“I don’t think I’m going to like this,” Mrs. Craig said.
“What if I told you it’s police business?”
“I’d have trouble believing you. Where did you say you were headed? Alabama?”
“Daphne, Alabama,” he furnished. “And what I need is a rental car in Pensacola, and then someplace to stay—two rooms—in Daphne, Alabama.”
“Somebody’s with you?”
“Yeah. We’re going to need two rooms.”
“I’ll need his name.”
“It’s a her. Olivia Lassiter. Two ‘s’s.”
“Oh?”
“Detective Lassiter.”
“Oh. Her.”
“Like I said, it’s police business.”
“I’m sure it is. How do I get in touch with you? Will your cellular work in Alabama?”
“We’ll soon find out. We get to Atlanta at ten-fifty. Oh, wait a minute. My cellular battery’s dead.”
There was a slight delay as Matt got Olivia’s cell phone number. He gave it to Mrs. Craig.
“Thanks, Mrs. Craig.”
“You realize you’ve made your father’s day, I hope. What do I tell him? I don’t even want to think about your mother.”
“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“How do you spell Daphne?”
“I have no idea.”
[FOUR]
“Good morning, Mr. Donaldson,” the Hon. Alvin W. Martin said, charmingly. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”
“It’s Phil, Mr. Mayor. Calling for all the people out there in Phil’s Philly.”
“All right then, Phil.”
“Thank you for taking my call.”
“It’s always a pleasure, Phil.”
“I’ve been trying to call Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne, Mr. Mayor. They don’t seem to be available.”
“Is that so?”
“They seem to be out of town, Mr. Mayor.”
“So I understand. Commissioner Mariani told me.”
“You wouldn’t want to tell me where and why, would you, Mr. Mayor?”
“I’ll tell you why. They have a developing lead in the Williamson murder, one that looks very promising.”
“Which just happens to make them unavailable to talk to me, right?”
“I’m afraid, Phil, that seems to be the case. But as soon as they get back in town, I’m sure they will be as delighted to talk to you—and all the people out there in Phil’s Philadelphia —as I am.”
“And when will that be?”
“In four or five days, possibly.”
“And in the meantime, we don’t get to hear what happened in Stan Colt’s hotel room, right? That’s a convenient coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d call it the press of duty, Phil. A matter of priorities. Solving that case takes precedence, as I’m sure you’ll understand, over just about everything else.”
“So what you’re telling me, Mr. Mayor—correct me if I’m wrong—is that no one out there in Phil’s Philly is going to hear what went on in Stan Colt’s hotel room until Sergeant Payne and the beautiful lady detective come back to town?”
“I didn’t say that, Phil. Would you like to talk to someone who was in Mr. Colt’s hotel suite all the time Sergeant Payne and Detective Lassiter were there?”
“And who would that be?”
“Pick up the extension, please, Detective Martinez, and say hello to Mr. Donaldson.”
“Hello.”
“With whom am I speaking, please?”
“Detective Jesus Martinez.”
“Good morning, Detective. Say hello to all the people out there in Phil’s Philly.”
“Hello.”
“And where are you assigned, Jesus . . . You don’t mind if I call you ‘Jesus,’ do you?”
“Suit yourself.”
“All right, Jesus. Could you tell me what you were doing in Stan Colt’s hotel room all the time the mayor says Sergeant Payne and the lovely Detective Lassiter were in there?”
“I was on the Dignitary Protection Detail.”
“Mr. Colt needed protection? From what, Jesus?”
“Excuse me?”
“What does Stan Colt need police protection from, Jesus? Pretty women?”
“You bet he does. They was all over the street outside the hotel.”
“Who was?”
“His fans were. His lady fans.”
“And they were all beautiful?”
“Not all of them. Some was dogs.”
“Well, Phil,” the mayor of Philadelphia said, “you asked for the truth.”
“Yes, I did,” Phil said. “Detective Martinez—Jesus—what I’m interested to hear—what all the folks out there in Phil’s Philly want to hear—is what happened in Stan Colt’s hotel room.”
“Okay.”
“You’re going to tell me, right?”
“Lassiter told him what had gone down on the Williamson job.”
“By which you mean the brutal murder of Cheryl Williamson? You call that a job?”
“That’s what we call it.”
“And why did Detective Lassiter feel she was equipped to tell him ‘what had gone down’? And why was she telling him?”
“She was the first detective on the scene. And the Homicide captain told her to tell him.”
“I see,” Phil said. “And what you’re telling me—correct me if I’m wrong—is that all that happened in Stan Colt’s hotel room was that Detective Lassiter told him about the Williamson murder?”
“Yeah.”
“She told him everything, right?”
“Probably not. She’s a pretty good cop, from what I’ve seen, and I don’t think she told him everything.”
“Why not? What’s everything?”
“You don’t tell civilians some things about a job. I don’t know what she didn’t tell him, but I’m sure there was a lot.”
“And what else happened?”
“He bought us a steak dinner. He’s a pretty good guy.”
