Final Justice

TEN

Matt more or less obeyed the speed limits crossing New Jersey. It was a temptation not to, but he was driving the Porsche, and from painful experience he had come to believe that so far as the New Jersey State Police were concerned, ticketing a Porsche often was the high point of their tour, giving them great joy and satisfaction.

As he came out of the Lincoln Tunnel, he looked at his watch. It was half past two, which explained why his stomach was telling him he was hungry. He turned uptown, and ten minutes later turned onto West Forty-second Street toward Times Square. Just before he got there, he saw Times Square Photo.

Now the question was finding someplace to park, someplace where the parking attendants might not find great joy and satisfaction in seeing how deeply they could scratch the glistening silver paint of a Porsche.

He moved through the crowded streets, and a few minutes later found himself entering Times Square again from the north. The only parking places he had found had SORRY, FULL signs in front of them.

He noticed, at first idly and then with great interest, an automobile-a somewhat battered black Ford Crown Victoria-parked on the right curb between Forty-third and Forty-fourth Streets, right beside a sign reading NO PARKING NO STOPPING AT ANY TIME. There were several antennae mounted on it, and it rode on black heavy-duty tires. The fenders were battered, and there were no wheel covers.

If that’s not an unmarked car, my name is not Sherlock Holmes.

Matt pulled the Porsche to the curb in front of the Ford, then backed up until their bumpers almost touched.

The Ford’s horn blew imperiously, and the driver put his arm out the window and gestured for him to move on.

Matt instead got out of the car.

Now he could see the driver and the man sitting beside him. The driver was heavyset and looked to be in his forties. His ample abdomen held his tweed sports coat apart and strained the buttons of his shirt. The man beside him was younger. He was wearing a leather jacket and a black turtle-neck sweater. Matt thought he was in his mid-twenties.

Matt found his leather wallet with the badge and photo ID and took it out. He decided that standing on the sidewalk and speaking to the young man in the passenger seat would be safer than speaking to the driver, and went to that side of the car. The other choice would most likely have seen him rolled through Times Square under the wheels of a bus.

The young man rolled the window down.

“I’m Sergeant Payne, and-”

“Get in,” the older man said, pointing to the rear seat.

Matt got in.

“Let me see that,” the older man said, and Matt handed him his badge and photo ID.

“What can we do for you, Sergeant Payne?” the older man said, and then passed the ID to the younger one.

“I’m on the job, working a homicide,” Matt said.

“You’re not trying to tell me they kill people in the City of Brotherly Love?” the younger one said.

The older one chuckled.

“The doer left his camera at the scene,” Matt said. “Kodak tells me they shipped it to Times Square Photo.”

“Take the next right. It’s right around the corner,” the older one said.

“I called them before I came here,” Matt said. “They spoke just enough English to make it clear they are not very cooperative. ”

“Welcome to New York,” the younger one said. “Only a few of us speak English, and even fewer are cooperative.”

The older one chuckled.

“The doer-”

“By ‘doer,’ you mean ‘the suspected perpetrator’?” the younger one interrupted.

“Right. He’s a real sicko-”

“By which you mean he’s ‘psychiatrically challenged,’ right?” the younger one asked. “Has difficulty accepting the common concept of right and wrong as the modus operandi for his life?”

“Yeah, you could put it that way,” Matt said. “I want to get this guy before he does it to another young woman.”

“A noble thought,” the young one said. “How could we be of assistance?”

“It would help me a hell of a lot if one of you would go into the store with me. I really need to have a look at their sales records.”

“Presumably, Sergeant,” the young one said, “this fishing expedition of yours has been cleared by the New York police department’s Office of Inter-Agency Cooperation?”

Oh, shit!

“No. I haven’t cleared anything with anybody. I just got in my car and drove here. This happened early today, and right now this is our best lead. I just acted on my urge.”

The young man considered this a moment.

“Charley, take us out of service for ten minutes. I’m going to take a little walk with Sergeant Payne.”

“Right, Lieutenant,” the older one said, reaching for an under-the-dash microphone.

Lieutenant?

The young one got out of the passenger seat, then opened the rear door and motioned Matt out. Then he walked to the Porsche and got in.

Matt carefully watched the traffic and then quickly got behind the wheel.

