Final Justice

FOURTEEN

It was either a light rain or a heavy drizzle, and Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin, holding an umbrella over his head with his right hand, stood at the gas charcoal grill in the backyard of 8231 Jeanes Street in Northwest Philadelphia wondering if he could trust the brand-new, state-of-the-art $129.95 electronic thermometer stuck in one of the two rolled-and-tied tenderloins of beef on the grill.

It indicated that the interior temperature of the meat was 145 degrees Fahrenheit, which in turn meant, according to the instruction manual, that when permitted to rest for five minutes, the meat should be just a little more done than rare.

Denny Coughlin didn’t think so. It didn’t look nearly that done to him.

“To hell with it,” Coughlin muttered, and reached for the very long-handled, stainless-steel knife, part of a $79.95 Master Griller’s Kit-knife, fork, and grill-scraper-that had been another gift from Coughlin to Chief Inspector (Retired) August and Mrs. Olga Wohl, at whose grill he was standing.

When he tried to cut the loin that was not electronically connected to the Interior Temperature Gauge, the perfectly tied-and-rolled meat rolled across the grill but remained uncut.

“Shit,” Chief Inspector Coughlin muttered, laid the umbrella upside down on the grass, picked up the extra-long-handled fork from the Master Griller’s Kit, impaled the tenderloin with the sensor in it, sliced it halfway through, and examined it carefully.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

The thermometer was telling the truth.

He looked up in annoyance at the sky. It had suddenly begun to rain harder. Much harder.

He looked back at the tenderloins. The flexible metal cord connecting the sensor impaled precisely in the center of one of them would have to be removed before he could move the meat to the platter.

He touched it gingerly, and it didn’t seem to be that hot. He got a decent grip on it and gave it a tug. It remained impaled. He picked up the fork again, and using the fork to hold the meat in place, tugged harder. The sensor came free, suddenly, which caused Coughlin, in the moment in which he realized the goddamn thing was burning his fingers and let go of it, to throw both the sensor, the metal cord, and the Stainless Steel Easy-To-Read, Dishwasher-Safe Interior Temperature Indicating Device into the grass of Chief Wohl’s backyard.

There were cheers, whistles, and applause from Chief Wohl’s back porch, where Chief Wohl, Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein, Inspector Peter Wohl, Captain Frank Hollaran, and Mr. Michael J. O’Hara were standing- out of the rain-watching the Master Chef at work.

After glancing momentarily at the porch, Commissioner Coughlin impaled the tenderloins, one after the other, and placed them on the platter-a stainless-steel plate with blood grooves resting in a depression in a wooden plate with handles; yet another culinary gift to the Wohls. Then he balanced the platter on his right hand, like a waiter, and sort of squatted to pick up the umbrella.

Then he marched toward the porch under the umbrella and somewhat unsteadily climbed the stairs, to further whistles, cheers, and applause from the men standing on it.

“You can all kiss my royal Irish ass,” Commissioner Coughlin announced.

Five minutes later, Commissioner Coughlin, fresh from drying his face and hair, sat down to table with everybody, which now included Mrs. Olga Wohl, Mrs. Sarah Lowenstein, and Mrs. Barbara Hollaran, at a table heavily laden with what else they were going to eat.

“I’ve got to get one of those little digital cameras and carry it with me,” Chief Lowenstein said. “I’d love to have pictures of the Master Chef at work.”

“I already told you what you can do,” Coughlin said. “And, yes, Augie, thank you for asking, I will have a glass of that wine.”

"I’ve got mine,” Mickey O’Hara said, holding up his camera. “But I’ve seen that Angry Irishman look in his eyes before and didn’t think I’d better.”

Twenty minutes after that, as Sarah Lowenstein poured coffee and appropriate comments of approval were being offered vis-a-vis the chocolate cake Barbara Hollaran had prepared for the nearly ritual once-every-other-week supper at the Wohls’, Commissioner Coughlin’s cellular phone buzzed.

He took it from his shirt pocket, said, “Hold one” before his caller had a chance to say anything, and handed the cellular to Hollaran, who quickly went into the kitchen.

Hollaran returned almost immediately.

“Commissioner, it’s Captain Quaire,” he said, formally.

Coughlin nodded, and reached for the phone.

“What’s up?” he asked, listened, and said, “I’ll get right back to you. Don’t do anything until I do.”

He pushed the End button and, holding the cellular in his palm, looked thoughtfully at it a moment.

“Mickey, this is out of school, okay?”

"Sure,” O’Hara said.

“What is it, Denny?” Chief Wohl asked.

“We’ve identified one of the doers in the Roy Rogers job,” he said. “Tony Harris went to the State Police fingerprint guy, Lieutenant Stecker, who worked some kind of magic with their new AFIS machine and was able to get enough points to let us run them, and.. ”

He stopped in midsentence, and forestalled any other questions by punching his way through the stored numbers on the cellular until he found what he wanted, and then pressing Call.

