Jesus, that’s a good-looking woman!
“Good morning,” Matt said.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Olivia said. “May I?” she asked, indicating a chair.
“Of course.”
He smiled at her. She smiled back, but her smile was a momentary curl of her lips, completely devoid of anything resembling warmth.
Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it. Screw you.
Olivia sat down.
“What we’re going to do this morning is take statements from Colonel Richards and Mr. Galloway,” Matt said, and then, without waiting for a reply, devoted his entire attention to the breakfast menu.
[THREE]
Detective Payne had just about finished his Belgian waffles with strawberries and cream, which he had ordered to accompany his chipped beef over toast with poached eggs, and glanced to see if Detective Lassiter was finished with her whole-wheat toast, when he thought he heard his name being spoken.
He looked toward the headwaiter’s table in time to see the woman behind it nod in his direction, the nod guiding a young man in a business suit toward him.
“Sergeant Payne?” the young man asked.
Matt nodded.
“My name is Roswell Bernhardt, Sergeant. I’m an attorney. Specifically, I’m Mr. Homer C. Daniels’s attorney.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, counselor, but I don’t think I should be talking to you,” Matt said.
“I understand,” Bernhardt said. “Certainly. But what I was hoping you could do is give me the name of someone in your district attorney’s office with whom I could speak.”
“I wouldn’t know what name to give you, Counselor, in the D.A.’s office. Except for that of the D.A. herself. That’s Mrs. Eileen McNamara Solomon.”
“I understood someone’s on the way here,” Bernhardt said, then added. “Sergeant Kenny told me that.”
If Kenny told this guy my name and where to find me, and that somebody’s coming, he must like him. What the hell!
“I’m going to meet someone from the D.A.’s office at the airport, Mr. Bernhardt . . .”
“Someone with the authority to discuss a plea bargain?”
“. . . at half past twelve,” Matt went on. “I don’t know who, or what authority he or she might have. But if you’d like, if you give me your card, I’ll pass it on, and tell whoever it is you’d like to speak with him/her.”
Bernhardt produced a card, gave it to Matt, thanked him profusely, and left.
“I wonder what that was all about?” Olivia asked.
“I really have no idea,” Matt said. “Are you about finished with your breakfast?”
She stood up and walked away and waited by the head-waiter’s table until he had settled the bill.
“If you’ll give me the keys to the car, please, I’ll put my luggage into it,” she said.
He wordlessly handed her the keys, then went to his room, packed, and then settled the bill. He made no attempt to rush.
When he got into the Mustang, she didn’t speak.
Jesus, she’s good-looking.
Is she going to stay pissed all day?
For good?
That seems a distinct possibility.
Well, if that bitchy, irrational behavior last night was an indicator of the future, maybe that’s not such an all-around bad thing.
" ’Tis better to have loved and lost, than not to have loved at all,” as they say.
You don’t believe that for a minute, and you know it.
Just keep your mouth shut, and maybe she’ll cool off. Or warm up.
A familiar face came through the revolving doors into the persons-meeting-passengers area, but it was not that of Steven Cohen, Esq., but rather that of Michael J. O’Hara.
“Sherlock goddamn Holmes in the flesh!” Mickey greeted them. “And the beauty with the beast!”
“I won’t ask what brings you to the Redneck Riviera, Mickey,” Matt began.
“What did you say? ‘The Redneck Riviera’?”
Matt nodded. “That’s what they call it.”
“Great! I’m going to do a long piece, and that’s great color.”
“But frankly,” Matt went on, “I was expecting Steve Cohen or somebody else from the D.A.’s office.”
“They’re in the cheap seats,” Mickey said. “They’ll be off in a minute.”
He turned to Olivia.
“Stanley said to tell you he’s sorry as hell about the Ledger and that Phil Donaldson asshole, and that he’ll try to make it up.”
“Stanley?”
“Stanley Coleman, aka—”
“That’s very kind of Mr. Colt, but not necessary,” Olivia said.
