Final Justice

ELEVEN

As Matt approached Liberties Bar on North Second Street, he saw Martha Washington’s Mercedes parked in front, beside Peter Wohl’s Jaguar and a half-dozen unmarked cars.

Well, so much for Joe D’Amata’s noble attempt to bring me up to speed before Washington asks what I’ve been doing on my first day as a Homicide sergeant.

He pulled the Porsche to the curb beside one of the unmarked cars, turned off the key, and turned to Olivia.

“You all right, Mother?” he asked.

“Of course I’m all right,” she snapped.

“Hey, you’re the one who admitted she was too… ‘tiddly’… to drive.”

“You’re an arrogant sonofabitch, you know that?”

He looked at her a moment.

“I owe you that one,” he said. “But that ends it. I am not going to burn for my sin through all eternity. You could have turned your head.”

“You bastard!”

“What I’m doing right now-fully aware that no good deed ever goes unpunished-is trying to be a nice guy.”

“How?” she asked, thickly sarcastic.

“You go in there and they see you’re plastered and bitchy, you’ll be back at Northwest in the morning.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

Why did I have to call him an arrogant sonofabitch? And a bastard?

Because I’m bitchy and plastered, that’s why.

Shit!

“The Mercedes belongs to Lieutenant Washington-or his wife, same thing-and the Jaguar to Inspector Wohl. There’s a new unmarked, which probably means Captain Quaire… You getting the picture?”

“Got it,” Olivia said. “Thanks.”

“Just sit there, pay attention, and speak only when spoken to, smile, and lay off the booze. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Matt got out of the car and stood impatiently, waiting for Olivia to figure out the seat belt and get out of it. He did not hold the door to the bar open for her, but once he was through it, he did hold it open long enough so that it didn’t close in her face.

Matt walked to the table holding Jason Washington, Peter Wohl, Joe D’Amata, Harry Slayberg, and-surprising him- Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Captain Francis X. Hollaran; the new unmarked car was the commissioner’s. Matt stood there, sort of waiting for permission to sit down.

Coughlin smiled at Detective Lassiter.

“Matt been keeping you busy, Detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good work with the Williamsons, Detective,” Coughlin said. “I think-between you and the story Mickey O’Hara had in the paper-that fire’s now under control.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Sit down, and help yourself,” Coughlin ordered, nodding at the bottles on the table. “You, too, Matt.”

“Could I get a Diet Coke?” Olivia called to the bartender.

“You don’t drink?” Coughlin asked, making it a statement. “Sorry.”

“Sometimes, sir, not now.”

“Joe tells me you got the sales slip for the camera in New York?” Coughlin asked Matt.

“Yes, sir. Henry Ford of Detroit, Michigan, himself bought it.”

“You might call out there and see if they have something similar. Maybe there is a Detroit connection.”

“I’ve already done that, sir,” Matt said, and added, to Washington, “I gave a Homicide sergeant there your number. I didn’t have any other direct Homicide number.”

Washington nodded.

“How did you do at Halligan’s Pub?” he asked.

“The bartender said she was looking for Mr. Right to come riding in on a white horse,” Matt replied. “That so far as he knew, she didn’t play around. We left him cards to pass out to anybody who might know anything, specifically including the names of the guys Mother got from Mrs. Williamson.”

" ’Mother’?” Coughlin asked.

“I call Detective Lassiter that to remind myself this beautiful female is Detective Lassiter, and that sergeants aren’t supposed to notice the beautiful part.”

There was laughter and chuckles.

“Good thinking, Sergeant,” Coughlin said, smiling broadly.

Goddamn him!

Does he really think I’m beautiful?

“What we’re doing now, Lassiter,” Wohl said, “is waiting for another beautiful woman-”

“You’ll notice he used the word ’beautiful,’ ” Coughlin interrupted, “which suggests that war of the sexes is in the armistice mode.”

Wohl flashed him an angry look. The others chuckled.

“-Dr. Payne,” Wohl continued, “who has graciously agreed to provide her take on the Williamson doer.”

“Where is she?” Matt said.

“Where else, Matt? At the hospital. We were on our way here when her phone buzzed.”

What’s going on here? Is Inspector Wohl in a relationship with Matt’s sister? They had a fight, and everybody knows about it? That maybe they fight all the time?

“What did Amy give you so far?” Matt asked.

“Why don’t we wait and get it from her?” Wohl said.

“In the meantime,” Washington said, “we may have, using the term ‘lead’ in the broadest possible sense, finally come up with a lead in the Roy Rogers job.”

“Jason looked under the rock under the rock again,” Coughlin said, approvingly.