“Ben, Denny Coughlin. I apologize for calling you at home…”

He stopped and laughed.

“What, Denny?” Chief Wohl asked.

“Ben Solomon told me to take two aspirin and call him in the morning,” Coughlin said, and then his voice suddenly grew serious, as Mrs. Solomon, aka the district attorney of Philadelphia, came on the line.

“Eileen, we’ve identified one of the doers in the Roy Rogers homicide and now have a pretty good idea who the other one is,” he said. “I thought I’d better let you know.”

There was a pause, and then he continued.

“Tony Harris got the State Police, using some kind of a new machine they have, to get enough prints-points-from a hat, a visor, one of them left at the scene.”

Pause.

“Yeah, that’s it, Eileen. But, once we arrest them, I’m pretty sure some of the witnesses will be able to pick them out of a lineup.

…”

Pause.

“No. Henry Quaire’s getting the warrant as we speak…”

Pause.

“Whatever you say, Eileen. Is Unger there? You want me to send a car?”

Pause.

“Okay. Thirty minutes, in my office.”

Pause.

“Matt’s here. We’re at Augie Wohl’s house.”

Pause.

“Thirty minutes. Thanks, Eileen.”

He took the phone from his ear and pushed End.

“The district attorney says she wants to make sure this is done right. She’s going to meet us in my office in thirty minutes.”

“Just you two?” Peter Wohl asked.

“That’s what she said. What are you driving at?”

“The last I heard, this job was given to a Special Operations task force.”

“Jesus, I forgot about that,” Coughlin said. “Peter, why don’t you just happen to be in Homicide in case Eileen wants to see you?”

Peter Wohl nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Mickey, you didn’t hear any of this,” Coughlin said.

“When do I hear any of this?”

“I’ll let you know what happens when we meet with Eileen, but that’ll probably still be off the record.”

“If you’ve identified these crumbs, what’s all this about?”

“In the words of our beloved district attorney, we want to make goddamn sure these critters don’t walk out of the courtroom because we did something stupid now that we finally know who they are,” Coughlin said.

He rose to his feet.

“Eat Barbara’s cake and drink your coffee first,” Olga Wohl ordered firmly. “Five minutes one way or the other’s not going to matter.”

Five minutes later, the first radio call was made when Frank Hollaran took the microphone from beneath the dash and spoke into it: “Radio, C-2 en route to the Roundhouse from Chief Wohl’s residence.”

Immediately after that, there were two more calls, as D-l (Chief Inspector of Detectives Lowenstein) and S-l Inspector Wohl (Special Operations) reported that they, too, were on their way from Chief Wohl’s house to the Roundhouse.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here, Eileen,” Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani said, as he walked into Deputy Commissioner Coughlin’s conference room.

“You’re the police commissioner, Ralph,” the Hon. Eileen McNamara Solomon replied, matter-of-factly. “I thought you ought to be on this, so I asked Al Unger to call you.”

There were several shadings to their relationship. The most important was that Commissioner Mariani served at the pleasure of the Hon. Alvin W. Martin, mayor of the City of Philadelphia. The mayor is one of the two senior officials in Philadelphia who have no one to answer to but the law and the voters. The other is the district attorney.

Almost as important, both the police commissioner and the district attorney felt-even if they never articulated this belief-that the burden of protecting the citizens of the City of Brotherly Love from the barbarians hung primarily from his/her shoulders alone, and that the function of the other was to assist them in this noble pursuit.

As a practical matter, both realized there had to be sort of a partnership arrangement to effectively keep the barbarians at the gate, since neither could issue orders to the other.

In the relationship between district attorneys and police commissioners there were also the factors of respect, trust, and admiration. In the past, district attorneys and police commissioners had sometimes not respected, trusted, or admired each other at all. Eileen Solomon and Ralph Mariani not only held each other in high professional regard, but were also friends.

But in this case, the truth was that Eileen hadn’t even thought of Ralph when she asked Denny to meet her in the Roundhouse until she had called Al Unger to tell him she needed a ride, and he had brought the subject up.

Detective Albert Unger was the senior of the two members of the District Attorney’s Squad who served as driver/bodyguard for the D.A. So far as he-and others-were concerned, the D.A. needed round-the-clock protection. Threats against her life had been made by a number of people he thought were perfectly capable of trying to whack her.

The D.A., however, firmly said she didn’t want a cop in the lobby of her apartment building twenty-four hours a day, much less hanging around in her apartment.