“Do all the sergeants in Philadelphia get wheels like this?” the young man asked. Before Matt could reply, he ordered, “Two blocks down and make a right.”

Matt got into the flow of traffic.

“I usually say it’s something we took away from the drug industry,” Matt said. “But the truth is, it’s mine.”

“They must pay better, one way or another, in Philadelphia, ” the young man said.

“My lieutenant borrowed my brand-new unmarked car,” Matt said. “So I drove this, instead of taking the train.”

“If one of my sergeants had a brand-new unmarked, I’d do the same,” the young man said. “There’s a parking garage on the left.”

Okay, that makes you a lieutenant. What’s a lieutenant doing sitting in an unmarked in the middle of Times Square?

“It says full.”

“Some of us can read,” the young man said. “Although I will admit we do have a number of people on the job who are literacy-challenged.”

Matt pulled into the parking lot, nose to nose with a Mercedes. There was no room. He was blocking half the sidewalk.

The attendant came out, waving his hands, “no.” He was wearing a beard and a turban.

“I think sign language is going to be necessary,” the young lieutenant said, “and not because this fellow is aurally challenged.”

He got out of the Porsche, took his badge from his pocket, and held it two inches from the bearded man’s face. Then he signaled with arm gestures that the attendant was to move the Mercedes elsewhere so the Porsche could take its space.

The attendant waved his arms excitedly for a few moments, but then got into the Mercedes.

The lieutenant signaled, like a traffic officer, for Matt to back the Porsche up far enough to give the Mercedes room to pass. The Mercedes went around him, onto the street, and the lieutenant signaled for Matt to pull in.

Then he stood on the sidewalk waiting for Matt to get out of the car.

They walked back up Broadway to West Forty-second Street and into Times Square Photo.

Three people-two of them bearded and in turbans, the third a stout young woman whose flowing, ankle-length dress and gaudily painted wooden bead jewelry made Matt think of gypsies-descended, smiling broadly on them.

What they lacked in language skills they made up for with enthusiasm, offering Matt and the lieutenant cameras, tape recorders, and other items for sale, cheap.

“Get Whatshisname,” the lieutenant ordered.

The three looked at him without comprehension.

“Get Whatshisname!” the lieutenant ordered, considerably louder.

Still no comprehension showed on the faces of the trio.

The lieutenant put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

Almost immediately, another man in a neat turban and immaculately trimmed beard appeared. His suit and shirt were well-fitting, and he also wore a red vest with embroidered ducks in flight pattern.

He hurried up to them.

“Lieutenant Lacey,” he said in British-accented English, “what a pleasant surprise! How may I be of service to you or this gentleman?”

“Tell him,” Lieutenant Lacey said to Matt.

“Five months ago, you received a shipment of a dozen cameras from Kodak,” Matt began.

“We receive shipments from Kodak virtually weekly,” the man said. “They make a splendid product, and because we sell so many of them, we are in a position to offer them at the lowest possible prices. And in your case, of course, as a friend of Lieutenant Lacey, there will be a substantial additional discount. Permit me to show you-”

“I don’t want to buy a camera, I want to know who you sold it to,” Matt said, aware that Lieutenant Lacey was smiling at him.

“I will make you an offer you cannot refuse!”

“I have the serial number,” Matt said.

“I gather this is an official visit, Lieutenant Lacey?” the man asked.

Lacey nodded.

“Sergeant Payne needs to know to whom you sold a particular camera.”

“We are, of course, willing-I’ll say eager-to cooperate with the police in every way.”

“Is there a problem?” Lieutenant Lacey asked.

The man looked at Matt.

“You say the camera was shipped to us five months ago?”

Matt nodded.

“You know the model?”

Goddamn it, I don’t.

“It’s a rather expensive digital,” Matt said.

“That only narrows the field down a smidgen, I fear,” the man said.

“If I saw one, I’d know it.”

“That sort of item is updated as often as the sun rises,” the man said. “I rather doubt if it would still be in our inventory. You did say you have the serial number?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then it will be a simple matter to go through our sales records and find it. We assiduously record the serial numbers of all our better merchandise.”

“Then we have no problem here?” Lieutenant Lacey asked.

“None whatever. I am delighted to be of service. I will return momentarily.”

He headed for the back of the store.

“Good luck, Sergeant,” Lacey said.

