Final Justice

THIRTEEN

J. Richard Candelle, a squat, gray-haired fifty-year-old black man who wore his frameless spectacles low on his nose, looked over them at Detective Tony Harris, backed against a laboratory table, shook his head, and announced, “Tony, I’m sorry, that’s the best I can do. There’s just not enough points.”

The reality of identification through fingerprints is not nearly as simple, or as easy, as a thousand cops-and-robbers movies have made the public-and, in fact, a surprising number of law enforcement officers-think it is.

Fingerprints are identified-and compared with others- through a system of point location, and the classification of these points. The more points on a print, the better. The more prints-prints of more than one finger, of the heel of the hand, or ten fingers and both heels-and the more classified points on each print, the easier it is to find similarly classified prints in the files.

Presupposing having both to compare, comparing the print found on the visor hat left behind by the doer at the Roy Rogers restaurant with the print of the doer himself would be relatively simple and would just about positively identify the suspect.

But establishing the identity of the doer by finding a match of his index-finger print among the hundreds of thousands of index-finger prints in the files of the Philadelphia police department, or the millions in the FBI’s files, was a practical impossibility.

Except, if a print could be obtained with many “good” points, that could be point classified.

J. Richard Candelle, Philadelphia’s fingerprint expert, had just not been able to detect enough points on the single index finger print he had to offer even a slight chance of matching it with a print in the files.

“Fuck, that’s not good enough,” Harris said, bitterly.

“I will elect not to consider that a personal criticism, and under these circumstances forgive your vulgarity.” Candelle, whose forensic laboratory skills were legendary, was a dignified man, befitting his part-time status as an adjunct professor of chemistry at Temple University.

“It wasn’t a shot at you, Dick, and you know it,” Harris said.

Candelle waited until he saw what he thought was a genuine look of regret on Harris’s face, and then went on:

“I was here all fucking night, Tony. I had two fucking doughnuts for breakfast, my fucking feet hurt, and I have had every fucking white shirt in the Roundhouse in here making sure I was really doing my fucking best.”

Harris looked at him.

“Well, in that case, you fucking overworked old fart, I guess I better buy you some fucking lunch before you fucking expire of starvation, old age, and self-pity right here in the fucking lab.”

“I think that would be an appropriate gesture of your gratitude, ” Candelle replied, smiled, and started to replace his laboratory coat with a sports coat.

Using tweezers, Candelle picked up the crownless visor cap the doer had left behind in the Roy Rogers and replaced it in the plastic evidence bag.

“You want me to hang on to this, Tony?”

“No. Give it to me. Maybe I’ll take it to a psychic.”

Candelle chuckled.

“I really am sorry, Tony,” he said.

Harris punched him affectionately on the arm.

“We both are, Dick,” he said. “What do you feel like eating? ”

They went to DiNic’s in the Reading Terminal Market on Twelfth Street and sat on stools at a counter. Both ordered roast pork sandwiches with sharp provolone cheese and roasted hot peppers and washed them down with beer.

“I hate to reopen a wound,” Candelle said, “but I just had another unpleasant thought.”

“Which is?”

“It’s really a shame Luther Stecker retired.”

“Who’s he?”

“The State Police guy, in Harrisburg. Lieutenant.”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t think he could have done anything you couldn’t,” Harris said. “I hadn’t heard he’d retired.”

Candelle looked at his watch.

“Today,” he said. “I was invited to his retirement party. Tonight. I decided Harrisburg was too far to drive for free beer.”

“What makes you think he could have helped?”

“He’s got a new machine, AFIS. It stands for Automated Fingerprint Identification System.”

“And?”

“It’s supposed to be able to get points off a week-old print on a dry falling leaf in a high wind.”

“You’re serious?”

Candelle nodded.

“Harrisburg, here I come,” Tony said.

“I told you, Stecker’s retiring today.”

“Well, there ought to be somebody else out there who knows how to operate this wonder machine.”

“Tony, if I thought there was, I’d suggest you go out there.”

“Well, won’t the FBI have one?” Harris asked. “As a last desperate move, I’m going to send the goddamn hat to them.”

“They probably have a half-dozen of them. But whether they have anybody who knows how to use one, get all that it is capable of from it, is another question.” He paused, then added, “There’s a question of experience, even art, in this.”

“So we’re dead, huh?”

Candelle shrugged.

“It looks that way. I’m sorry. So what are you going to do now?”

“We’re down to showing the artist’s sketches to everybody again. And we both know that’s not going to work. Everybody in the place saw somebody else.”

“At the risk of repeating myself, Tony, I’m really sorry I couldn’t do more. Maybe the FBI’ll be able to.”

“You’re sure nobody in the State Police could do us any good? Who’s taking Stecker’s place?”

“I met the gentleman,” Candelle said. “He left me with the impression he would have trouble finding his posterior with both hands.”

“Great!”

Harris drove his Crown Victoria to the rear door of the Roundhouse.

“You’re not coming in?” Candelle asked.

“No. I’m going to go somewhere to try to figure out what to tell the Black Buddha,” he said.

“I’ll do that for you, Tony,” Candelle said, “before I go home. I don’t want him calling me at the house to have one more shot at it.”