So a deal was struck. A word was spoken into the ear of Wachenhut Security, who provided the unarmed doorman/ concierge/security guard in the lobby of the luxury apartment building on the Parkway in which Dr. and Mrs. Solomon resided. Four new employees, all of them retired Philadelphia police officers, were shortly afterward engaged to work the lobby of the apartment building. All of them were licensed to carry firearms, and all of them shared Al Unger’s belief that there were critters who would like to whack the D.A., whom all of the retired police officers held in very high regard.

The second part of the deal was a solemn promise by the D.A.-“What would you like me to do, Al, put one hand on a Bible and swear to God?” she had asked in exasperation- that she would never leave the apartment unless he knew where she was going and why.

This meant that Unger-or somebody else from the squad-would either drive the D.A. or follow her in an unmarked car, whether she was riding in the doctor’s Caddy, or jogging along the Parkway on her thrice-weekly hour-long jaunts to keep her hips and thighs under control.

When the D.A. had called Al Unger to say that she was sorry, but she had to go to the Roundhouse and right now, he had naturally asked why, and she had told him.

“I didn’t hear Mariani’s name mentioned, boss.”

“You think he should be there?”

“I think he ought to be asked.”

If I don’t ask him, Eileen had decided, when he hears about it, Ralph will get his macho Italian ego bruised, and maybe decide Denny went behind his back.

“Okay. Ask him,” she said. “I’ll be waiting downstairs in ten minutes.”

Detective Unger had, en route to the apartment, made a radio call.

“DA-1 to C-1.”

“Go.”

“Can you tell the commissioner that DA-1 is en route to the Roundhouse, and would like him to be there if he has the time?”

There was a thirty-second delay, which Detective Unger had correctly presumed was how long it took to relay the message to the commissioner in the backseat and get a response.

“DA-1, the commissioner will be there in thirty minutes.”

Commissioner Mariani nodded at Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Chief of Detectives Lowenstein, and sat down in Coughlin’s chair, left vacant for him at the head of the table.

“I didn’t hear anything on the radio,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve positively identified one of the doers in the Roy Rogers job,” Coughlin said. “And have a pretty good idea who the other one is. He fits the description, he’s the other guy’s cousin, and he’s been in trouble with the doer before.”

“Good. You could have told me that on the telephone. Who are they?”

“Two young guys from the Paschall Homes Housing Project, ” Coughlin said. “You know, Seventy-second and Elm-wood in southwest Philly?”

Mariani nodded.

“Lawrence John Porter, twenty, the doer, the one we’ve been calling the ‘fat guy,’ and Ralph David Williams, nineteen, ” Coughlin went on. “Neither has ever been in bad trouble before.”

“How’d you find them?”

“Tony Harris went to Harrisburg. The State Police’ve got a new machine, and they could lift more points from the print than Candelle could here,” Lowenstein said.

“Good points?”

“It wouldn’t matter if they were, Ralph,” Eileen said.

“Excuse me?”

“A federal judge refused to admit fingerprints in a trial-a trial here-a couple of months back.”

“I heard something about that.”

“I’m not saying it’ll happen, but we do have judges here who like to make law by following federal precedent. If the prints are inadmissible, all you’ve got is witnesses…”

“Something wrong with that, Eileen?”

“All the defense has to do is create reasonable doubt in the mind of one juror,” she said. “And we all know the jury pool always contains a number of people who are simply unable to believe that any black kid ever did anything wrong.”

“You’re not trying to tell me you think these two cop-killers are going to walk?”

“I’m trying to tell you, Ralph, that it’s a possibility, which will become a certainty if we make any mistakes from here on in.”

“God damn it!”

“That’s the bad news, Ralph,” Coughlin said. “The good news might, I say might, be that we can find the murder weapon… It’s a revolver and we have a bullet-”

“And can tie the weapon to either one of these two,” Eileen interjected. “Credibly tie it to either one of them.”

“Or really get lucky, and once they’re arrested, they confess. They’re just a couple of young punks,” Coughlin went on.

“Which any public defender six months out of law school will contend was obtained by mental duress…” Eileen said.

“Jesus,” Lowenstein said.

“… or worse. And I don’t think we can count on these two being defended by an incompetent from the Public Defender’s Office. This is Murder Two, and they will assign the best man they’ve got. Or, worse than that, some really competent defense lawyer will take it pro bono because this trial’s going to be all over the papers and TV.”

“You’ve got their sheets?” Mariani asked.

Lowenstein shoved a folder across the conference table to him.

“There’s not much,” he said. “A couple of shoplifting charges, car burglaries, that sort of thing.”

Mariani read the records of previous encounters with the law of the two suspects, shrugged, and then looked at Eileen Solomon.

“Okay, Eileen. What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t think we should rush to arrest these two until we have a better case.”

