s apartment.”
“So what?” Quaire snorted. “You’re not suggesting it’s the Williamson doer?”
“Let the sergeant continue, please, Captain,” Peter Wohl said, softly. He added, wonderingly, “Daphne, Alabama? That’s a long way from here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said. “When I heard about this—”
“How did you hear about this?” Mariani asked.
“It was in the newspaper, sir. The Bulletin.”
“Go on, Sergeant,” Wohl said.
“I called down there, sir, and from what I learned, there is enough of a similarity of modus operandi to merit further investigation.”
“Over the years, I have come to appreciate Lieutenant Washington’s belief that the stone under the stone sometimes has to be turned over,” Wohl said. “Even if that stone is as far away as . . . Where is this place?”
“Daphne, Alabama, sir,” Matt said.
“As far away as Daphne, Alabama, and that turning the stone over might take three, four days, perhaps even longer.”
“I think that Lieutenant Washington was right in deciding to send Sergeant Payne and Detective Lassiter all the way down to Daphne, Alabama, for four or five days to run this lead down, wouldn’t you agree, Captain Quaire?” Deputy Commissioner Coughlin said.
“Yes, sir, I certainly would,” Captain Quaire, having just realized the all-around wisdom of getting Sergeant Payne and Detective Lassiter out of town for four or five days, quickly agreed.
“And under the circumstances,” Wohl went on, “that sending them immediately, without waiting for the ordinary administrative procedures to take place, would be justified. Would you agree, Commissioner?”
Mariani thought that over for two seconds.
“Yes, I would agree, Inspector,” he said.
“Have you got any cash, Matt?” Wohl asked.
“Some, and I’ve got credit cards,” Matt said.
“Is there any compelling reason, Detective Lassiter, why you can’t leave, right now, to pursue this investigation wherever it takes you?”
“I’d have to pack,” Olivia said, practically.
“There might not be time for that,” Wohl said. “Perhaps you could pick up whatever you need when you get there?”
“Yes, sir,” Detective Lassiter said.
“In that case, I suggest that you and Sergeant Payne leave for the airport immediately,” Inspector Wohl said. “Leave your car with the Airport unit. I’m sure Lieutenant Washington will arrange to have someone pick it up.”
“Indeed, I will,” Lieutenant Washington said. “Bon chasse, Sergeant Payne.”
[THREE]
“We want to go to Daphne, Alabama, not Florida,” Sergeant Payne said to the lady at the Delta ticket counter in the Philadelphia International Airport.
“According to the computer, Daphne, Alabama, is served by both Mobile, Alabama, and Pensacola, Florida,” the ticket agent said. “I can get you—first class only—on a flight connecting at eleven-twenty-five to Pensacola in Atlanta leaving in thirty-five minutes. If you want to go to Mobile, you’ll have to wait until five-forty-five in Atlanta.”
Matt handed her his American Express card.
“I never leave home without it,” Matt said to the ticket agent.
“Oh, God!” Olivia said.
“Oh, shit, the guns!” Matt said.
The ticket agent looked at him with great interest.
“We’re police officers,” Matt said, which caused the ticket agent to look at him with even greater interest.
Olivia produced her badge and photo identification, which caused the ticket agent to look at her with great interest.
“You’ll have to pack any firearms, unloaded, in your luggage, ” the ticket agent said.
“We don’t have any luggage,” Matt said.
The supervisory ticket agent was consulted.
Two metal lock-boxes were produced. Olivia’s Glock and Matt’s Colt were produced, which caused the people in line to look at them with great interest. The guns were then unloaded to the satisfaction of the supervisory ticket agent, the cartridges placed in small Ziploc plastic bags, and the bags, in padding, placed in one of the lock-boxes. Then the pistols were put in Ziploc bags and, with packing, placed in the other lock-box. Matt filled out an orange Unloaded Firearm Declarat
ion card. It was placed inside with the pistols, then the boxes locked and placed on the baggage belt.
“You’re not the first,” the supervisory ticket agent said, handing Matt the keys and the claim checks to the boxes. “Have a nice flight.”
“Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or something else?” the stewardess inquired of the cute young couple in seats 2A and 2B.
“No champagne?” Sergeant Payne replied. “I thought you got champagne in first class?”
“Oh, God!” Olivia said.
“We’re celebrating,” Matt said to the stewardess.
“Just married, maybe?” the stewardess asked.
Matt grabbed Olivia’s hand with his left hand, and held the index finger of his right over his lips.
“Don’t ask,” he said.
“I’ll get your champagne,” the stewardess said, smiling warmly.
“You’re insane,” Olivia said when the stewardess had gone. “You’re absolutely bonkers.”
But she was smiling, and she did not attempt to free her hand.
Matt moved his champagne glass out of the way, took the inflight telephone from its holder between the seats, fed it— with some difficulty—his American Express card, and then made two calls.
The first was to the Homicide Unit, where he left a message for either Captain Quaire or Lieutenant Washington that he and Detective Lassiter were airborne.
The second was to the law offices of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester, where he asked to be connected with Mrs. Craig. Mrs. Irene Craig, a tall, silver-haired svelte lady in her fifties, was executive secretary to Mr. Brewster Cortland Payne II, a founding partner of the firm.
“Your dad’s on his way in, Matty,” Mrs. Craig greeted him. “I don’t know if he’s seen the Ledger or not, but the colonel’s already in the library reading up on libel.”
The colonel was Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, another founding partner of the firm, whom Matt’s father sometimes described as the firm’s resident pit bull.
“That’s not really what I called about, Mrs. Craig,” Matt said. “I need a favor. . . .”
“Matty, what else did you do?”
Her tone was maternal. She had known Sergeant Payne since he wore diapers.
“Nothing,” he protested. “I’m on a plane to Atlanta. Final destination, via Pensacola, Florida, Daphne, Alabama.”
Final Justice Page 40