“Thanks very much, Lieutenant,” Matt said.

“No thanks are required. I wasn’t in here with you. I never ever saw you. I would never act in a case like this without the full authority-in writing-of the New York Police Department’s Office of Inter-Agency Cooperation to do so.”

He turned and walked out the door.

The turbaned man who spoke the Queen’s English returned to where Matt stood a few minutes later, trailed by two turbaned men, each of whom held two large cardboard boxes in his arms.

He gestured rather imperiously for the men to place the boxes on a glass display case.

“The sales records are filed, Sergeant, to comply with IRS requirements, sequentially, or perhaps I should say chronologically. I have brought you the records for the last six months. If there is anything else I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Not quite an hour and a half later, Sergeant Payne found the sales slip he was looking for, near the top of the left stack of sales slips in Box Three.

The sales slips had been stored in the manner in which they had come out of the sales registry machines-that is to say, fan-folded. Each stack contained 250 sales slips. They had been placed in the storage boxes eight stacks high, six stacks to a box.

By the time Matt found what he was looking for, his feet hurt from standing, his stomach was in audible protest for being unfed, and his eyes watered.

And what he found wasn’t much.

A Kodak Digital Science DC 410, Serial Number EKK84240087, had been sold for cash three and a half months previously to Mr. H. Ford, 400 Lincoln Lane, Detroit, Michigan. Mr. Ford’s signature, at the bottom, acknowledging receipt of the camera in good working condition, was barely legible.

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.

Harris, Amal al Zaid, and Michael J. O’Hara were sitting in the rearmost banquette of the Roy Rogers restaurant at Broad 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.”

“There was only one image, Double-A Zee,” Washington explained. “But they made a number of different prints, trying to see if they could come up with something useful. You know, they blew up different parts of the picture.”

“Oh, yeah,” Amal al Zaid said.

"I tried that myself,” O’Hara said, “and got nowhere.”

“What are you looking for, Jason?” Harris asked.

“I want to see if this fellow left the scene wearing his shade,” Washington said. “Maybe Mickey’s pictures will at least show that.”

Tony Harris rummaged through the salesman’s case and came out with a manila envelope stuffed with prints. There were, in all, about twenty prints of the one digital image Mickey O’Hara had made as he walked up to the Roy Rogers restaurant. Most were eight by ten inches, and most of them concentrated on the heads and shoulders of the doers, although the process had failed to overcome the bad quality and bring out more details than in the original print.

Washington began to examine each print carefully. After looking at perhaps ten of them, he set one aside.

“You got something?” Mickey asked.

Washington didn’t reply.

After a moment, Mickey took the pictures Washington was finished with and started looking at them. As he finished the first one, he slid it across the table to Amal al Zaid, who looked at it and slid it to Harris. When Washington finished, he had set two more prints aside. He slid the rest to Mickey, then patiently waited until they were all through, before handing Mickey the three prints he had set aside.

“So far as I can determine from these,” Washington said, “neither of these gentlemen was wearing anything on his cranium as they left the scene.”

“I don’t think a jury would fall in love with these,” Mickey said. “But I do see silhouetted heads, and there ain’t nothing on either of them.”

Washington again waited until both Amal al Zaid and Tony Harris had examined all three prints.

“So what?” Amal al Zaid asked.

“This poses the question, Double-A Zee,” Washington said. “If this fellow came into the restaurant wearing a shade, where is it now?”

Harris went back into the salesman’s case.

He came out with a typewritten list.

“Here it is,” he said, “On the unclaimed property list. Number fifteen. ‘One black sun visor, make unknown, gray cotton-covered visor, plastic headband.’ They found it under the table. So far as prints are concerned… ‘One partially smudged print, possibly index finger, on rear of headband.’ ”

“That won’t be enough, will it?” O’Hara asked.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Washington said.

He took out his cellular telephone and pushed an autodial key.

“Has Captain Quaire gone for the day?” he asked, and then a moment later, “Would you switch me to him, please?”

There was a brief pause.

“Lieutenant Washington, sir,” he said, “with a request.”

There was another pause.

“On the list of unclaimed property found in the Roy Rogers, as item fifteen, there is ‘One black sun visor, make unknown, gray cotton-covered visor, plastic headband.’ We have reason to believe it was left behind by one of the doers. The lab reports one partially smudged print, possibly index finger. I would like to inspire them to greater effort. This might be possible if you took the item down there personally, sir…”

There was another brief pause.