“Matt told me he was concerned that these two, having gotten away so far with the Roy Rogers job, and knowing you can only be executed once, might do the same sort of thing again, just as soon as they spend what they took from the Roy Rogers,” Mariani said, but it was a question.

“That’s a valid concern, and I share it,” Eileen said.

“So you’re suggesting we just sit on these two until we can make a really tight case?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Now that we know who they are, maybe we can get something from snitches,” Lowenstein said. “For example, whether or not they still have the. 38.”

Mariani nodded.

“And we could run their mug shots before some of the witnesses and see if it jogs their memory,” Coughlin said.

“Taking great care with that, so the defense can’t claim we suggested whom the witnesses should pick out,” Eileen said.

“How soon could you start surveillance of these two?” Mariani asked.

“I can have detectives from Southwest outside their door in however long it takes them to get there. I’d rather use undercover cars, which means I would have to have your permission to take a couple-five or six would be better-undercover cars away from the Impact Unit or Internal Affairs. With a little luck, I could have them in place in probably under an hour,” Lowenstein said.

“You’ve got my permission, of course,” Mariani said, then had a second thought. “No, you don’t. Because you don’t need it. Peter Wohl’s already got the authority. The mayor ordered the formation of a Special Operations task force for this job, remember?”

“I remember,” Lowenstein said.

“That’s right,” Coughlin said.

“He’s already got authority to request support from everybody, right?” Mariani asked.

Coughlin and Lowenstein nodded.

“The mayor gave Wohl the job,” Mariani said. “Let him do it. You better put the arm out for him.”

“He’s downstairs in Homicide with Quaire and Washington, ” Lowenstein said.

“You already called him?” Mariani asked.

“I didn’t have to. We were all having dinner at Augie Wohl’s house when Quaire called me,” Coughlin said.

“Okay, then, Denny,” Mariani said, and then his voice changed as he added, formally, “Under your supervision, Commissioner Coughlin, the Special Operations task force, paying cognizance to the suggestions of the district attorney, will proceed with the investigation. So inform Inspector Wohl.”

“Yes, sir,” Coughlin said.

“Then that’s it,” Mariani said. “Eileen, we all appreciate your support.”

“Let’s do this right,” Eileen said. “We need to get those two off the street permanently.”

When the district attorney of Philadelphia started to get off the Roundhouse elevator at the first floor, where the Homicide Division had its headquarters, she saw the surprise on the faces of Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Chief Inspector Lowenstein.

“Why not?” she asked. “I’m here. And the last I heard, I was welcome in Homicide.”

“The last I heard, there was no place in the department where you are not more than welcome at any time,” Coughlin said, and waved her off the elevator. “But I thought I detected a tone of annoyance in Ben’s voice.”

“We have a deal,” she said. “I keep my mouth shut when the hospital calls Ben, and he keeps his shut when I have to work.” She chuckled.

“What?” Lowenstein asked.

“One time when the hospital called, I said, ‘Oh, hell, Ben, not now,’ and he replied, ‘You knew what you were getting into when you married a doctor.’ ”

Coughlin looked confused.

“Isn’t that what you cops tell your wives when they complain about the odd hours you have to keep?” the D.A. asked.

Lowenstein chuckled.

“I don’t have a wife. I wouldn’t know,” Coughlin said.

They got off the elevator and walked down the corridor to Homicide.

Coughlin was not surprised that a lot of people would be in Homicide, but he was surprised at how many were actually there. The suite of offices was crowded with a number of non-Homicide white shirts, detectives, and uniforms.

In, or standing around the doorway of, Captain Quaire’s office were Quaire, Inspector Peter Wohl; Lieutenant Jason Washington; Detective Tony Harris; Captains Frank Hollaran and Mike Sabara-Wohl’s deputy-both in plainclothes; Captain Stuart Jenkins, the commanding officer of the Twelfth District, which covered the Paschall Homes Housing Project, where, according to the addresses on their last arrest sheets, both Lawrence John Porter and Ralph David Williams lived; and Captain Dave Pekach, the Highway Patrol commander. Jenkins and Pekach were in uniform.

In, or standing around the doorway of, the lieutenant’s office-the three Homicide lieutenants, who were rarely on duty at the same time, shared an office-were Lieutenant Robert Natali, who was the tour lieutenant, and Sergeants Zachary Hobbs and Ed McCarthy.

Scattered around-in some cases, sitting on-the desks in the main area were Detective Al Unger; Sergeant Harry McElroy, Chief Lowenstein’s driver; Sergeant Jerry O’Dowd, Pekach’s driver; Sergeant Charley Lomax, Sabara’s driver; and Sergeant Paul Kittinger, Captain Jenkins’s driver.

Kittinger and O’Dowd were in uniform.

The term “driver” is somewhat misleading. Although all of these people did actually drive the cars assigned to their superiors, they were far more than chauffeurs. Their official job was to relieve their bosses of what administrative details they could, in addition to driving them around.