“The witness neglected to tell us,” Washington went on, “that the miscreant presently known, for lack of more precise information, as ‘the fat guy’ was wearing a visor-a crownless baseball cap, so to speak-when he sat down at the booth by the kitchen door. He was not wearing it when he left the scene.”

“How do we know that?” Olivia asked.

Washington’s look showed that he did not like to be interrupted.

And Matt told me to keep my mouth shut!

“While O’Hara’s digital image does not show the faces of the malefactors, Mother, it does offer rather sharp silhouettes of their heads. No visor-the witness said he was wearing the visor to the rear, over his neck-was visible fore or aft.”

He called me “Mother.” Goddamn it, now everybody will.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you, sir,” Olivia said.

“Apology noted,” Washington went on. “We have such a visor cap among the unclaimed items at the crime scene. On it the lab, on its first look, found a rather poor print of what may be an index finger. Detective Harris has gone to the lab asking them to exert greater effort. I have visited the lab myself with the same purpose. I am going to drop by again on my way home tonight.”

“Would I do any good, do you think, Jason?” Coughlin asked.

“With all due respect, Commissioner, I think that would be counterproductive.”

“Is that so?” Coughlin challenged.

“On the other hand, if Captain Hollaran could find a moment in his busy schedule to drop by the lab,” Washington replied, “that would suggest great interest in their activities by someone in a high position without invoking the terror a visit by you personally would generate.”

“Terror?” Coughlin chuckled. “Your call, Jason.”

“When, Jason?” Hollaran asked.

“To preserve what little is left of my once-happy marriage, I am going home-via the lab-just as soon as we hear from Doctor Payne,” Washington said. “How about immediately after you see the commissioner home?”

“Done,” Hollaran said.

“Our finding a useful print is what the wagering fraternity would term a long shot,” Washington went on. “But at the moment, it’s all we have.”

“Just before I came here, Matt,” D’Amata said, “I checked the results of the door-to-door interviews. Zero. Nobody saw or heard a thing. So Harry and I are going to try that again in the morning.”

There was the sound of tortured metal, as if a bumper had scraped the curbstone.

Wohl looked at Matt. They smiled.

“She must have missed the fire hydrant,” Matt said.

“One of her good days,” Wohl said.

Amy came through the door a moment later, holding a lined pad. A stethoscope stuck out of the side pocket of her suit jacket.

“Everybody’s here,” she said.

She bent over Coughlin to kiss his cheek, slid into a chair beside Wohl, and smiled at the people around the table.

“What did you just hit?” Wohl asked.

She looked at him in genuine surprise.

“Nothing,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

They’re all smiling. She really must be a lousy driver, Olivia thought.

And she really doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor.

And she doesn’t look at all like Matt.

“I appreciate your help, sweetheart,” Coughlin said. “It’s important to us.”

“Sweetheart”? What’s that all about?

“What have you got for us, honey?” Wohl asked.

“I’m not your honey, Peter,” she said. “I’m doing this as a concerned citizen.”

Good for you!

“Okay, Concerned Citizen,” Wohl replied, smiling, “what have you got for us?”

“Can we get you a drink, sweetheart?” Coughlin asked.

“God knows I earned one,” she said. “Yes, thank you, Uncle Denny.”

“Uncle Denny”? What’s that all about? Are they related?

“What?” Coughlin asked.

Amy looked at Olivia.

“What are you having?”

“Diet Coke.”

“That’s not going to do it,” Amy said. “I’ll have a Bushmills martini.”

What the hell is a Bushmills martini?

“Jerry,” Coughlin called to the bartender. “One of the Doctor’s Irish Specials, please.”

“Coming right up.”

He knows what she means. Which means she comes in here often.

As Wohl’s… what? Girlfriend? More than that?… But with him. Not alone. Not like that poor Williamson girl, who went to Halligan’s Pub alone looking for Mr. Right to ride in on a white horse and make eyes at her.

Poor Williamson girl? Who am I kidding?

When Charley the bartender told us that Cheryl wasn’t looking for a one-night stand, that he never saw her leave the place with any of the guys who hit on her, I thought, I understand. That description fits me.

That’s how I spend my spare evenings, going to Manny’s, where I don’t think they know I’m a cop, which is important because if Mr. Right ever rides into Manny’s on his white horse and makes eyes at me, I know he will gallop right out again the moment he hears the whispered words “she’s a cop” from the bartender.

But what if Mr. Right has just ridden into my life in a silver Porsche? At least…

“You take Irish whiskey…” Commissioner Coughlin said.

He’s talking to me!