“Phil,” the mayor of Philadelphia said, “I really hate to break this up, but Detective Martinez has got to get back to his duty—Mr. Colt is having lunch with the cardinal in connection with his fund-raising for West Catholic High School, and Detective Martinez has to be with him. And I’ve got a pretty full plate myself. How about just one more question?”
“Well, let me think of one more question,” Mr. Donaldson said, “to ask for all the folks out there in Phil’s Philly.”
He paused a moment.
“Just tell me the first thing that pops into your mind, Jesus, please,” he said. “Do you think assigning police officers to protect Mr. Colt is a good investment of the time of yourself and other detectives like you?”
“Hell, yes. Christ, he comes to town to raise money for West Catholic. It wouldn’t be right if we let his fans get at him. They’re nutty. What they would like to do is tear his clothes off for souvenirs.”
“Thank you for calling, Phil,” the mayor of Philadelphia said. “It’s always a pleasure.”
“Thank you for taking my call, Mr. Mayor.”
The mayor put his phone in the cradle and signaled for Martinez to do the same thing.
“Gotcha, you bastard!” the mayor said, and extended his hand to Detective Martinez.
“Thank you very much, Detective. You did very well.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the studio, Mr. Donaldson turned off his microphone. “Shit,” he said aloud.
And then he had a second thought.
“Shit! I forgot to ask him about Wohl and Washington in D’Allesandro’s!”
[FIVE]
A Pensacola, Florida, police officer watched the carousel delivering baggage and then stepped up to Matt when he saw him take the metal lock-boxes, which he recognized from previous use.
“That looks too small for a couple of shotguns,” he said, pleasantly. “If that’s handguns, why don’t you wait until you’r
e out of the airport before you open the box?”
“Sure,” Matt said. “You use the term ‘on the job’ down here?”
“Sure.”
“We’re on the job, from Philadelphia. Had to leave in a hurry. What we need is someplace where we can buy clothing for a couple of days, and some nice place for lunch.”
“Leave the airport, take a left at the second light. You’ll see a shopping mall on the left. Then, when you leave there, get back on the same street, go the same way as far as you can, then make another left. McGuire’s Irish Pub. Best place in town.”
“Thanks. And then we’re headed for Daphne, Alabama.”
“When you leave McGuire’s, you’ll have to turn right. Get on I-110 until you hit I-10. Turn west. It’s about forty miles.”
“You get the car, Matt,” Olivia said. “I have to—”
“Right the other side of the stairs,” the officer said, pointing.
When Olivia had walked away, the officer said, “Her, too?”
“Detective Olivia Lassiter.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah,” Matt agreed.
Hertz had a car waiting for them, a Ford Mustang convertible. And the clerk drew a Magic Marker route on a map showing how to reach the Marriott in Point Clear, Alabama. Matt saw that Point Clear was next to Fairhope, and Fairhope was next to Daphne, which was right on Interstate 10.
They found the shopping mall—a large one—without trouble, and went inside.
“Just what we’re looking for,” Matt said, happily, pointing to the entrance to Victoria’s Secret.
“I’m not going in there with you,” Olivia said. “I’m not going in there, period.”
“You told me on the plane you maxed out your credit card,” Matt said. “I have you in my power, Little Maiden.”
“You sonofabitch!”
“I’ll wait outside,” Matt said. “See what they have in translucent black.”
While he was waiting for Olivia, Matt found an ATM and withdrew a thousand dollars. When she appeared at the door to motion him in to sign the credit card charge, he handed her five hundred dollars.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll give you a check.”
“When we get back to Philly,” he said.
“It’ll take months for the city to write a check, you know that?”
“You have an honest face. I can wait.”
An hour later, having bought enough clothing and other necessities of life to last them four days, and suitcases to carry it in, they got back into the Mustang and went looking for McGuire’s Irish Pub.
“I can’t believe you ate the whole thing,” Olivia said to Matt, making reference to the assorted sausage plate he had ordered for lunch. It looked to her more than adequate for the both of them, but by the time she had seen it, the waitress had delivered her Irish stew, which looked like it, too, had been intended for at least two people.
“I have to keep up my strength,” he said, and looked around for the waitress to get the bill.
Then he looked at her.
“You know,” he said, seriously, “there’s only one person in the department who thinks this peeper may be our doer.”
Olivia shook her head, “no.”
“Two,” she said.
“Why?”
“I’ve got a gut feeling, Matt,” Olivia said. “You know?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Washington says you should listen to your gut.”
“What’s next?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “Before we go to the police station, or wherever they have this guy, I’d like to know more than we read in the paper.”
“How are you going to get that?”
“I think I’m going to start with the civilian—from the Citizens’ Watch, or whatever the hell it’s called—who saw him by the window.”
“How are you going to find him?”
“When we get to the hotel, the first thing I’m going to do is plug in my brandnew cellular battery charger, then I’ll ask, look in the phone book, whatever.”
She nodded.