“Who’s ‘they,’ Mick, as in ‘they’ll be off’?” Matt asked.
O’Hara turned and pointed.
Steven Cohen, Esq., and Lieutenant Jason Washington were about halfway down a long column of arriving economy-class passengers.
“I didn’t expect the boss,” Matt said.
“They don’t want any mistakes made with this one. For your sake, Matty, I really hope this guy is the one you’re looking for.”
“He is, Mick. I’m sure. How did you find out?”
“A little Irish bird named Denny told me.”
“Welcome to the Redneck Riviera, boss,” Matt said. “Hello, Mr. Cohen.”
“By calling me ‘Mister,’ Matt, are you implying I’m not welcome in the . . . what did you say—‘Redneck Riviera’?” Cohen replied, putting out his hand.
“I am really delighted to see you. And yeah, that’s what it’s called. They’ve got a really spectacular seashore. Ol—Detective Lassiter and I saw it when we drove over from Pensacola. ”
Cohen offered his hand to Olivia.
“Matt says he’s sure this is the doer,” Mickey said.
“I really hope so,” Cohen said.
“Well, let us go see this fellow,” Washington said. “Mick has reserved a car.”
“The chief of police will be available,” Matt said.
“Perhaps after we check into the hotel,” Washington said. “Mick’s made reservations for us at the Marriott. Is that where you are?”
“No, sir,” Matt said, looking smugly at Olivia. “We’re in the Eight Dollar Motel right in Daphne. Detective Lassiter thought the Marriott was a little too rich for us.”
“Actually, it’s the Nine Dollar Inn, Sergeant,” Detective Lassiter corrected him.
“Actually, it’s the $37.50 motel, after you pay up front and they give you the AAA discount,” Matt said. “But what the hell.”
They collected their luggage and went to the Hertz counter, where a Lincoln Town Car awaited Mr. Michael J. O’Hara.
“I think the best way to handle this, Detective,” Washington said, “would be for Sergeant Payne to drive us in Mr. O’Hara’s car. En route, he can fill us in on what we should know. In the meantime, you could go to the police station, advise them of our arrival, and tell them we are anxious to speak with the chief at his earliest convenience.”
“Yes, sir,” Detective Lassiter said.
Matt handed her the keys to the Mustang.
“Thank you,” she said with a somewhat brittle smile.
The Mustang stayed on the tail of the Lincoln all the way from the airport through Mobile, across the I-10 bridge over Mobile Bay, and into Daphne, where it turned off U.S. 98 at the Joseph Hall Criminal Justice Center.
En route, as Washington intended he should, Matt told them everything he thought they should know. He pointed out the Gambino Motor Mall, and told them he had spoken with the proprietor, and that Fats had shown him the Peterbilt truck Mr. Daniels had driven into Mobile.
“I called the chief, and he said he just got a search warrant for the truck from a judge in Mobile, but he thought he’d wait until I could go along before he had a look.”
“You didn’t enter the vehicle?” Washington asked.
“No.”
“Good,” Cohen said.
/> “He certainly had to fuel the truck somewhere,” Washington said, thoughtfully. “If he did so in Philadelphia and used a credit card, that would establish his presence there. On his way down here, as careful as we must presume he is, he probably paid cash. But he may not have had that much cash, and he may have used a card. It’s worth looking into.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
“I’ve got to have a picture of that truck,” Mickey said. “How do I find my way back here?”
“After we have accepted the chief’s kind invitation to witness his search of the vehicle, I will arrange something with Detective Lassiter to get you back here,” Washington said.
“I’d like a picture of you two searching the truck,” Mickey said.
“Sergeant Payne and I have had quite enough personal publicity lately, thank you just the same, Michael.”
“There is good publicity and bad publicity, Jason,” Mickey said, “and you two could certainly use some of the good kind.”