“… and you put it in a cocktail shaker with ice, and shake it well, and then you pour it into a martini glass. That way, you don’t dilute the whiskey as the ice melts.”

“Very interesting,” Olivia said. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“They’re really pretty good,” Amy Payne said.

“You want to try one?” Coughlin asked. “You really earned a drink today with the Williamsons.”

“Why not?” Olivia said.

“Jerry!” Coughlin called. “Two Doctor’s Irish Specials.”

“Two Doctor’s Specials coming up,” Jerry called back.

Olivia looked at Matt.

He was rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

Yeah, I know. “Lay off the booze.”

Fuck you!

You’re not my father. You don’t tell me when not to drink.

How dare you be exasperated, disgusted, whatever with me?

“Did you get a chance to talk to Dr. Mitchell, Amy?” Washington asked.

“Cause of death was a broken neck,” Amy said, matter-of-factly. “There are contusions on the right side of the face, suggesting that she was thrown, or forced, against the bedside table with such force as to break the neck.”

She jerked her head violently to one side in demonstration. “Big guy, huh, Doc?” Slayberg asked.

Amy nodded.

“We’re sure it’s a male?” Olivia asked.

Detective Lassiter saw that Sergeant Payne was rolling his eyes again.

Why now? Why was that a stupid question?

Oh, God, the sperm on her breast!

That was a stupid question.

Keep your mouth shut!

“There was sperm on the body,” Amy said.

Sergeant Payne was now shaking his head.

“On the body,” Amy went on. “On her breast and face. None in the vagina, anus, or mouth…”

The bartender set a martini glass before each of the women. Amy took a sip.

Olivia reached for the glass and picked it up.

She glanced at Sergeant Payne. He was holding both his hands palms outward. The gesture was clear: I wash my hands of you.

Fuck you again.

I will drink this drink and I will keep my mouth shut.

The drink had a strange, heavy, but not unpleasant taste. Something like a martini.

“What do you think, Lassiter?” Coughlin asked.

“Interesting,” Olivia said.

“Don’t take more than two at one sitting,” Wohl said.

“I won’t.”

“I presume there were sufficient quantities of that bodily fluid for DNA?” Washington said.

“Plenty,” Sergeant Payne and Detective D’Amata said at the same time.

“I asked Dr. Mitchell to see if there was any saliva,” Amy said.

“You think he licked her, Doc?” Slayberg asked.

Was that a bona fide question, or homicide humor?

“I think he may have spat on her,” Amy said. “If so, that would confirm my first guess about this man.”

“Which is?” Washington asked, softly.

“That he gets his satisfaction from the humiliation of his victims.”

“Victims, plural?” Wohl asked. “You think he’s done this before?”

“I think he has. For one thing, with the exception of killing the victim, which may have been-probably was-accidental, I think things went as he wanted them to go, as he planned them to go.”

“Why do you say that?” Wohl asked.

“Those plastic things he used to tie her to the bed. That and the knife. People don’t usually carry things like that around. He brought them to the apartment, intending to use them.”

Wohl grunted agreement.

“Let me put it this way,” Amy said. “Psychologically, this guy is the opposite of Isaac ‘Fort’ Festung.”

Who the hell is that?

“Fort Festung?” Coughlin asked, visibly surprised. “What’s his connection with this?”

“Bear with me, Uncle Denny,” Amy said.

“Your show, sweetheart,” Coughlin said. “Handle it any way you want.”

“When I was at Martha Pekach’s party, she told me that David was upset because he’d gotten another postcard from Festung. I guess he’s been in my mind since then. He’s another interesting character, psychologically speaking.”

“Harry,” D’Amata said, chuckling, “ ‘interesting character, psychologically speaking’ is doctor talk for miserable slimeball. ”

Wohl chuckled. Amy smiled at D’Amata.

Why do I know that if Inspector Wohl had said that, Amy would have snapped his head off?

“How, Joe, and why did Festung kill that girl?” Amy asked.

“Mary Elizabeth Shattack,” Coughlin furnished.

“He beat her to death,” D’Amata said. “With his fists.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t like her?” Wohl asked, mock serious.

“Screw you, Peter,” Amy said.

“She left him,” D’Amata said. “He couldn’t take that.”

“She was his possession,” Amy said. “And when she misbehaved-announcing she had found someone else-that was unacceptable behavior, and he punished her. Like you whack a dog with a newspaper when he poops on the carpet.”

“Sweetheart,” Coughlin said, “you’re losing me.”

“And then he stuffed her body in a trunk and just left it there,” Wohl said. “Where are you going with this, Amy?”

“I believe the phrase you policemen use is modus operandi,” Amy said. “They’re different here.”