“ ‘Turn over the stone under the stone’?”

“We’re out of stones on this hat, Tony,” Candelle said. “And I think the Black Buddha’s more likely to accept that from me than you.”

“Good luck!” Harris said. He held out his hand to Candelle. “Thanks a lot, Dick. I really appreciate all the effort.”

“I’m just sorry it didn’t get us anywhere,” Candelle said, nodded, closed the car door, and walked toward the Roundhouse entrance.

Tony started to drive out of the parking lot, but at the last moment pulled into a vacant space, took out his cellular telephone, and punched the key that automatically dialed directory information.

“What city, please?”

“Fuck it,” Tony said, and punched the End key.

He backed out of the parking space, then left the parking lot, wondering what was the best way to get onto Interstate 76 this time of day.

“Jason,” he said, aloud, “if you want the last goddamn stone under the stone turned over, I’ll damned well turn the sonofabitch over.”

Ten minutes later, just as he turned onto I-76 West, his cellular buzzed.

“Harris.”

“Presumably you are aware of Professor Candelle’s-” Lieutenant Jason Washington’s unmistakable dulcet voice said.

“I was there.”

“And what are your plans now?”

“I’m thinking, Jason.”

“And may I inquire about what?”

“No. Not now.”

“May I dare to hope that when you feel comfortable in telling me, you will call?”

“Don’t hold your breath, Jason. This is probably one more blind alley.”

“Sometimes at the end of a blind alley, one finds a stone,” Washington began.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Lieutenant,” Tony interrupted. “I’ll write it down so that I won’t forget it.”

“Good afternoon, Detective Harris,” Washington said, and the hiss that followed told Harris Washington had hung up.

He tossed the cellular onto the seat.

So he’s a little pissed that I won’t tell him.

Better that than to tell him, get his hopes up, and then get kicked in the teeth again when this doesn’t work.

Matt arrived at the North Philadelphia Airport at half past two, to find that he was ahead of Lieutenant McGuire, but not of the Eighth District captain, who was supervising more than a dozen of his uniforms in setting up barriers to keep what looked like sixty or seventy-maybe more-of Stan Colt’s fans under control.

Matt looked closer and saw that there were two barriers, one for the fans-a surprising number of whom were gray-haired adults-and a second for the press.

He was wondering if he should at least identify himself to the Eighth District captain when Lieutenant McGuire arrived, got out of his car, waved at Matt, and then went to talk to the captain.

Four Highway bikes arrived next, in a roar of engines, under a sergeant. McGuire pointed out where they should park, and when they had, the Highway sergeant took off his helmet and hung it on his handlebar. Matt then recognized him as the sergeant who had been on Knight’s Road the night before.

The night before? That seems like two weeks ago.

He walked over to Matt.

“How’s the face?” he asked.

“It’s sore, and I went to Hahnemann this morning and they gave me shots and now my ass hurts.”

The sergeant chuckled.

“You did get to see Detective Coleman at Northeast, right?”

“Just came from there. I appreciate the help last night. All of it.”

“I know guys on the job wouldn’t have done what you did,” the sergeant said. “They’d say, Fuck it, I’ve had a couple of drinks, why take the chance of getting my ass in a crack?”

“I wasn’t being noble. I just did it.”

“You were being a good cop,” the sergeant said. “Good cops take care of each other.”

Detective Charley McFadden walked up to them.

“What happened to your face?” he asked.

“Where’s Man Mountain Martinez?” Matt asked, ignoring the question.

“He took a dive onto a concrete driveway running down the guy in the hot Grand Am who smacked the van on Knight’s Road,” the Highway sergeant offered, helpfully.

“That was you?” Charley asked.

“Where’s Martinez?” Matt asked again.

“He’ll be here in a minute.”

“What have Mutt and Jeff got to do with this nonsense?” the Highway sergeant asked.

“Sergeant,” Charley said, “that’s what I’ve been trying to get Sergeant Payne to explain.”

A white Lincoln stretch limousine rolled up. McGuire signaled to the driver to put it behind the Highway bikes.

“Our hero’s chariot, I guess,” the Highway sergeant said.

“That’s a Classic Livery limo,” Matt said. “I wonder if we should tell our hero he’s being ferried around by the mob?”

The Highway sergeant and McFadden, who knew that Classic Livery was one of Philadelphia mob boss Vincenzo Savarese’s legitimate businesses, chuckled.

A black Cadillac, a black Crown Victoria, and a black Buick Park Avenue rolled onto the tarmac.

“The mayor and the commissioner,” the Highway sergeant said. “I think that’s one of the cardinal’s cars, but there’s no one in it.”

That mystery was immediately explained when both the Hon. Alvin W. Martin, mayor of the City of Philadelphia, and Monsignor Schneider climbed out of the Cadillac. Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani got quickly out of the passenger’s front seat of the Crown Victoria and walked up to them.

“I guess I better start looking busy,” the Highway sergeant said, and started to walk back to the Highway bikes. As he passed the mayor and party, he saluted. Commissioner Mariani waved him over.

A moment later, the Highway sergeant pointed to Matt, and a moment after that, started to walk quickly-almost trot-back to where Matt and McFadden were standing.

“The commissioner wants to see you,” the Highway sergeant said.