The waitress delivered the bill. Matt handed his credit card to the waitress and said, “Please add fifteen percent for yourself. Great meal.”
Olivia shook her head as the waitress walked away.
“What?”
“You didn’t even look at that check,” she said. “And God knows how much we spent in the shopping center. And you got a lot of money from the ATM. Don’t you worry about maxing out your card?”
“No, I don’t,” Matt said. “And I took the money from my bank. If you get money on a credit card, they charge you some outrageous interest.”
“So you are rich? I heard something—”
“I’m comfortable, Olivia. So what?”
“It must be nice.”
“It is.”
It took them a little over an hour to drive from McGuire’s Irish Pub to the Marriott in Point Clear, Alabama. Their route took them first through Daphne. There Olivia touched his arm and pointed out a sign identifying the entrance to the Lake Forest Yacht Club & Condominiums.
A mile or so away they saw the Joseph Hall Criminal Justice Center, which was obviously the police station, an attractive brick building that looked as if it had been built last year. As they went through Fairhope, they saw the Fairhope Police Station, another clean, attractive building that looked even newer.
The hotel was several miles the other side of Fairhope, down a tree-lined road along the shore of Mobile Bay. There were half a dozen fair-sized sailboats bobbing along in the bay.
“I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this,” Matt said.
Neither was the hotel what Matt had expected to find after Mrs. Craig had told him she’d reserved two rooms in his name at the Marriott.
It turned out to be more of a luxury resort than a hotel. Ancient oaks lined the drive to the entrance. There were signs indicating the direction of a golf course, and he could see both an enormous swimming pool and the masts of a fleet of sailboats.
A gray-jacketed bellman pulled their luggage from the backseat of the roofdown Mustang and said, “Welcome to the Grand Hotel.”
There were two pleasant young men behind the reception desk.
“My name is Payne,” Matt said, as he handed one of them his American Express card. “I’m supposed to have a reservation. ”
The young man consulted his computer.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Two ‘nice’ singles is what was requested. We think our bayside rooms are ‘nice,’ and we’ve put you into two of those. I’m afraid they’re not adjacent . . .”
“That’s fine,” Detective Lassiter said.
“. . . at $305 per day. Will that be satisfactory, Mr. Payne?”
“That’s fine,” Matt said.
They were handed brochures outlining all the hotel had to offer and electronic keys to the rooms. Two bellmen appeared.
“Call me when you’re settled,” Matt said. “I’m going to get on the phone.”
“You want me to come there?” Olivia asked.
“Probably a good idea,” Matt said.
Following the bellmen, they marched off through the lobby toward the elevators.
The young man who had handled their reservation turned to the other.
“What would you like to bet me that only one set of sheets will be mussed tonight?” he asked.
[SIX]
“Police department,” a female voice with a thick southern accent announced.
“Good afternoon,” Detective Olivia Lassiter said. “I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Be happy to try, ma’am.”
“Do you happen to have a phone number where I could call the Jackson’s Oak Citizens’ Community Watch?”
“You mind if I ask why you want to call them?”
“Well, we just moved into the area, and my husband wanted to ask about volunteering.”
“Would you believe you’re the sixt
h call we’ve had today, saying the same thing?”
“Is that so?”
“You got a pencil handy?”
“Yes, I do.”
“The best person to call is Colonel Lacey Richards Jr.,” the Daphne police operator said. “He’s the one who really runs Jabberwocky. He lives on Captain O’Neal Drive. . . .”
Pause.
“Damn, I had his number here somewhere.”
There was another pause.
“Here it is,” the Daphne police operator said, and recited it.
Another female with a thick southern accent answered Sergeant Payne’s call, and said that she was sorry, “but the colonel’s out playing golf. He should be back about five.”
“Thank you very much,” Sergeant Payne replied. “I’ll call again then.”
He put the telephone down, leaned against the headboard of the king-sized bed, and looked across the room at Detective Olivia Lassiter, who was sitting in an armchair.
“He’s playing golf, but will be back at five. I still think we should see what he has to say before we talk to the cops.”
“So do I,” Olivia said.
“On the other hand, if all they’ve got him on is a Peeping Tom charge, which is a misdemeanor, he may post bail and be long gone.”
“They won’t let him post bail without knowing who he is. We can find him.”
“Great minds run in similar paths,” Matt said. He looked at his watch. “We have a little over an hour. What do you want to do?”
Detective Lassiter looked at him for a long moment, then stood up, and then looked at him a long moment again.
Then she reached down for the hem of the light blue cotton dress she’d bought in the shopping mall in Pensacola and pulled it off over her head.
“Jesus Christ!” Matt said.
“Well, you said to see what they had in translucent black,” Olivia said.
“Hello?”
“Colonel Richards?”
“Right.”
“Colonel, my name is Matthew Payne. . . .”
“Has this got something to do with the Jackson’s Oak Citizens’ Community Watch?”
“Yes, sir. It does.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you my office number. You call there in the morning, and ask my secretary to mail you an application.”
Final Justice Page 41