“Explain that to me. I’m a little dense this time of night,” Wohl said.

“Let me have a shot, if I may, Amy,” Washington said. “You are saying that Festung regarded Miss Shattack as something worthless that he could deal with-in this case, discard-in any way that pleased him at the moment. An empty cigarette package, so to speak.”

“Right,” Amy said.

“And the Williamson girl?” Matt asked.

Amy ignored him.

“Which suggests to me that Festung has an enormous ego,” she said.

“Which would also explain the postcards,” Wohl said. “Festung is making the point with his postcards that he can do whatever he wants to do, and there’s nothing we can do about it. ‘We’ being the police, representing society.”

She ignored him too.

“Are you suggesting, Amy,” Washington asked, “that the Williamson girl was in some way important to her killer?”

“I think that as Festung had this pathologically enormous ego, the man who killed the Williamson girl has a pathologically inadequate ego, which he has to buttress. I don’t think he intended to kill her or, possibly, even rape her. What he wanted, what he was driven to do, was humiliate her. He had to prove to himself that she was in his power.”

No one responded.

“Rape, generally speaking,” Amy went on, “is rarely to attain sexual gratification. The satisfaction comes from having the victim in your power, terrifying them, forcing them to do something they really don’t want to do, something that will humiliate them.”

“The sperm on the victim’s face and breasts… ” Wohl said.

“Precisely, Peter,” Amy said. “Breasts he exposed by cutting away her clothing with that enormous knife…”

“… suggesting he masturbated, ejaculating on her face…”

"… for the purpose of humiliation,” Amy finished for him. “I can think of nothing more humiliating for a young woman…”

“Who was not a bimbo,” Olivia said.

“… he believed to be a, quote, nice girl, unquote,” Amy said.

Olivia had a quick mental image of herself tied naked to a bed while some sicko… did that… in her face. She felt a chill.

She picked up her Doctor’s Irish Special and took a deep swallow without knowing she had done so until the whiskey began to warm her body.

She sensed Matt’s eyes on her and glanced at him. This time she thought she saw understanding-maybe even a little sympathy-in his eyes.

“You’re saying this guy is a real sicko,” D’Amata said. “I mean, we know he’s sick to start with, but…”

“This man is driven, Joe,” Amy said. “And from the- what do I say? — practiced manner in which he did this-the plastic ties, the knife, the camera to capture the victim in her humiliation-I would be very surprised if this was his first victim.”

“And you feel certain there will be others?” Washington asked.

“That opens another unpleasant avenue of thought,” Amy said. “His reaction to her death. I don’t think he intended to kill her. But he did. The question then becomes whether the knowledge that he has taken a life is going to frighten him, possibly to the point where he will at least try not to let something like that happen again, or whether killing the Williamson girl gave him greater satisfaction than the previous incidents of humiliation ever gave him. And thus make him want to do it again?”

“Jesus Christ!” Slayberg said.

“So who do we look for, Concerned Citizen?” Wohl asked. “How do we find this guy?”

“I don’t think he knew her,” Amy said. “I mean, I don’t think you’re going to find him by finding a rejected suitor. He may have known about her… as Detective Lassiter said…” She paused and looked and smiled at Olivia. “Sorry, I’ve forgotten your first name.”

“Olivia.”

“As Olivia said, the Williamson girl was not a ‘bimbo.’ Maybe that’s why this man selected her as his next victim. He may be a customer at some bar she went to…”

“Halligan’s Pub,” Matt furnished.

“… or someone at work, at church. I was about to say car wash, grocery store, but I don’t think so. I think this man is intelligent, which would tend to eliminate minimum-wage people. For that matter, he may be from Podunk, South Dakota, just passing through… So, I have no idea where to look for him.”

“Has anyone thought to ask Special Victims if they have jobs like this?” Coughlin asked.

“I did,” Olivia said. “When Sergeant Payne and I were there printing the photographs. No, sir. They have had nothing like this.”

“Accepting for the moment,” Washington said, “the doctor’s premise that this is not the first time this fellow has done something like this, and I think she’s right, and Sex Crimes-”

“Special Victims, Jason,” Wohl interrupted.

“To be sure. Special Victims,” Washington said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you, Inspector, for the correction. The proper terminology is now burned indelibly in my memory. May I proceed?”

“As long as you get the terminology right,” Wohl said, smiling, unabashed. “Correct terminology, as you have so often pointed out to me in the past, is very nearly as important as turning over the stone under the stone.”

Coughlin chuckled. Hollaran, D’Amata, Slayberg, and Matt smiled.