“Oh, shit,” Matt muttered, and walked over.

“Good morning, Mr. Mayor, Commissioner, Monsignor,” Matt said.

“My goodness,” Monsignor Schneider said, “what happened to your face?”

“I lost my footing chasing a fellow last night, Monsignor.”

“How was that, Sergeant?” the mayor asked.

“I was chasing a car thief, sir.”

“The one on Knight’s Road?” Commissioner Mariani asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Sergeant,” the commissioner said. “But it was a little more than that, wasn’t it? The fellow ran a light, slammed into a family in a van, and sent them all to the hospital? And then left the scene?”

"Yes, sir.”

“I saw that in the paper,” the mayor said.

“Did you catch him?” Monsignor Schneider asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“You really do get around, don’t you, Sergeant?” the monsignor said, admiringly.

“What’s with the hand?” the commissioner asked.

“I bruised it on the driveway, sir.”

“And still managed to catch this fellow?” the monsignor asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you do, walk up on it, Sergeant?” Mariani asked.

“Yes, sir. I was taking… a detective-we were working on the Williamson job-home. And it happened right in front of us.”

“And how is that going?” Schneider asked. “The Williamson ’job,’ I think you said?”

“Well, sir, we have a pretty good psychological profile of the doer that should help us find him, and we have some pretty good evidence to put him away once we do-”

“For example?” the monsignor interrupted.

“With all respect, Monsignor, I’m not supposed to talk about details of an ongoing investigation.”

“And that’s a good rule, and I’m pleased to see you’re paying attention to it,” Commissioner Mariani said. “But I’d like to know, and I think the mayor would, and neither the mayor nor me is about to ask Monsignor Schneider to give us a moment alone. I’m sure he understands why.”

“My lips are sealed, Sergeant,” the monsignor said.

“Yes, sir,” Matt said. “There was sperm at the scene, sir. They are already doing the DNA. Once we catch this fellow, get another DNA sample from him, and match it, it’ll prove conclusively that he was at the scene.”

“The certainty of a DNA match is on the order of several million to one, Monsignor,” Commissioner Mariani pronounced.

“Absolutely fascinating,” the monsignor said. “I was just telling the commissioner and the mayor, Sergeant, that when I last spoke with Stan, he made it pretty clear that while he’s here-and we don’t have him occupied-he’d like to spend some time watching the police-specifically you, Sergeant- at work. I confess I hadn’t thought about what you just said about your having to be closemouthed about details of an ongoing investigation.”

“I don’t think that would be any problem with Mr. Colt,” the mayor said. “Do you, Commissioner?”

“The problem, Mr. Mayor,” Mariani replied, “would be making sure that Mr. Colt understood that whatever he saw, or heard, when he was with Sergeant Payne couldn’t go any further.”

“I don’t think that would be a problem at all,” Monsignor Schneider said. “I’m sure Stan would understand. After all, he’s played a detective on the screen so often.”

The commissioner smiled. A little wanly, Matt thought.

A Traffic Unit sergeant walked up to them, saluted, and said, “Commissioner, Mr. Colt’s airplane’s about to land.”

Lieutenant Ross J. Mueller of the Forensic Laboratory of the Pennsylvania State Police in Harrisburg rose to his feet and extended his hand when Tony Harris was shown into his office.

“What can we do for you, Detective?” he asked, smiling cordially.

Mueller was a very large, muscular man who wore a tight-fitting uniform and his hair in a crew cut. Tony remembered what Dick Candelle had said about him probably having trouble finding his ass with both hands.

“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” Tony said, “but I really hoped I could see Lieutenant Stecker.”

Mueller looked at his watch.

“At the end of this tour-in other words, in an hour and five minutes-Lieutenant Stecker will hang up his uniform hat for the last time, and enter a well-deserved retirement. I’m taking his place. Now, how can Headquarters help Philadelphia?”

“Sir, I’m working a homicide…”

“In what capacity?”

“Sir?”

“As the lead detective? One of the investigators? In what capacity?”

“I’m the lead detective on the job, sir.”

“And you’re here officially?”

“Yes, sir, I’m here officially.”

“I thought perhaps that was the case. I don’t recall hearing that you were coming.”

“Sir, I just got in the car and came out here.”

“You didn’t check with your supervisor so that he could make an appointment for you?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“And who is your supervisor?”

“Lieutenant Jason Washington, sir.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Lieutenant Mueller said, writing Washington’s name on a lined pad.

If you don’t know who Jason Washington is, Herr Storm Trooper, you really can’t find your ass with both hands.

“Could you give me his phone number, please?” Lieutenant Mueller asked.

Tony gave him, from memory, the number of the commanding officer of the K-9 Unit of the Philadelphia police department. It was in his memory because he had noticed that it was identical, except for the last two digits, which were reversed, to that of the Homicide Unit.

He had made the quick judgment that despite his implied offer to help, Lieutenant Mueller was going to be part of the problem, not a solution.

“I’m going to call your Lieutenant and introduce myself,” Lieutenant Mueller said, “and suggest the next time he thinks we can help Philadelphia, he call and set up an appointment.”

“Yes, sir. Sir, I wasn’t aware that was necessary, and I don’t think Lieutenant Washington is, either.”