“Thank you very much. And may I suggest that you tell them I will be in later tonight to check on their progress?” Pause. “Thanks, Henry. It’s all that we have right now.”

He pushed the End key and turned to Amal al Zaid.

“Double-A Zee, I think we’re at the point where the doer took off his shade. What happened next?”

At twenty after six, just as he turned onto I-95 South, Matt’s cellular rang.

“Payne.”

“Sergeant, this is Lassiter.”

“I have a surfeit of bad news, Detective Lassiter. With that caveat, you may proceed.”

He thought he heard her giggle, and found it charming.

“No bad news. I just left the Williamsons’…”

“And?”

“Everything’s under control. Their minister is there. I don’t think she’s going to change her mind about the uniforms being right in not taking the door. And I’m going back in the morning-she asked me to.”

“You get a gold star to take home to Mommy, Detective Lassiter,” Matt said.

“Sergeant,” she said, a tone of exasperation in her voice, “Northwest wants their car back, that’s one thing. The second thing is, Mrs. Williamson told me Cheryl used to hang out in a bar called Halligan’s Pub. I’d like a look, but thought I’d better check with you first.”

“Do they serve food in Halligan’s Pub?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so.”

Matt looked at his watch.

“I’ll meet you at Northwest in twenty-five, thirty minutes,” he said. “You can give them their car back. Where is this Halligan’s Pub?”

“In Flourtown.”

“Okay. Then we will go together to Halligan’s Pub. And after that, we’ll see. Washington called. I can pick up my car at the Roundhouse.”

“Fine,” she said. “Anything else?”

“Call Joe D’Amata and tell him we’re going to check out the saloon.”

“Right.”

A uniform sergeant put out his hand to stop the silver Porsche as it rolled into the POLICE VEHICLES ONLY parking lot at the Thirty-fifth District Building. Except for a few rooms used by the Inspector for the North Police Division, Northwest Detectives occupied most of the second floor of the building.

The driver of the Porsche rolled down the window.

“I think it’ll be all right, Officer,” he said. “I’m just here to pick up my date.”

He pointed toward Detective Olivia Lassiter, who was leaning against the wall by the entrance.

The uniform sergeant whistled shrilly, attracting Detective Lassiter’s attention.

“You know this guy, Lassiter?”

She looked, and then nodded.

“Yeah.”

She walked to the Porsche.

“Next time, find some other place to park,” the sergeant said.

“Yes, sir,” Matt said.

Olivia got in the Porsche.

Where the hell did he get this car? A Porsche on a detective’s pay?

“Have a good time, Lassiter,” the sergeant said.

Matt grinned, but didn’t say anything as he turned the Porsche around.

“What was that all about? ‘Have a good time’?” Olivia asked.

Matt shrugged.

“What did you say to him?” Olivia challenged.

“Nothing,” Matt said.

The hell you didn’t. You’re really a smart-ass. “You get a gold star for Mommy!” Jesus!

“Did you get anything from the Williamsons besides the name of this saloon?” Matt asked.

“The names of half a dozen guys Cheryl dated,” she said. “And of a couple of her girlfriends.”

“You’ll have to give them to Joe.”

“I already did.”

“Where exactly is this saloon?”

“It’s called Halligan’s Pub. At Bethlehem Pike and College Avenue in Flourtown. I’ve been there. Sort of a neighborhood bar for the young and unattached.”

“Spend a lot of time in places like that, do you?” Matt asked, innocently. “Looking for a little action?”

You sonofabitch!

She glared at him but said nothing.

If he thinks I’m looking for action, and so much as lays a hand on my hand, I’ll knock him into next week.

“Hey, I’m kidding!” Matt said.

“I haven’t been amused,” Olivia snapped.

“Look, this is my first time,” Matt said.

“First time for what? Working with a female detective, you mean?”

“Yeah. Or at least a good-looking one.”

“Can we keep this professional?”

“I worked a couple of jobs with an Intelligence detective, a female,” Matt said. “But she was old enough to be my mother. We got to be friends. So I asked her-we were having a couple of drinks-how I should behave with a younger female cop. And she said treat her like you would treat any other cop. That’s what I was doing. Making a little joke.”