“A serpent’s tooth causes no greater pain than an ungrateful child,” Washington said, solemnly. “Or a once barely adequate Homicide detective who, realizing his inadequacies, left Homicide for the far less challenging arena of supervision, and then mocks his mentor.”

“Commissioner,” Wohl said. “I think he’s talking about you.”

“I thought he was talking about Frank,” Coughlin said.

Now the suppressed laughter could not be contained.

“Is there no one at this table except for Olivia and myself over the mental age of fourteen?” Amy demanded angrily.

“Probably not, Doctor,” Washington said. “But I will nevertheless continue.”

He waited until everyone was looking at him.

“Despite serious doubts that any or all of you has the mental capacity to follow this reasoning, I submit the following possible scenario: In the presumption that this fellow (a) is everything Dr. Payne believes him to be and (b) has done something like this-possibly, probably, without fatal results-several times before, and inasmuch as we have no record of a similar modus operandi here… Were they positive about having nothing similar at Special Victims, Olivia?”

“Yes, sir.”

He called me by my first name.

“The reasonable inference may be drawn that the previous incidents were in another large city.”

“Why large city, Jason?” Coughlin asked.

“I have added to Amy’s hypothesis (a) he is intelligent and (b) he was probably not known to the victim; that he stalked, so to speak, Miss Williamson because she represented the type of nice young female he wished to humiliate. His pool of potential victims would obviously be in proportion to the population of a city-”

“And he would not be known in-could hide easier in-a large city not his hometown,” Wohl interjected.

“Perhaps you did learn something from your mentor after all, Peter,” Washington said. “Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. “Yes, I’d love another.”

He signaled to the bartender for another round of drinks.

“I will not rise to that,” Washington said. “You are not very bright, but you knew precisely what I meant.”

“I want somebody here to be sober enough,” Coughlin said, “to check the NCIC database tonight, and maybe to send wires to every large-”

“I’ve already checked with the FBI, Denny,” Washington said. “They have nothing. And I have very little faith in the efficacy of a teletype message to other police departments. They probably pay as little attention to them as we pay to theirs.”

He met Coughlin’s eyes for a moment and then, when Coughlin said nothing, turned to Matt.

“Sergeant Payne, I suggest that starting first thing in the morning, whenever she is not occupied with the Williamson family, you have Detective Lassiter make two telephone calls to every major city police department in the country. One to their Homicide bureau and the second to whatever they have elected to dub their sex crimes unit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“While you’re at it, Olivia,” Amy said, “get their fax numbers, and tell them you’re going to fax them the DNA makeup of this guy. If they have any unidentified rapists where the only positive identification factor is the DNA, they can run theirs against ours to see if there is a match.”

“I didn’t know that really worked,” Olivia said. “We can really do that?”

“Sure,” Amy said. “DNA markers are a series of unique, really unique, identifiers, according to scientific standards used around the world. No two are alike; they’re much more difficult-almost impossible-to challenge in court.”

“And as my contribution to the general fund of knowledge,” Washington said, “let me add that two months ago, in federal court right here in Philadelphia, a defense lawyer successfully challenged the scientific validity of fingerprints-the admission thereof as evidence-arguing that the standards for fingerprint identification vary from state to state, and even other countries. I’m really glad Amy brought that up.”

“Good thinking, honey,” Coughlin said.

“That’s my big sister,” Matt said with mock pride.

“And as for you, Sergeant Payne,” Washington said quickly, to keep Amy from replying to the sarcasm, “whenever you can tear yourself from the supervision of the other detectives working this investigation, it would be useful for you to lend Detective Lassiter a hand in that endeavor. Perhaps fortune will smile on us.”

“Yes, sir.”

What he’s saying, Matt decided, is that the two people least likely to make any other substantial contribution to this investigation, Mother and me, will spend all day tomorrow-or for however long it takes-with a telephone stuck in our ears.

Well, what the hell, sergeant or not, I am the rookie in Homicide, and that’s what rookies do, whatever jobs will release someone who knows what he’s doing to do it.

Olivia thought: Well, however politely put, that was a kick in the teeth, wasn’t it, Sergeant Hotshot? You and the temporary employee from Northwest get to work the telephones, while the real detectives do their thing.

And you really deserved a kick in the teeth to bring you down to size, so why do I feel sorry for you?

The bartender began distributing drinks, starting with Doctor’s Specials for Dr. Payne and Detective Lassiter. She was surprised that the first martini glass was empty. She looked at the fresh one.

I don’t need that. I don’t want that. I’m going to make a fool of myself.

“How are you going to get home, Olivia?” Amy asked.

“I’m riding with Matt… Sergeant Payne.”