“Probably not,” Mueller said, smiling. “But you’ve heard, I’m sure, Detective… Harris, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That a new broom sweeps clean.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve heard that.”

“I’m the new broom around here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you’re here. So how may we be of assistance?”

“Sir, as I said, I’m working a homicide. We have a visor hat… like a baseball cap, without a crown, that the doer left at the scene. Our lab, specifically Mr. Richard Candelle, has been able to lift only a partial that’s probably an index finger.”

"Candelle, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe I have met your Mr. Candelle. African-American, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. He is.”

“Go on, Detective Harris.”

“I was hoping that you could have a look at it, and see if you couldn’t find more than we have.”

“We have, as you might not be aware, an Automated Fingerprint Identification System.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve heard that.”

“It’s state-of-the-art technology. In the hands of an expert- I’ve been certified in its use myself-it sometimes can do remarkable things.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, we’ll have a look at it for you, Detective. And get word back to you within, possibly, seventy-two hours.”

“Sir, I’d sort of hoped to stick around until you…”

“Take a hotel room, you mean? Well, if that’s all right with your supervisor, it’s fine with me. As I say, we’re talking about three days, if things go well.”

“I meant today, sir.”

“That’s out of the question, I’m afraid. You just leave the evidence item with me, and we’ll get to it as soon as possible.”

“The thing is, Lieutenant, my supervisor, Lieutenant Washington-you’re sure you don’t know him?”

“Quite sure. I’d remember a name like that.”

“Well, sir, Lieutenant Washington wants to ship the hat- the evidence item-to the FBI lab first thing in the morning.”

“Well, that solves our problem then, doesn’t it? The FBI really knows how to handle this sort of thing.”

“Thank you for seeing me, sir. And I’m sorry I didn’t have an appointment.”

“Just don’t do it again in the future, Detective.”

“No, sir, I won’t.”

The airplane, a Cessna Citation, came in from over Bucks County, touched down smoothly, and began to taxi to the terminal.

Nesfoods International had a Citation either identical to this one or very nearly identical to it. Matt’s father had told him he had to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to convince the Internal Revenue Service that when the Nesbitts (father and/or son) and their families rode it to Kentucky or Florida the purpose was business, not to watch the Kentucky Derby or lie on the sands of Palm Beach.

The Citation stopped two hundred feet from them, and ground handlers went quickly to it to chock the wheels.

The mayor, the commissioner and the monsignor started to walk toward it. The commissioner turned and signaled for Matt to come with them.

The door rotated open, revealing stairs, as they-and a gaggle of photographers and reporters holding microphones- approached the airplane.

Matt saw what looked like a fat woman sporting a dirty blonde pageboy haircut and wearing pajamas come quickly out of the door and down the stairs-then noticed the goatee. The man held one 35mm camera with an enormous lens in his hands, and another, with a slightly smaller lens, hung from his neck.

He knelt to the right and aimed his camera at the door.

Stan Colt appeared in the doorway, smiling and ducking his head.

“Go down a couple of steps!” the fat photographer ordered.

Colt obeyed. He carefully went down two steps, then waved and flashed a wide smile. He was wearing blue jeans, a knit polo shirt, and a Philadelphia 76ers jacket. His fans applauded. Some whistled.

Colt came down the rest of the stairs and walked to Monsignor Schneider, who enthusiastically shook his hand and introduced him to the mayor and the commissioner, who both enthusiastically shook his hand.

Jesus, he’s a hell of a lot smaller and shorter than he looks in the movies!

Photographs were taken, and the momentous occasion was both recorded on videotape and flashed via satellite to at least two of Philadelphia’s TV stations, which interrupted their regular programming to bring-live-to their viewers images of Mr. Colt’s arrival.

Matt saw that a young man his age and a prematurely gray-haired woman Matt guessed was probably in her late thirties had begun to take luggage from both the cabin and the baggage compartment. Both were stylishly dressed. Matt had no idea who they were, but presumed they had been on the airplane.

When they had all the luggage off the plane, they began to carry it to a black GMC Yukon XL, on the doors of which was a neat sign reading “Classic Livery.”

The side windows of the truck were covered with dark translucent plastic. Matt knew that the truck-there were several just like it-was usually used to move cadavers from hospitals to funeral homes that rented their funeral limousines from Classic Livery. He wondered if the truck was going to be able to haul all the luggage.

The commissioner indicated the white limousine. Colt nodded, then sort of trotted over to the fans behind their barriers, shook hands, kissed two of the younger females, and then, waving, sort of trotted to the white limousine and ducked inside.

The fat photographer got in the front seat. The mayor and the commissioner got in the back.

“Hi!” Terry Davis said.

He hadn’t seen her get off the Citation.

Jesus, she looks good!

“Hi!”

“You’re going wherever they go from here?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said.

“Got room for me?”

“Absolutely.”

He saw that she had two large pieces of what he thought of as “limp” luggage and a squarish item he thought was probably a makeup kit. Plus an enormous purse.

“My car’s over there,” he said, gesturing in the general direction.

“Will all this stuff fit in a Porsche?”

“The city’s car,” he said. “It’s a Ford.”

When he picked up her limp luggage, his left hand hurt.