Why do I believe him?

“What kind of a little joke were you making with Sergeant Pinski?”

“The uniform in the parking lot?”

“Yeah. What did you say to him?”

“I told him I was just picking up my date.”

“You thought that was funny?”

“He believed it. And my other choice was to tell him I was on the job and show him my badge. Thirty minutes later, every uniform in the Thirty-fifth, and all your pals in Northwest Detectives, would have heard about the Homicide sergeant driving a Porsche picking up Northwest’s good-looking Detective Lassiter.”

He’s right. That’s exactly what would have happened.

“Where did you get this car, anyway?”

“When I finished college. It was my graduation present.”

“It looks brand-new.”

“It’s five years old. I take pretty good care of it.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said in genuine appreciation.

That was dumb. What’s the matter with me?

“They’re nice,” Matt said. “Look, let’s spell this out. I was not making a pass at you. I will not make a pass at you. I just got promoted, and I just transferred to Homicide. The last thing I want is for somebody to say Payne walked in, hung up his hat, and started hitting on Lassiter. That’s the truth.”

“Okay. Just so we understand each other.”

“So what were you doing in Halligan’s Pub? Looking for a little action?”

“You sonofabitch!” Olivia said, but she laughed.

And they found themselves looking at each other. And both looked quickly away.

“What can I get you?” the bartender at Halligan’s Pub asked when they had taken stools at the bar.

“I don’t know about Mother, but I would like a Famous Grouse on the rocks and a menu.”

“You want to eat at the bar?” the bartender asked.

“I want to talk to you, and you’re here,” Matt said.

“And what for you, honey?” the bartender asked.

I will not ask what a famous whatever is.

“The same, please,” Olivia said.

“You’ve been in here before, right?”

“Indeed she has,” Matt said. “Mother tells me this is where the action is. Presumably there will be a shill’s fee for her?”

The bartender chuckled, then turned to make their drinks. He put them on the bar and then laid two plastic covered menus on it.

Olivia picked up her glass and sipped it.

Scotch. Probably one of those very chic, very in, single malts or whatever they call them that the in people drink.

“Hot roast beef sandwich, please,” Matt ordered after a ten-second perusal of the menu. “French fries, green beans. What about you, Mother?”

What the hell is that Mother business?

Damn it, a hot roast beef sandwich sounds good. But I’ll sound like his echo.

To hell with it.

“The same, hold the fries,” Olivia said.

“Coming right up,” the bartender said, and walked down the bar to a computer.

Matt picked up his glass and raised it to Olivia.

“Mud in your eye, Mother.”

“What’s with ‘Mother’?” Olivia asked.

“Even the Casanova of Center City does not make a pass at a mother,” Matt replied.

“Oh, Jesus!” Olivia said.

“I’m just ensuring that I will not get carried away,” Matt said.

“I won’t let that happen,” Olivia said.

“Good. I invariably falter in the face of temptation.”

“You’re out of your mind, you know that?”

“You sound just like my sister, Mother.”

She shook her head, but she smiled.

“This is nice booze,” she said. “I’m afraid to ask what it costs.”

“Fear not, Mother, that was my round. But actually it’s not very expensive. Not like twelve-year-old or single malts. I found it in Scotland. It was the bar whiskey.”

“In Scotland?”

“My father and I, and my father’s buddy and his-son-my-buddy, were shooting driven birds over there.”

What the hell does that mean?

“I don’t know what that means,” Olivia confessed.

“They raise pheasants,” Matt explained, “and charge people to shoot them. They call it a ‘drive.’ The shooters form a line, and then the beaters drive the birds-hence ‘driven birds’-toward the line of shooters. Great shooting.”

“It sounds barbaric,” Olivia said.

“You’re a vegetarian?”

“No.”

“Where do you think your roast beef came from? A steer that died of old age?”

Olivia didn’t reply.

“The pheasants are raised to be eaten, just like chickens and turkey. I suppose you could argue that wringing their necks would be kinder than shooting them, but I don’t see the difference. And three hours after they’re shot, they’re cleaned, plucked, packed in ice, and on the way to a gourmet restaurant. ”

“And you get your kicks by slaughtering the pheasants, right? You get a real kick out of killing things, right?”