Like just now.

“Are you all right to drive, Matt?” Amy asked.

“Hey, fight with Peter all you want, but lay off me.”

“I was thinking of Olivia,” Amy replied, “and what makes you think I’m fighting with Peter?”

“Your claws are showing.”

Washington stood up, holding his glass.

“I am leaving before these adorable, loving siblings enter the violent stage,” he said. “But not before I take aboard sufficient liquid courage to face the unsheathed claws I fear I will myself find at home.”

He took a healthy swallow of his drink.

“You will drop by the lab, Frank?”

“Just as soon as I drop the boss off,” Hollaran said.

“I was going to say Frank could take Lassiter home,” Coughlin said, “but his going by the lab is important.” He looked at Matt. “You drive very carefully, Matt. I don’t want to hear on Phil’s Philly that you ran into a school bus.”

“I’m all right, Uncle Denny,” Matt said.

“Okay, Frank,” Coughlin said. “Let’s call it a night.”

He stood up, finished his drink, and walked to the door. Hollaran followed him. Washington finished his drink and followed them.

“What Slayberg and I are going to do tomorrow, Matt,” D’Amata said, “is run down the known acquaintances and ring some doorbells. If anything turns up, we’ll let you know.”

“Fine,” Matt said.

That was really nice of him, Olivia thought. He picked up on Matt getting kicked in the teeth and was trying to make him feel better.

D’Amata and Slayberg left.

“You want to go, Mother?” Matt asked.

She stood up, picked up her glass, met his eyes, and drained it.

He shook his head in resignation and gestured toward the door.

“You were lucky in there, Mother,” Matt said when they were in the Porsche.

“I’m not your Mother, goddamn it!”

“You were lucky, Mother,” Matt went on, “that your mouth didn’t run away with you any more than it did. Nobody likes a drunken woman. Last warning.”

“Fuck you!”

“With the additional warning to never say that to me again, the conversation is closed, Detective Lassiter,” Matt said. “Now, where do you live?”

“Take me to City Hall. I’ll take a taxi.”

“Commissioner Coughlin ordered me to take you home. Answer the question, Detective Lassiter.”

“The 100 Block of Orchard Lane,” she said, icily, after a moment. “It’s east of the North Philadelphia Airport. Take I-95, and get-”

“I know where the North Philadelphia airport is.”

Matt put the Porsche in gear and backed away from the curb.

“Take the next left, onto Knight’s Road,” Olivia said, as they were headed down Woodhaven Road.

It was the first thing either of them had said since leaving Liberties.

Matt wordlessly made the turn.

Two minutes later, Olivia said, pointing across the median, "Orchard’s over there. You can make a U-turn at the stoplight. ”

Matt saw that the stoplight at the intersection of Knight’s Road and Red Lion Road was green and that a Dodge Caravan, headed his way on the other side of the median, was the only traffic. It had just passed the stoplight.

He touched the brake, flicked the turn signal lever, downshifted, and prepared to make the U-turn at the intersection, after the Caravan.

A Pontiac Grand Am came out of nowhere down Red Lion, ran the red light, flashed past the nose of the Porsche, and then slammed into the side of the Dodge Caravan.

Slammed hard into it. There was the sound of tearing metal as the Dodge was knocked, mostly sideward, across the street, coming to rest at an angle against the curb.

“That sonofabitch ran the light!” Matt said.

He braked sharply, stopped, turned on his flashers, and opened his door.

“Call Radio,” he ordered, handing his cellular to Olivia.

The driver’s door of the Grand Am opened and the driver got out. He was a young, tall, white male.

“You stupid sonofabitch!” Matt muttered.

“This is Detective Lassiter, badge 582. We are at Red Lion and Knights Road. We have a vehicular accident, auto-auto. Possible injuries, start in Fire Rescue, and a sector car.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Olivia added, “No. We are not involved.”

Thank God! Matt thought. Neither one of us could pass a Breathalyzer test right now.

The young, tall, white male looked first at the Caravan and then at the Porsche stopped on Knight’s Road with its warning flashers blinking. Then he sort of shrugged and took off at a lope down Orchard Lane.

“Check on the people in the van,” Matt ordered, and jumped out of the Porsche and ran after the young, tall, white male.

Now it’s leaving the scene of an accident, you dumb sonofabitch!

And that Grand Am is probably stolen.

“Stop!” he shouted. “I am a police officer.”

The young, tall, white male kept running. Matt saw him turn off the street into a driveway.

When Matt reached the lawn of the next house, he cut across it diagonally and at a full run encountered with his foot a wire supporting an ornamental tree on the lawn.