“What did you do to your face?” Terry asked, as she picked up her own bag.

“I fell down,” Matt said, as he started to walk to the Crown Victoria.

He saw that Detective Jesus Martinez had finally shown up; he was standing with McFadden, and they did, he thought, indeed look like Mutt and Jeff.

“You better follow me,” Matt said, and his voice was drowned out by the roar of the Highway bikes starting up.

“You better follow me,” Matt repeated.

His hand hurt again when he loaded Terry’s luggage into the backseat.

By the time Terry’d gotten in and he’d gotten the engine started, McFadden and Martinez had pulled their identical unmarked Crown Victorias in behind him.

And the convoy had left. He could see the GMC and four assorted vehicles bearing the press bringing up the end of it, disappearing around the corner of the administration building.

Discretion forbade racing to catch up with the convoy. He knew where it was going; he could probably catch up with it on I-95.

But when he reached the airport exit, it was barred by a line of cars stopped by two Eighth District uniforms and a sergeant apparently charged with seeing that Mr. Colt’s fans did not join the convoy.

Matt drove to the side of the line of cars, and when he reached the head of it, reached under the dash and pushed the button that caused the blue lights under the grille to flash and the siren to start to growl.

The uniform sergeant waved the first fan’s car through the gate, then waved Matt through the space he had occupied, with McFadden and Martinez following.

“So tell me about the face,” Terry said when he had caught up with the convoy and was driving a stately fifty-five miles per hour down I-95 at the end of it.

“I was trying to stop a homicidal maniac from detonating an atom bomb and ending life as we know it on our planet.”

Terry giggled. It was an accurate synopsis of Stan Colt’s last opus.

“And in so doing, I fell down.”

“And landed on your face?”

“Correct.”

“But you caught the bad guy?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he do?”

“Stole a car, ran a red light, and slammed into a family in their van.”

“That’s awful. But what did it have to do with you?”

“I saw the crash. That made it my business.”

“Stan will love that story,” Terry said.

“Please don’t tell him,” Matt said.

She looked at him strangely.

“Okay. If you don’t want me to.”

Lieutenant Luther Stecker of the Pennsylvania State Police had obviously just finished shaving when his doorbell rang, for he answered the door in a sleeveless undershirt, with a towel hanging from his neck, and with vestiges of shaving cream under his chin and near his left ear.

He was a small and wiry man who wore what was left of his gray hair in a crew cut.

He waited wordlessly for his caller to announce his purpose.

“Lieutenant Stecker?” Tony Harris asked.

Stecker nodded.

“Sir, I’m Detective Harris from Philadelphia Homicide.” Stecker nodded and waited for Harris to go on.

“I’m working a job, and I really need your help.”

“This is my last day on the job. Why’d you come here?”

“I went by the lab, sir. And saw Lieutenant Mueller.”

And again Stecker waited expressionlessly for him to go on.

“Lieutenant, Dick Candelle said if anybody can come up with enough points from what I’ve got, it’s you.”

“You know Candelle?”

“Yes, sir. We go back a while.”

“And he couldn’t develop enough points from what you’ve got?”

“No, sir. But all he had to work with was a partial, sir. Probably an index finger.”

A plump, pleasant-looking woman appeared behind Stecker.

“What?” she asked.

“This is Detective Harris from Homicide in Philadelphia.”

“Did you tell him this is your last day on the job, and that.. ” She looked at her watch. “… in an hour and ten minutes, you’re having your retirement party at the Penn-Harris? ”

“Tell me about the job,” Stecker said.

“Two black guys held up a Roy Rogers,” Harris said. “They killed a Puerto Rican lady.”

“That’s terrible,” the gray haired lady said, sucking in her breath.

“And then when a uniform-a friend of mine, nice guy, Kenny Charlton, eighteen years on the job, two kids- responded to the robbery in progress, one of the doers-who was wearing the visor hat, cap, I’ve got-stuck a. 38 under his vest and blew him away.”

Stecker didn’t say anything.

“The only tie we have to these critters is this,” Tony said. He held up the plastic evidence bag containing the crownless visor cap.

“That’s all? No witnesses?”

“Nothing’s worked.”

“Grace, why don’t you get Detective Harris a cup of coffee and a piece of cake while I put my shirt on.”

“Luther, your party starts in an hour and ten minutes.”

“You told me,” Lieutenant Stecker said.

The chancellery of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia was prepared for the “photo op” presented by Mr. Stan Colt paying a courtesy call upon the cardinal.

The cardinal “just happened” to be on the ground floor of the chancellery as the Highway bikes, Lieutenant McGuire’s unmarked car, the white Lincoln limousine, and the mayoral Cadillac limo rolled up it. That permitted the recording for posterity of images of the cardinal warmly greeting Mr. Colt as he got out of the limo.

The Hon. Alvin W. Martin had to move quickly to get in that shot, but he made it.

The cardinal, the mayor, and Mr. Colt, preceded by the fat photographer in the pageboy haircut, then entered the building. Lieutenant McGuire trotted after them, turned at the door, spotted Matt getting out of his car, and signaled for him to come along.

“Are you going in there?” Matt asked Terry Davis.

“That’s what I get paid for,” she said.