But it was actually more than that. They had all been recognized as having both the ambition and the ability to rise higher in the police hierarchy, and their assignment as drivers gave them a chance to see how their supervisors recognized and dealt with the problems that came their way. In many ways-except they never passed canapes-drivers were the police version of military aides-de-camp.

Coughlin marched across the outer office to Quaire’s office and stood for a moment in the doorway.

“It looks,” he said, smiling, “as if everybody’s here but Homicide’s newest sergeant. Where’s Payne?”

“He was here, Commissioner,” Captain Quaire said. “With Stan Colt.”

“Oh, God!” Coughlin said.

“So I ran him off with the girl from Northwest. She is-I told her to do it thoroughly and slowly-bringing him up to speed on the Williamson job.”

“Clever,” Coughlin said, approvingly. “Give us a minute alone with Inspector Wohl, will you, please?”

Everybody filed out of Quaire’s office. When only Coughlin, Lowenstein, Solomon, and Wohl were left, Coughlin closed the door.

“I’ve got a suggestion, Eileen,” he said.

“Shoot.”

“You tell Peter what your concerns are, I’ll tell him what his orders from the commissioner are, and then the three of us leave.”

She didn’t reply, and waited for him to go on.

“The point will be made to everybody out there that there’s a lot of interest in what’s going on from us. That’s all that’s really necessary, and if we hang around it will look like we’re all going to be looking over his shoulder. I don’t want any question in anybody’s mind about who has the responsibility and the authority in this.”

The district attorney considered that for a full thirty seconds, which seemed longer.

“Peter,” she said, finally, “I don’t want these two to walk because we get enthusiastic or careless and do something stupid. Before we arrest them, I want a damned tight case against them. I don’t think we can safely rely on their fingerprints-or, for that matter, a confession. Now that defense attorneys have got their foot in the door with the successful challenges to fingerprints and confessions, we need to add to what we have now. Tying them positively to the murder weapon, for example, would be nice.”

Wohl nodded his understanding.

“I’ll pass the word that you get what you want, when you want it,” Chief Lowenstein said.

“Yes, sir,” Wohl said. “Thank you.”

“I’ve got an idea about that, too,” Coughlin said. “Everybody out there is wondering what the hell we’re talking about in here. So let’s give them a little show. Matt, you open the door, and tell Sergeant McElroy to call Southwest Detectives, and get Captain Calmon down here, now, to report to Inspector Wohl.”

“You’re serious about that, aren’t you, Denny?” Eileen asked.

“Yes, I’m serious. I want to make sure everybody knows who’s in charge.”

Lowenstein left the office, called his driver over, and told him what Coughlin had told him to tell him. Then he went back into the office.

Eileen started for the door.

“Where are you going, Eileen?”

“I’m going out there and tell Al Unger to call Steve Cohen and tell him to get right down here to advise Peter,” she said. She turned to Wohl. “Steve’s pretty bright, and I think he’ll be useful. If he gets in your way, call me.”

“I know Steve. We get along. But thanks, Eileen.”

Steven J. Cohen was one of the best of the more than two hundred assistant district attorneys of Philadelphia.

Eileen McNamara Solomon left Quaire’s office, spoke with Detective Al Unger, and then came back in.

Deputy Commissioner Coughlin then left the office, called Captain Hollaran over, and told him to call the Internal Affairs Division and the Impact Unit in his name, ordering them to get a senior officer to Homicide immediately to report to Inspector Wohl. Then he went back into the office.

“Can we go now, Denny?” Eileen asked.

“One more thing,” Coughlin said. “Inspector Wohl, your orders from the commissioner are, ‘The Special Operations task force, paying cognizance to the suggestions of the District Attorney, will proceed with the investigation.’ ”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did I get that right, Eileen?”

“Verbatim,” Eileen said. “And paying cognizance to my suggestions, Inspector, means before you arrest either of these two critters, you check with me.”

“Steve Cohen won’t do?”

“With me, Inspector.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wohl said.

“Don’t ma’am me, Peter. I’m not old enough to be your mother,” the district attorney said, and left Quaire’s office. A moment later, Coughlin and Lowenstein followed her.

Even as he was pulling the unmarked Crown Victoria into one of the spaces reserved for the hotel limousine and other important cars-over the indignant, both arms waving, objections of the Ritz-Carlton doorman-Matt saw eight, ten, maybe more members of the press start to rush toward it, brandishing cameras and microphones.

“Do they always follow you around like this?” Matt asked.

“It is the price of celebrity,” Stan Colt said, solemnly, resignedly, and then added, in a normal voice, “And let me tell you, buddy, it gets to be a real pain in the ass.”