“You got it, Mother,” Matt said. “Once you understand that, everything falls in place.”

She could tell by both the bitter tone of his voice and his eyes that she had really angered him.

He shook his head in disgust, turned away, and picked up his glass.

What made him so angry?

Oh, God! When Mickey O’Hara called him Wyatt Earp, he blew up. And then O’Hara told me about the bad guy Matt “put down”-by which he meant killed. I didn’t mean to suggest he liked killing people! But I guess it sounded like I did.

So what do I do now, apologize?

The waiter slid plates holding hot roast beef sandwiches across the bar to them.

“I think you probably have just saved my life,” Matt said, sniffing appreciatively and picking up a French fry. “But just to make sure, you’d better give me another of these.”

Olivia saw that he had drained his glass.

The bartender chuckled and looked at Olivia.

“Why not?” she said.

Matt looked at her in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry for what, Mother?”

“I was out of line,” she said.

Matt met her eyes. It made her uncomfortable, but she couldn’t look away.

After a long moment, he said, “I guess that makes us even.”

And then he looked away, and unwrapped his knife and fork from its napkin wrap and attacked the sandwich.

Olivia took a healthy swallow of her drink, and when the bartender delivered the second round, emptied what was left of hers into the new glass.

She was astonished at the speed with which Matt emptied his plate of the roast beef, the potatoes, and the beans. She had taken only her third bite when she saw him lay his knife and fork on the empty plate and slide it across the bar toward the bartender.

“Very nice,” Matt said.

“Glad you liked it.”

“Did you know Cheryl Williamson?” Matt asked the bartender.

“I guess you heard?” the bartender replied.

Matt nodded.

“Goddamned cops,” the bartender said. “I guess you heard what those bastards did? Or didn’t do. Pardon the French.”

“What did you say your name was?” Matt asked.

“Charley,” the bartender said.

“Mother, show Charley your badge,” Matt said.

She looked at him in surprise.

“Detective Lassiter, show Charley your badge,” Matt ordered.

Olivia pulled her oversweater far enough to one side so the bartender could see her badge, which she had pinned to the waistband of her skirt.

“Sorry, I didn’t know… ” Charley the bartender said, uncomfortably.

“No problem,” Matt said. “The reason we don’t wear uniforms is so people can’t spot us as cops right off. By the way, I’m Sergeant Payne. My friends call me ‘Matt.’ ”

He extended his hand across the bar until Charley the bartender took it.

“Tell me, Charley,” Matt said, as he slipped back onto his stool. “Have you made up your mind for all eternity, or would you be interested in the facts about what those goddamned bastard cops did or didn’t do?”

“Hey, Sergeant, I said I was sorry…”

“If we’re going to be friends, call me Matt,” Matt said. “And that wasn’t the question, Charley. Are you interested in the facts, or have you made up your mind, and don’t want the facts to get in the way?”

“Okay. Let’s have the facts,” Charley said.

“Mother, give Charley the facts,” Matt said.

“Is that your name?” Charley blurted.

“I call her that to remind myself not to make a pass at her,” Matt said.

“Really?”

“Really,” Matt said. “Tell Charley what really happened, Mother.”

“Okay. From the top… ” Olivia began.

“… so at the end, what you have are two decent young cops who feel guilty as hell for not breaking into her apartment,” Olivia finished. “Even though they did exactly what they were supposed to do.”

“Jesus,” Charley the bartender said, and turned away, to return in a moment with the bottle of Famous Grouse.

“On me,” he said, as he started pouring. “Not on the house, on me. I feel bad about what I said before.”

“That’s absolutely unnecessary and we shouldn’t,” Matt said. “But we will.”

“Are they going to catch this guy?” Charley asked.

“We’re going to get him,” Matt said. “The question is when. The sooner they get him, the sooner they’ll be able to be sure he won’t be able to do something like this to somebody else.”

“Maybe I get this from the movies,” Charley said, “but those Homicide detectives seem to know what they’re doing.”

“I know two that don’t,” Matt said. Charley looked at him in surprise. “These two,” Matt finished.

“You’re Homicide?”

Matt nodded.

“And that’s what we’re doing here. Trying to run this guy down. We understand Cheryl used to come in here.”

“Who told you that?” Charley asked.