When they reached the cardinal’s office, there was a delegation of faculty from West Catholic High School lined up to shake Mr. Colt’s hand and to welcome him back to his alma mater. The mayor didn’t manage to get in that shot, but he did manage to get in another shot in front of the cardinal’s desk, of the cardinal, the principal of West Catholic, Monsignor Schneider, and Mr. Colt.

Then, after shaking hands a final time, Mr. Colt, again preceded by the fat photographer moving backward and frantically snapping pictures, left the cardinal’s office.

Mr. Colt stopped when he saw Terry Davis.

“Where’s the homicide detective?” he demanded.

Terry pointed at Matt.

Mr. Colt’s eyebrows rose in surprise, or disbelief, and then he moved on.

As the procession went back through the lobby, Matt heard the engines of the Highway bikes roar to life.

The mayor of Philadelphia shook Mr. Colt’s hand a final time, said he looked forward to seeing him a little later, and then walked back to the mayoral limousine.

Mr. Colt paused as he was about to enter the limousine, spotted Terry Davis, and called: “He’s going to be at the hotel, right?”

“Right, Stan,” Terry called back.

Mr. Colt nodded, then got in the white limousine.

The fans who had somehow learned that Mr. Colt would be staying at the Ritz-Carlton and had waited there in hopes of seeing him, and perhaps even getting his autograph, touching him, or perhaps coming away with a piece of his clothing, were disappointed.

All they got was a smile and a wave, as-preceded yet again by the fat photographer running backward-Colt went quickly into the hotel and through the lobby to a waiting elevator.

Stan Colt was sprawled on a couch in the sitting room of his suite, taking a pull from a bottle of beer from the Dock Street Brewery, when Lieutenant McGuire, Sergeant Payne, and Miss Terry Davis were ushered into his presence by the gray-haired, stylishly dressed woman Matt had seen carrying luggage from the Citation.

The stylishly dressed young man from the airport was talking on a telephone on a sideboard.

“With that out of the way, Terry, what’s next?” Stan Colt greeted them.

“There’s a cocktail party at the Bellvue-Stratford-it’s right around the corner…”

“I know where it is, sweetheart. I’m from here.”

“… at six-thirty. Black tie. The limo will be here at six-fifteen. ”

“Where the hell did that virginal white one come from?”

“You want another color?” Terry asked.

Colt pointed to the young man on the telephone.

“That’s what Lex is doing,” he said. “Getting a black one.”

“The cocktail party will be over at seven-thirty, which leaves the question of dinner open. I think you can count on at least one invitation.”

“Let me think about that,” he said.

He recognized Lieutenant McGuire for the first time.

“You’re the security guy, right?”

“I’m Lieutenant McGuire of Dignitary Protection, Mr. Colt.”

Mr. Colt’s somewhat contemptuous shrug indicated he considered that a distinction without a difference.

“And you’re the Homicide detective, right?”

“I’m Sergeant Payne.”

“But Homicide, right? You’re the guy that was in the gun battle in Doylestown Monsignor Schneider told me about?”

Matt nodded.

“No offense, but you don’t look the part.”

“Perhaps that’s because I’m not an actor,” Matt said.

“You look-and for that matter sound like-you’re a WASP from the Main Line.”

“Do I really? Maybe that’s because I am indeed a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant who was raised in Wallingford; that’s not the Main Line, but I take your point.”

Matt saw that Lieutenant McGuire was being made very uncomfortable by the exchange.

“Why am I getting the feeling, Sergeant,” Colt asked, “that you would rather be somewhere else?”

“You’re perceptive?”

Colt chuckled.

“You want to tell me what you’d rather be doing?”

“I was working a Homicide before the commissioner assigned me to sit on you.”

“ ‘Sit on’ me? That sounds a little erotic. Kinky. You know?”

“It means that my orders are to see that you don’t do anything while you’re here that will embarrass in any way anybody connected with this charitable gesture of yours.”

“For example?”

“Payne!” Lieutenant McGuire said, warningly.

“Let me put it this way, Mr. Colt,” Matt said. “As long as you’re in Philadelphia, the virtue of chastity will have to be its own reward for you.”

Terry Davis giggled.

“You telling me, I think, that I don’t get to fool around?” Colt asked.

“That’s right.”

“Not even a little?”

“Not even a little.”

“You understand who I am?”

“That’s why you don’t get to fool around, even a little.”

Colt turned to Terry Davis.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“You’re the one who said you wanted to hang out with a real, live Homicide cop.”

“And I do. I do. And I really like this guy! This is better than I hoped for.” He turned to Matt. “I am going to get to watch you work, right?”

“The commissioner said I was to show you as much about how Homicide works as I think I can.”

“Which means what?”

“I will show you everything I can, so long as doing so doesn’t interfere with an investigation.”

“And you make that call?”

“Right.”

“And what if I complain to him?” Colt asked, pointing to McGuire. “He’s a lieutenant, right? And you’re a sergeant?”

“The lieutenant’s job is to protect you,” Matt said. “Mine is to ensure your chastity.”

Colt was now smiling.

“That may be harder than you think,” he said. “You think you can stay awake twenty-four hours a day?”

“No. But there’s two detectives in the corridor who’ve also been assigned to the Chastity Detail.”