The car’s arrival, Stan Colt in the front seat, and the movement of the press had also been seen by Sergeant Al Nevins of Dignitary Protection, who had apparently stationed himself and two uniforms just inside the hotel’s door. The three of them walked quickly to the car. Nevins opened the door, and when Colt got out, the three of them made a wedge and escorted Colt into the hotel. Once he was through the door, the uniforms barred the press from following him.

Matt and Olivia got out of the car and went into the hotel.

Nevins was standing by an open elevator door.

Matt made the introductions. “Sergeant Nevins, Detective Lassiter.”

“How are you?” Nevins said, but his surprise that Olivia was a cop was evident on his face.

Stan Colt was in a rear corner of the elevator, hiding himself as best he could. Matt and Olivia got on the elevator and the door closed.

Detective Jesus Martinez was sitting on a chair outside the double doors of the Benjamin Franklin Suite, reading the Philadelphia Daily News. When he saw them, he stood up and knocked on the door.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Matt asked.

“This is where the guy inside told me to wait,” Jesus said.

“You had your dinner?”

Martinez shook his head, “no.”

The suite door opened a crack, and Alex peered out, then saw Colt and opened the door all the way.

Matt signaled for Jesus to follow him into the room.

“Detective Martinez is not a rent-a-cop,” Matt announced. “He doesn’t sit in the corridor. Clear?”

Alex looked at Colt.

“What the hell is the matter with you, Alex?” Colt snapped.

“Sorry, Stan,” Alex said.

“Stan, this is Jesus Martinez, a detective from Special Operations. ”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Colt said, sounding as if he meant it.

“He’s half of your chastity squad,” Matt said. “The other half will relieve him at midnight.”

Colt chuckled, and held out his hand to Martinez.

“If you can get rid of these two,” he said, “I’ve got some phone numbers and we could have a party.”

Matt shook his head.

“Hay-zus,” he said. “This is Olivia Lassiter from Northwest. ”

They briefly shook hands. It was obvious from the surprise on Alex’s face that he had taken one look at Olivia and assumed Stan Colt’s trolling for companionship had been successful.

Eddie the photographer and Jeannette the secretary were in the room.

“Have you made a decision about dinner?” Jeanette asked.

“Yeah. Here. You’re not invited,” Colt said. “Just me and the detectives. You’ve got a menu?”

She went to a sideboard and returned with a menu and handed it to him. He handed it to Olivia.

“Does Jesus get to stay?” Colt asked.

“Yes, he does,” Matt said.

“Good. Okay. Thank you. That’s all. I’ll see you in the morning,” Colt said.

They all filed out of the suite.

Matt noticed that they had not-except for the surprise on Alex’s face-acknowledged the presence of him, Hay-zus, or Olivia at all.

“They’re necessary,” Colt said when they were gone. “And they do what they’re supposed to do well, but sometimes, having them around my neck all the time is worse than the goddamn press.”

Colt lay down on the couch and gestured for the others to sit down.

“I was about to ask you if they have a cheese steak sandwich on there, Olivia. But it has now occurred to me that if they do, it’ll be a Ritz-Carlton cheese steak, not a real one. Like from D’Allesandro’s on Henry Avenue?”

“I can’t believe these prices,” Olivia said.

“Well, don’t worry about them, everything’s on the studio, ” Colt said. “I wonder, could we send out for a cheese steak?”

“It would be cold by the time it got here,” Matt said.

“Well, maybe later on,” Colt said.

Olivia handed the menu to Matt.

“Inspire me,” she said.

“I think you already do, baby,” Colt said. “Give me the menu.”

Matt handed him the menu.

He glanced at it quickly.

“Anybody doesn’t like shrimp cocktails?”

No one spoke.

“Anybody morally or intellectually opposed to filet mignon?”

No one spoke.

“Anyone determined to ruin a good steak by cooking it well done?”

No one spoke, but Matt and Olivia chuckled.

“Well, that wasn’t hard, was it?” Colt said, and walked to the sideboard and picked up the telephone.

“This is Mr. Colt in… I have no idea where I am, but I’ll bet you can find out. What we need right away is four shrimp cocktails; four filet mignons, medium rare; all the appropriate side dishes; and a couple of nice bottles of cabernet sauvignon. Thank you very much.”

He hung up.

“Okay,” he said. “You can start now, pause while they set up the table, and then continue, okay, Detective Lassiter?”

“Fine,” Olivia said.

“Can I call you Olivia, or will your boyfriend here think I’m making a pass at you?”

“I’m not her boyfriend,” Matt said.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Olivia said, simultaneously.

“Methinks thou dost protest too much,” Colt said in a surprisingly creditable British Shakespearean accent.