“Her mother,” Olivia said. “And she gave me a list of people Cheryl hung out with.” She handed him the list. “Do you know any of these people?”

“Most of them,” Charley reported after a minute.

“Any of them in here right now?”

Charley looked down the bar, then looked through the doors of two adjacent rooms and came back to report that none of them were.

“Well, we’ll run them down,” Matt said.

“It would help if you could tell us anything about Cheryl,” Olivia said. “What kind of a girl was she?”

“Let me say something unpleasant,” Matt said. “It’s okay to say unkind things about the dead if the purpose is to find out who killed them.”

Charley considered that a moment.

“I take the point,” he said. “Okay, so far as I know, she was really a nice girl. If she were a bimbo, I’d say so, okay? You want my gut feeling?”

“Please,” Olivia said.

“I think she came in here hoping that Mr. Right, the guy on the white horse, you know what I mean, would walk in and make eyes at her. And I don’t think he ever did. She was good-looking. Guys hit on her. But she wasn’t looking for a one-night stand, and I never saw her leave here with a guy. Sometimes, when she was in here with her girlfriends, a couple of them would leave together with a couple of guys. Never alone. You know what I mean?”

“I get the picture,” Matt said.

Matt’s cell phone went off.

“Payne.”

“D’Amata, Matt. Where are you?”

“Halligan’s Pub.”

“Yeah. Lassiter said you’d be going there. She with you?”

“Yeah.”

“You eat yet?”

“Just finished.”

“I’m in Liberties,” D’Amata said. “I figured you might want to compare notes.”

He’s taking care of me. That’s nice.

“Okay.”

“The Black Buddha’s going to want to know what’s going on, and he’ll be finished with that artsy thing pretty soon. If you don’t want to come to Center City, I could meet you someplace. ”

“I’ll come there. I’ve got to pick up my car at the Roundhouse anyway. Thirty minutes?”

“Thirty minutes,” D’Amata said, and hung up.

Matt looked at Olivia.

“We have to meet D’Amata, Mother,” he said.

She nodded.

“Can I ask you a favor?” Matt asked the bartender.

“Name it.”

“I’m going to give you a card-a bunch of cards-with my number on it. If any of the people on the list Mother gave you come in, would you hand them one and ask them to call?”

“Sure.”

"Give one to anybody who might have an idea,” Matt said. "Okay?”

“You got it.”

Matt took a small, stuffed-to-capacity card case from his pocket.

“These are old,” Matt said. “They say Special Operations. But the number I write on them will be Homicide. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell them to ask for me or Detective Lassiter, but if neither of us is there, to talk to any Homicide detective, and leave a phone number and an address.”

“Got it.”

It took Matt and Olivia about five minutes to write her name and the Homicide number on all of the cards.

Then Matt asked for the check.

“On me,” Charley the bartender said.

“No,” Matt said, firmly, handing over his American Express card. “The one drink-between friends-we’ll take with thanks. The rest we pay for.”

Charley shrugged, but took the card.

Matt signed the receipt, looked at it, and said, “Mother, your half comes to fifteen-fifty, with tip.”

She dug in her purse and came up with a five and a ten and handed it to him.

“I owe you fifty cents.”

“I’ll remember,” he said.

He put out his hand to Charley.

“Thanks a lot,” he said. “You’ve been more helpful than I think you understand. I’ll probably come by again tomorrow, or Mother will. Okay?”

“Any time,” Charley said.

“What we’ll do, Mother, is go by the Roundhouse. I’ve got to get a property receipt for the sales slip I got in New York, and I want to pick up my car,” Matt said when they were in the Porsche. “You can take it home after we meet with Joe D’Amata.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Olivia said.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not sure I should be driving. I’m not used to three drinks of scotch in forty-five minutes, and that third drink was really a double.”

He looked at her and smiled.

“Mother, are you plastered?” he asked, amused.

“Tiddly, not plastered,” Olivia said. “And I’m not your mother.”

His eyebrows rose.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she said, and he saw that she was blushing.

“In vino veritas,” Matt said, softly.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Matt said, and moved his head the six or eight inches necessary to kiss her.

She didn’t pull away.

“I really didn’t want that to happen,” she said, softly a moment later.

“Are you sorry?”

“Just drive the goddamn car, will you, please?”

He put the Porsche in gear and started off.