Colt glanced at the stylishly dressed young man who had just hung up the telephone.

“Well?” he asked, curtly.

“You’ll have a black limo in the morning, Stan, but not tonight. It’s the best I could do.”

“Not good enough, Alex,” Colt snapped. “Call somebody else, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to arrive at this place looking like Tinkerbell.” Then he had another thought. “You going to the cocktail party, Sergeant Payne?”

Matt looked at McGuire, who nodded, and then nodded himself.

“You must have a police car. Any reason I can’t ride with you?”

“No.”

“Will there be room for everybody?” Alex asked.

“Who’s everybody?” Matt asked.

“Me, Jeanette, Terry, and Eddie.”

Jeanette, Matt decided, must be the gray-haired woman.

“Eddie’s the character with the pageboy?” he asked.

“My personal photographer,” Colt furnished.

“No,” Matt said.

“Eddie goes everywhere with me,” Colt said. “They all do.”

“They don’t go everywhere with you when you’re with me,” Matt said. “Your call, Mr. Colt.”

“You’re a real hardass, Payne,” Colt said, admiringly. “I’m going with Payne. The rest of you can go in the wedding limo.” He turned to Matt. “And after this party thing, you’ll show me stuff, right?”

“If you like,” Matt said.

“We’re here,” Sergeant Payne said to Mr. Colt after they had rolled up to the Broad Street entrance of the Bellvue-Stratford Hotel, third in line behind Lieutenant McGuire’s unmarked and the white Lincoln limo. Behind them were three unmarked cars, one belonging to Dignitary Protection and the other two to Detectives Martinez and McFadden.

Matt had taken a leaf from the uniforms who had kept Colt’s fans from leaving the North Philadelphia Airport and had ordered McFadden and Martinez to keep Eddie the photographer, and anybody else, from following Matt’s car when it left the hotel.

“Don’t get your balls in an uproar. I’m waiting for Eddie to get out of the limo.”

Eddie the photographer got quickly out of the limo, sort of knelt, and prepared to photograph Mr. Colt’s arrival at the Bellvue-Stratford.

“Come on, Payne,” Colt said.

“I’ll catch up with you inside,” Matt said. “I’ve got to park the car.”

“No, first you let Eddie take our picture, and then you park the car.”

“I don’t think so,” Matt said.

“If you don’t let him take our picture now, I’ll tell him I changed my mind, and he gets to go with us when we leave here.”

“That’ll be hard to do after McFadden handcuffs him to that brass rail.”

“Hey… It’s Matt, right?”

“Right.”

“I’m meeting you halfway, Matt. He’s shot two hundred pictures since we got here, and the only one that’ll do me any good is this one.”

“Excuse me?”

“The real press doesn’t give a shit about one more picture of me shaking hands with a mayor, or even a cardinal. But Stan Colt with a real Homicide sergeant, that’s news. Come on. Get out and smile.”

“I don’t want my picture in the goddamn newspapers.”

“Tough shit. Either now, or he follows us around all night.”

He paused, then did a very creditable mimicry of Matt: “Your call, Sergeant Payne.”

Matt got out of the car.

“Look serious, but think of pussy,” Mr. Colt whispered to Sergeant Payne as, following Eddie the photographer’s hand signals, he moved Matt where Eddie wanted them.

Inside the Grand Ballroom of the Bellvue-Stratford, Sergeant Payne hurried to answer Commissioner Mariani’s summons, a crooked finger.

“Yes, sir?”

“Colt just told the mayor how grateful he is for the opportunity to, quote, hang out, unquote, with you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“I thought I’d show him Liberties Bar and, if nobody from Homicide is there, take him to Homicide.”

“And if somebody from Homicide is in Liberties?”

“Hope I can get them talking about closed cases.”

Commissioner Mariani nodded.

When they saw that Sergeant Payne and Mr. Colt had gotten into the Crown Victoria, two white-capped Traffic Unit uniforms stopped traffic moving in both directions on South Broad Street, and then one of them gestured to Sergeant Payne, who then made a U-turn that saw him headed toward City Hall.

The traffic uniforms then blew their whistles and gestured, restoring traffic to its normal flow, and incidentally effectively preventing anyone from following Matt’s unmarked car.

“Thanks, guys!” Detective McFadden called to the uniforms, and gave a thumbs-up gesture.

Detectives McFadden and Martinez then got into their unmarked cars and drove off. The members of the press who were cleverly prepared to follow them, did so. They followed Martinez to the Ritz-Carlton front door, where he parked his car and went inside to await the return of Sergeant Payne and Mr. Colt, or the arrival at midnight of Detective McFadden, whichever came first.

The members of the press who followed Detective McFadden drove deep into South Philadelphia, where he pulled the unmarked half onto the curb in front of a row house on Fitzgerald Street, then went inside to catch a couple of hours’ sleep before relieving Hay-zus at the Ritz-Carlton.

“Aren’t I going to stand out like a sore thumb in this?” Mr. Colt inquired of Sergeant Payne, indicating his dinner jacket. “Maybe we could stop by the hotel and let me change?”

“Not at all,” Matt said. “We’re going to Liberties Bar, and the last time I was there, my boss was there, dressed just like that.”