He flew through the air and landed flat on the concrete driveway. He felt his face scrape against the concrete, and a stinging in both hands where they had struck the concrete.

He shook his head and got to his knees.

The young, tall, white male was running around the side of a garage.

Matt ran after him.

When he turned the corner of the garage, he saw the young, tall, white male about to top a five-foot hurricane fence.

“Stop, police officer!” Matt shouted.

The young, tall, white male looked right at him and then dropped to the ground on the far side of the fence.

“I’m going to get you, you sonofabitch!” Matt shouted, and ran toward the fence.

It was his intention to leap the fence gracefully by vaulting over it with the use of his left hand on the parallel pipe at the top of the fence.

Two problems arose. First, the parallel pipe at the top of the fence was perhaps an inch below the top of the fence itself. Second, the uppermost joints of the twisted wire of the fence were above it. One of them penetrated the heel of Matt’s hand, which he had planned to use for leverage.

This caused (a) Matt’s passage over the fence to be considerably less graceful than he intended; (b) a puncture wound in the heel of Matt’s hand; and (c) Matt’s trousers to be torn from just below the knee almost to the cuff as they became ensnared in the twisted wire at the top of the fence.

“Sonofabitch!” Matt cried, and got to his feet.

He saw that he was between two lines of hurricane fence running behind the houses. The young, tall, white male was running between them. Matt ran after him.

At the end of the parallel lines of hurricane fence there were a dozen garbage cans. The young, tall, white male leapt nimbly over the first two cans, but then his foot slipped between two of them and he sprawled onto the ground amid toppled garbage cans.

Matt, breathing heavily, shoved the garbage cans to one side, then fell to his knees beside the young, tall, white male and pulled his arm behind his back. Then he put his knee on the small of the young, tall, white male’s back.

He tried to catch his breath. He became aware that blood was dripping from his chin onto the white sweatshirt of the young, tall, white male.

He heard the wail of a siren, and then the wail of a second siren.

Matt felt the small of his own back for his handcuffs.

I left the fucking things in the goddamn car!

“You gonna let me up now?” the young, tall, white male asked.

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

The sound of one of the sirens died, and then the other. After what seemed like two and a half years, Matt saw the beam of a sweeping flashlight.

“Over here!” he tried to shout, which told him he had not fully recovered his breath.

The flashlight beam came closer.

“My God, what happened to you?” Detective Lassiter asked.

“You got cuffs?”

Detective Lassiter sort of squatted on the ground, put her small flashlight in her mouth, opened her purse, and took from it a set of handcuffs.

She moved to place the handcuffs on the wrist Matt was holding. The young, tall, white male, realizing what was happening, resisted. Before he was adequately restrained again, Detective Lassiter’s flashlight had been knocked from her mouth and had fallen to the ground, in such a position that it shone directly on the junction of her legs, which, covered with pale blue panties, was now, due to the displacement of her skirt, fully exposed.

He heard the sound of a third siren dying.

“Thanks,” Sergeant Payne said.

“Happy to be of help,” Detective Lassiter said.

“Put your foot on his neck,” Sergeant Payne ordered.

Detective Lassiter complied, and Sergeant Payne got to his feet.

“You’re bleeding,” Detective Lassiter said.

“My, aren’t we observant?” Matt said, and took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his face.

Matt started to pull the young, tall, white man to his feet.

“Keeping in mind that there is nothing I would rather do right now than rub your face in the garbage, get up and behave,” Matt said.

"Not quite ‘make my day,’ ” Olivia said, “But not bad, Sergeant.”

I’ll be a sonofabitch, she’s laughing at me!

Another flashlight beam appeared, and a moment later, another. One was held by a uniform, the other by a Highway Patrol sergeant. The latter flickered across Matt’s face.

“Payne! What the hell happened to you?”

“What the hell does it look like?” Matt snapped. He pointed to the uniform. “Put this gentleman in a car,” he ordered. “He has not been Mirandized.”

“What did he do?” the Highway sergeant said as he stepped closer to Matt as if he thought he was going to need some help.

Then, when his back was to the uniform and he could not be seen, he put something into Matt’s hand.

Matt saw what it was. Three round pellets of a very strong brand of English mints.

“Chew those slowly and try not to breathe on anybody. I already gave some to your friend.”

“Thanks,” Matt said. “I owe you.”

“So what did this critter do?”

“For openers, first running a red light and then leaving the scene of an accident,” Matt said. “Give me thirty seconds and I can think of a lot more. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Grand Am is hot.”

“You sure you’re all right? You look like hell,” the Highway sergeant said.