“If you’ll pardon me, Michael, what I am trying to do is develop a variety of good reasons that will suggest to Mr. Daniels that denial of his participation is no longer one of his options.”
“That may be easier than you think, Jason.”
“You will remember, Sergeant, to address me as ‘Lieutenant’ when we are about our official business?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, beware! Beware!” Mickey said. “What we have here is the Black Buddha in a bad mood. Cheap seats a little too small for you in the beam, were they, Lieutenant?”
Cohen laughed.
Washington ignored the remark.
“Why will I find it less difficult to reason with Mr. Daniels vis-à-vis confessing all that you—with your vast experience in these matters—think will be the case?”
“Because he sent his lawyer to see me vis-à-vis copping a plea,” Matt said.
“Try to behave, Steve. We’re in the company of the only two cops in Philadelphia who say things like ‘vis-à-vis’ in normal conversation,” O’Hara said.
“Shut up, Mick. I want to hear about this lawyer,” Cohen said. “What did you say to him, Matt?”
“I told him I would give you—whoever Mrs. Solomon sent down here—his card.”
“That’s absolutely all?”
“That’s absolutely all.”
“No suggestions, anything, that I would be interested in a plea bargain?”
“Nothing. And the only reason I said I’d pass on his card was because Sergeant Kenny told him where to find me.”
“And Sergeant Kenny is who?”
“Local cop. A good one. Been very helpful.”
“And when and where did this conversation take place?” Cohen asked.
“At breakfast.”
“If he ran Matt down at the Nine Dollar No Tell Motel,” O’Hara said, “he must be really interested in copping a plea.”
“Actually, it was in the Marriott. We stayed there last night.”
“And got out before somebody arrived from Philadelphia who would wonder what you were doing in the Grand Hotel? And might talk?”
“ ‘The Grand Hotel’?” Washington asked.
“Marriott’s Grand Hotel. One of the stars in the galaxy of Marriott Resorts. When I told Stanley I was coming down here, he said to stay there. He said it’s great.”
“I have to ask, Matthew. You haven’t behaved inappropriately with Detective Lassiter down here, have you?” Washington said.
“Two rooms. She slept in her bed, I slept in mine.”
That’s the truth. Admittedly not all of it, but the truth.
“But you do have something going with her, right?” Mickey asked.
“Go to hell, Mick.”
“Answer Mr. O’Hara’s question, please,” Washington said.
“I thought for a while there might be something, but if there was, there ain’t no more.”
“While I confess I find this discussion of Matt’s sex life absolutely enthralling,” Cohen said, “can we get back to this guy’s lawyer? You said you’ve got his card, Matt?”
Matt found it and handed it to Cohen in the backseat.
“Do Philadelphia cell phones work down here?” he asked.
“Mine does,” Matt said, and handed Cohen his cellular telephone.
[FOUR]
When Matt saw Sergeant Kenny standing beside a thirtyish man in a business suit in the tile-walled outer room of the Daphne police department, he was surprised to see how they resembled each other.
“I got to get a picture of that guy with you, Jason,” O’Hara said.
“Sergeant Payne,” Kenny said. “This gentleman would like a word with you and the other people from Philadelphia.”
The man with Kenny smiled, stuck out his hand, and marched up to Matt.
“Sergeant, I’m Special Agent Bendick of the Federal Bureau,” he said.
“Federal Bureau of what?” Matt’s mouth, on automatic, asked innocently.
“Investigation, of course. The FBI.”
“How can I help the FBI?” Matt asked.
“It’s how the FBI can help you, Sergeant,” Special Agent Bendick said. “A telephone call would have saved you a trip all the way down here. But no real harm done. We’ll handle it from here.”
“Jesus Christ!” Mickey O’Hara said. “You guys really have no shame at all, do you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, J. Edgar Junior. Anything to get the FBI favorable notice in the papers, right? You can already see the headline, right? ‘FBI Apprehends Philadelphia Murderer.’ ”
“Who are you, sir?” Special Agent Bendick asked.