“You’re bullshitting me, right?”

“Boy Scout’s Honor,” Matt said.

“Were you a Boy Scout?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I was.”

“Me, too,” Colt said. “Well, what the hell.”

He pulled open his black bow tie.

There were no members of the Homicide Division in Liberties Bar.

“We can wait a couple of minutes and see if somebody shows up,” Matt said.

“I will have one of three drinks I allow myself a day,” Colt said. “This will be number two; I had a beer at the hotel.”

“You allow yourself three drinks a day?” Matt asked.

“If I have more than that, I get in trouble,” Colt said. “Sometimes, I have four, if like I have one at lunch and a beer in the afternoon, then I might have two at night, but never any more than that.”

They had a drink. Matt ordered a scotch on the rocks, Colt-at Matt’s suggestion-a Bushmills martini, aka an Irish Doctor’s Special.

When the bartender delivered them, he looked closely at Colt.

“Anybody ever tell you you look a lot like Stan Colt?”

“Yeah. Lots of people.”

“Any of the guys from Homicide been in?” Matt asked.

“Earlier,” the bartender said.

Colt looked at Matt.

“You get stuck with the tab,” he said. “Alex has my dough, and you didn’t want him to come.”

Matt laid a bill on the bar.

“I’ll get that back to you.”

“My pleasure,” Matt said. “Alex is not here.”

Colt took a sip of his drink.

“I like this,” he said.

“Good.”

“So what’s the plan now? You ‘sit on’ me here? Nobody from Homicide shows up? Eventually I get sleepy? And-”

“Finish your drink, we’ll take a run past Homicide,” Matt said.

“Good,” Stan Colt said.

“Nice,” Stan Colt said, vis-a-vis Detective Olivia Lassiter, who was sitting at a desk with a phone to her ear.

“Very,” Matt agreed.

He saw that Captain Quaire and Lieutenant Jason Washington were in Quaire’s office.

“Detective Lassiter, this is Mr. Colt,” Matt said.

Olivia gave him her hand and a smile, but didn’t say anything.

“What’s going on in there?” Matt asked.

Olivia shrugged. “They both came in about an hour ago.”

She started to add something to that, but then directed her attention to the telephone: “Good evening, Lieutenant. Thank you for taking my call. My name is Lassiter, Philadelphia Homicide, and I’m working a job…”

Matt took Colt’s arm and propelled him toward the coffee machine.

“And she’s a Homicide detective, too?” Colt asked.

Matt nodded.

“She’s been on that phone most of day,” Matt said. “Calling every police department in the country, looking for a similar job to one we’re working on here.”

“The one you were working on before you were told to sit on me?”

Matt nodded. “It’s a rape murder. Real sicko. Ties young women up, cuts off their clothes with a large knife, and then… jerks off.. onto them.”

“Jesus!”

“And then takes their picture. This time, he killed the victim. ”

“And you don’t know who he is?”

“We haven’t a clue. If we ever find him-that’s what Lassiter is doing on the phone; other detectives are looking down other streets-we can probably get a conviction. But first we have to find him.”

Colt’s face was serious as he absorbed this.

“I have to check in with my boss,” Matt said, pointing at Quaire’s glass-walled office. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Colt said. “Take your time.”

And then he saw something on Matt’s face.

“Do I detect that your interest in the lady detective is not entirely professional?”

“I’ll be right back,” Matt said, and walked to Captain Quaire’s office and knocked on the door.

Quaire waved him in.

“I’ve got Stan Colt out there, sir.”

“I can see. Now, can you get him out of here?”

“I’ll try…”

“Tony went to Harrisburg,” Washington explained, “and talked Lieutenant Stecker, their print expert, into going late to his retirement party. He and Tony are still at the State Police lab running the print through the AFIS. Presuming the doer’s prints are on file, and we get a match from the machine, Tony will contact us.”

“So get Mr. Colt out of here, and the sooner the better,” Captain Quaire ordered. “If there’s a match, everybody and his brother will be in here, and he shouldn’t.”

“He seems to be stricken with Detective Lassiter,” Washington said. “May I suggest you take both of them someplace while she at great length explains how we are working the Williamson job?”

“Can I send her in here so you can tell her that?”

“Make it quick,” Quaire said.

“Yes, sir.”

Matt walked to Olivia and told her the boss wanted to see her.

When she was out of earshot, Colt asked, “What was that all about?”

“I just got permission from the captain for her to tell you what’s going on with the Williamson job.”

“That’s the guy who…?” Colt asked, moving his hand in a pumping motion.

“Cheryl Ann Williamson is the victim,” Matt said. “But yeah.”

Olivia came out of Quaire’s office looking more than a little unhappy.

“Where are we going to do this?”

“Could we do it over dinner?” Stan Colt asked in his most charming manner.

“You mean in a restaurant?”

“I was thinking of my place,” Colt said. “At the Ritz-Carlton. We could be alone, and get room service.”

“You were planning to come along, Sergeant?” Olivia asked.

“Absolutely,” Matt said.

“I haven’t had my dinner,” Olivia said.

“Then it’s settled,” Stan Colt said. He punched Matt affectionately on the shoulder. “I really appreciate this, Matt.”