“Hay-zus,” Matt said, quickly. “The commissioner wants Mr. Colt to see how-”

“Hey, I thought we were friends. What’s this ‘Mr. Colt’ shit?”

“The commissioner wants Stan to see how Homicide works a job,” Matt went on. “Lassiter was next up on the wheel at Northwest when the Thirty-fifth uniform called in what turned out to be the Williamson homicide. For a couple of reasons, she’s been detailed to Homicide for the job, and Captain Quaire told her to bring Stan up to speed on the job.”

“I wondered what was going on,” Martinez said.

“I’m still wondering,” Colt said. “You want to say that again, please, slowly, in English? What’s the wheel, for example?”

When room service delivered the dinner-two rolling carts of it-in what Matt thought was an amazingly short time, Matt had just about finished explaining what the wheel was and how Olivia and then Homicide had become involved.

He interrupted his explanation as long as he could-the object of the exercise was to keep Colt out of the way of whatever was happening with the doers of the Roy Rogers job-and then when Colt insisted, halfway through the steaks, that he “keep talking, this is the sort of stuff I really want to hear,” he explained everything in minute detail, hoping that Olivia would follow his lead when she began to relate what had happened when she had first gone to the Williamson apartment.

She did, but even stretching it, and even with Hay-zus kicking in with detailed explanations of why things were done, and done in certain ways, there was only so much to relate, and when Olivia had finished, it was far too early to hope that Colt would have had enough and want to go to bed.

He didn’t have enough-despite his having asked a number of intelligent questions that had required long explanations-and he didn’t want to go to bed.

“You know what I’d like to do now?” Colt asked, rhetorically, and went on without waiting for a reply. “It’s only a little after ten. I’d like to take a ride. Maybe go back to that bar you took me to before, maybe go by this Special Operations place where Hay-zus works, maybe take a quick look at that warehouse where you said they keep the undercover cars… And go out to D’Allesandro’s for a real cheese steak.”

“You just finished eating,” Olivia blurted.

“I didn’t eat much,” he said. “And I really want a cheese steak. We can get the cheese steak last before we call it a night, after we see the other stuff.”

Although he sensed it was going to be futile, Matt offered objections.

“There’s a couple of problems with that, Stan,” he began.

“Like what?” Colt replied with a smile, but in a tone of voice that made it clear he was used to getting whatever he asked for.

“Well, for one thing, we’ll have to run the gauntlet of the press waiting for you downstairs.”

“The other security guys can handle that,” Colt said.

“Stan, the people downstairs are police officers, members of the Dignitary Protection Unit. Not ‘security guys.’ Security guys are rent-a-cops.”

“No offense, that’s very interesting, good to know, and I won’t make that mistake again. What else?”

“We can’t go into the IAD warehouse if we go there in my unmarked car.”

“But we could drive by it, right? If we didn’t stop?”

“Yes, we could.”

“Okay, that solves that. What the hell, if I went inside, all I’d see is a bunch of cars, right?”

“Right.”

“Anything else?”

“If we go to D’Allesandro’s, you’re probably going to be recognized, and likely mobbed by your fans.”

“Sergeant Payne,” Colt said, switching voices again, “I have a deep, one might say profound, trust that you and Detective Lassiter can shield me from the enthusiasm of my fans. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Stan,” Olivia said. “I’m not working Dignitary Protection. I have to do one of two things: go back to the phone in Homicide, or go home, so I can start off first thing in the morning.”

“You’ve already put a lot of hours in today,” Matt said. “We’ll take you home…” And then he had a second thought. “Why don’t we drop you at Homicide, and you see what the Captain or Washington wants you to do?”

It took her a moment to understand what he really meant.

“If anything interesting has come up, I could call you,” she said.

“Great idea!” Colt said.

“Hay-zus, you got the number of the sergeant downstairs? ” Matt asked.

Martinez took out his telephone, punched in numbers, and handed the phone to him.

“Sergeant Nevins.”

“Matt Payne,” Matt said. “Mr. Colt wants to ride around town a little. Is that going to pose any problems for you?”

“You want to take a couple of uniforms with you?”

“No. I was thinking about the press. They still there?”

“Yeah. We can handle them. Just give a couple of minutes’ notice.”

“We’ll be down in five minutes,” Matt said.

“I really appreciate this, buddy,” Stan Colt said.

When officers commanding, for example, the Impact Unit and Internal Affairs get an order directly from the first deputy commissioner, they tend to drop whatever they might have been doing and start to comply with the order. The same is true when the commanding officer of a detective division gets any kind of an order from the chief inspector of detectives.

This being the case, Inspector Wohl had been more than a little surprised that the first person to respond to the summons issued was Steven J. Cohen, Esq., head of the District Attorney’s Homicide Unit, a dapper, tanned, well-dressed forty-year-old.