There were four city vehicles on Knight’s Road: a Highway car, a patrol car, a sergeant’s car from the Eighth District, and a Fire Department Fire Rescue vehicle.

Two paramedics were loading the passengers of the Caravan into the Fire Rescue truck.

“I think the little boy’s got a broken arm,” the Eighth District sergeant said. “You’re Detective Lassiter?”

“She’s Lassiter. My name is Payne.”

“You’re on the job?”

No, you stupid fuck, I’m a concerned citizen who gets his rocks off chasing tall, young, white males through people’s backyards.

“Sergeant, Homicide,” Matt said.

“You want to go in with them? Or in your own car?”

“Go where?”

“You look pretty beat up, Sergeant,” the Eighth District sergeant said. “You better have a doctor look at your face.”

“I’m all right,” Matt said. “I scraped it, that’s all.”

“No, you’re not,” Detective Lassiter said. “Let the medics look at it.”

It was the paramedic’s professional judgment that while he had really done a job on his cheek, there wasn’t much that could be done for it except clean it up and get some antiseptic on it.

“I live right around the corner,” Detective Lassiter said. “And I’ve got alcohol and hydrogen peroxide.”

“That’ll do it,” the paramedic said.

Matt met Olivia’s eyes for a long moment.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“Can we find out if the Grand Am is hot?” Matt asked.

“He’s running it now,” the Eighth District sergeant said, nodding toward a uniform in a patrol car.

Less than a minute later, the uniform got out of the car and announced that the Grand Am had been reported stolen.

“Can you take him and hold him on that?” Matt asked. “I’ll come by later and do the paper.”

The District sergeant shook his head, “no.”

“You know better than that, Sergeant. You’re the arresting officer and you need to make the statement to the detective at Northeast.”

The Highway sergeant stepped between them. “I’ll get all of Sergeant Payne’s necessary information and make sure the detective has it, Sergeant. Besides, we helped him to make the pinch back there, and I want to make sure Highway gets in on the paperwork. You know how it is.”

The Eighth District sergeant looked at him for a moment, then walked away.

The Highway sergeant turned to Matt.

“Let me have your badge and payroll numbers. And I better have hers, too. Tell me what happened and how you hurt yourself so the Northeast Detective can document it if you need to go out IOD, ^2 and make sure you touch base with the assigned detective so you agree with the statement before he puts it on the ’49.”

“Thanks a lot,” Matt said. “I owe you two now.”

“You better let me drive,” Olivia said.

“Why?”

“It looks like you scratched your hand, too. You’ll get blood all over your pretty leather gear shifter.”

He walked around the rear and got in the passenger seat of the Porsche.

Detective Lassiter opened the door of her second-floor apartment, reached inside, flicked on the lights, and then motioned Sergeant Payne inside ahead of her.

“The first aid stuff’s in the bathroom,” she said. “The bedroom’s just the other side of the living room.”

He walked across the living room to the bedroom, noticing as he passed through it to the bathroom that it was not messy, and that a white comforter covered her bed.

Intimate feminine apparel was hanging from the shower curtain rod. When she came into the bathroom, she snatched it off and threw it behind the shower curtain.

She took bandages, swabs, Mercurochrome, and bottles of hydrogen peroxide and alcohol from a cabinet and then turned to him and started cleaning his face.

“That’s pretty nasty,” she said. “You sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room?”

“I’m sure,” he said.

Three minutes later, his scraped face had been cleaned with both hydrogen peroxide and alcohol. He had manfully tried, and failed, not to wince when the alcohol stung painfully.

“Let’s look at the leg,” she said.

“What’s wrong with the leg?”

“The fence got that, too, I guess. In the car, I saw it. It’s all bloody.”

Three minutes after that, his leg had been treated with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide and painted with Mercurochrome, but not bandaged.

“Your trousers are ruined,” Olivia said.

“I noticed.”

“And let me see what you did to your hand.”

“I guess I scratched it the same place I tore my pants, going over the fence.”

She took his left hand in both of hers.

“That’s a puncture wound,” she said.

He didn’t reply.

“You just can’t leave it like that,” she said.

He didn’t reply.

She looked up at him. Their eyes met.

“What?” she asked.

“You know goddamn well what, Mother.”

“I’m not your goddamn Mother.”

“I know,” he said, softly. “Your move.”

She had not taken her eyes from his. She took her left hand from his and raised it to his unmarked cheek.

“Oh, God!” she said.

Ninety seconds later, atop the white comforter on her bed, while still partially clothed, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne came to know each other, in the biblical sense of the term.

And in the next half hour, now completely devoid of clothing, and between the sheets, Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne twice came to know each other even better.