"O’Hara’s my name.”
“And are you some sort of law enforcement officer?”
Mickey shook his head, “no.”
“I couldn’t get on the cops. My parents were married,” Mickey said. He took out his digital camera and aimed it at Special Agent Bendick, Sergeant Payne, and Lieutenant Washington.
“I’d rather not have my photograph taken, if you don’t mind,” Special Agent Bendick said, holding his hand out in a vain hope—Mickey nimbly dodged around it—of covering the lens so that a photograph would be impossible.
“Jesus, didn’t they tell you about the freedom of the press at the Quantico School for Boys?” Mickey asked.
“Sir,” Washington said, “if we feel that any assistance from the FBI would be useful to us in this investigation, I will seek same through the appropriate channels.”
“And you are?” Special Agent Bendick demanded.
“My name is Jason Washington. I’m a lieutenant with the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department.”
“I’m Special Agent Bendick of the Mobile office of the FBI, Lieutenant . . .”
“So you said.”
“And inasmuch as this case crosses state lines, the FBI—”
“I don’t believe this case meets the necessary criteria for the unsolicited involvement of the FBI, Mr. Bendick,” Steve Cohen said.
“And may I ask who you are?”
“My name is Steven Cohen. I’m an assistant district attorney in Philadelphia.”
“I don’t really understand your attitude,” Special Agent Bendick began.
“They’re understandably a little pissed, J. Edgar Junior, that you tried to steal their pinch for the glory of the FBI. Unfortunately, you picked the wrong guys,” Mickey said.
He quickly snapped another photograph.
“If you will excuse us, Mr. Bendick,” Washington said. “We have an appointment with the chief.”
“Right this way, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Kenny said, waving them toward one of the steel doors.
“Mr. O’Hara,” Washington said. “This is official police business, to which, unfortunately, I cannot make you privy at this time. Perhaps you’d like to stay here and continue your conversation with Mr. Bendick?”
Sergeant Kenny waited until Cohen and Matt had gone through the steel
door, then followed them through it.
Special Agent Bendick looked at the closed door, then at Mickey O’Hara, who was again raising his camera, and then, mustering what dignity he could, marched out of the building.
“I have a confession to make,” Washington said. “I was not overjoyed when Commissioner Coughlin told me Mickey was coming with us. But now?”
“He was magnificent,” Cohen said.
“What did Mickey call him, ‘J. Edgar Jr.’?” Matt asked, laughing.
“I don’t think we’ve heard the last of him,” Cohen said.
“Fuck him,” Washington said, coldly.
Matt was surprised. Washington very rarely used vulgar language.
Washington turned to Sergeant Kenny and offered his hand.
“My name is Washington, Sergeant,” he said.
“How are you?” Kenny said. “Payne said you were about as big as me.”
“And this is Mr. Cohen, an assistant district attorney.” They shook hands.
“Detective Lassiter was supposed to tell you we would be here as soon as we got ourselves settled. . . .”
“She’s in with the chief. Come on, I’ll take you in.”
“Thank you.”
“You got any kin down this way, Lieutenant?” Kenny asked.
“Not so far as I know, but a first glance at the genetic evidence does seem to make that a distinct possibility, doesn’t it?”
[FIVE]
Mr. Walter Davis, a tall, well-built, well-dressed—in a gray pin-striped, three-piece suit—man in his middle forties, who was the special agent in charge (the “SAC”) of the Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sensed his secretary’s presence at his office door and raised his eyes to her from the documents on his desk.
“Yes, Helen?” he asked, a slight tone of impatience in his voice. He had asked not to be disturbed if at all possible.
“I know, I know. But it’s Burton White, the SAC in Mobile. . . .”
“Put him through. Thank you, Helen.”
Walter Davis had known Burton White since they had been at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, and they had crossed paths often since. They had risen through the ranks together. Not quite as high together, as Philadelphia was a more important post than Mobile.
Final Justice Page 45