“That was quick, Steve,” Wohl greeted him. “Thank you.”

“I would say I heard my mistress’s voice, but that would be subject to misinterpretation,” Cohen said. “I was in Center City. Please don’t ask me why.”

“Why were you in Center City, Steve?” Wohl asked.

“Would you believe my wife is a Stan Colt fan? And/or that I paid a hundred dollars each for two tickets entitling us to stand in a long line in the Bellvue-Stratford to shake his hand, and two very watery drinks? And that when Al called me, I was in the bar of the Ritz-Carlton, where he is staying, and where, my wife hoped, he would appear?”

“I believe you,” Wohl said. “If you can’t believe a lawyer, who can you believe?”

Cohen gave him the finger.

“What’s up, Peter?”

“We’ve identified one of the doers in the Roy Rogers job,” Peter began.

He had just about finished when Inspector Michael Weisbach of Internal Affairs walked into Homicide. Weisbach was a slightly built man who wore mock tortoise-frame glasses and always managed to look rumpled. Weisbach and Wohl were longtime friends.

He nodded at Cohen and looked expectantly at Wohl, but didn’t say anything.

“So how’s by you, Michael?” Wohl asked, finally, in a creditable mock-Yiddish accent.

Cohen chuckled.

“What the hell is this all about, Peter?” Weisbach asked, not able to resist a smile.

“I would deeply appreciate your patience, Inspector, until Captain Mikkles of Impact and Captain Calmon of Southwest Detectives get here,” Wohl said. “I’ve just explained the whole thing to the shyster here, and I’d rather do it only once more, when everybody is here.”

“How come the shyster gets special treatment?”

“Because I like him,” Wohl said.

“Oh, Christ,” Weisbach groaned.

Cohen pointed toward the door to Homicide. Captain Michael J. Mikkles, who commanded the Impact Task Force- a special antidrug unit-had just come in. He was a tall, very thin, bald-headed man in his fifties. He was halfway to Captain Quaire’s office when Captain Calmon entered Homicide.

When he was in the office, and they had all shaken hands all around, Wohl closed the door.

“First things first,” he said. “I need six undercover vehicles for an indefinite period, said vehicles suitable for a round-the — clock surveillance at the Paschall Homes Housing Project, and I need them right now.”

“Who are we going to-” Weisbach started to ask.

“Indulge me, Mike,” Wohl interrupted. “I’ll explain everything in a minute. Right now, I want two undercover vehicles at Special Operations, two more within a couple of hours, and a total of six by morning. You two decide between you where they’re coming from.”

“You’re just asking for vehicles, right? You don’t want any of my detectives?” Captain Calmon asked.

“Just the vehicles. We’ll use Special Operations and Homicide detectives for surveillance until we run out of people.”

“Inspector,” Captain Mikkles said. “I don’t have any undercover cars to spare. The only way I could give you vehicles is to take them off jobs.”

“Then that’s the way it’ll have to be,” Wohl said, “unless Inspector Weisbach can give me two right now.”

Weisbach took out his cellular and punched an autodial number.

“This is Weisbach,” he announced. “How many covert cars-anything suitable for surveillance in a project-can I get out of the warehouse right now?”

The Internal Affairs Division, which is engaged primarily in investigating policemen, had a fairly large fleet of bona fide “civilian” cars and other vehicles because very few policemen cannot spot an unmarked car in the first glance. The vehicles- many of them forfeitures in drug cases-were kept in a warehouse several blocks from the IAD offices on Dungan Road.

He waited and listened, and then turned to Wohl.

“I’ve got two pretty beat-up vans and a Chrysler, almost new, you can have right now. Maybe tomorrow we can do better.”

“They’re in the warehouse?” Wohl asked. Weisbach nodded. “Then we have to figure a way to get them out to Special Operations.”

“I’m here in my car,” Weisbach said. “I could run a couple of people by the warehouse.”

The IAD warehouse had no identifying signs on it, and IAD tried to preserve its anonymity by never going near it in marked or unmarked cars.

“Can you carry four people?” Wohl asked.

Weisbach nodded.

“Then we’ll do that,” Wohl said.

“Do I get an explanation of what’s going on?” Weisbach asked. “I’d kind of like to know.”

“Well, if you’re going to be difficult,” Wohl said, and turned to Captain Mikkles. “Mick, I’m going to have to have two more cars in, say, two hours. If that means you have to call off a surveillance, so be it.”

“Yes, sir,” Mikkles said. It was obvious he did not like the order.

“Okay,” Wohl said. “Then let’s go out there, and I’ll explain, for what I really hope is the last time, what’s going on.”

Just about everybody in the outer office stopped talking and directed their attention toward Captain Quaire’s office as Wohl and the others filed out of it.

“For you, Inspector,” Captain Michael J. Sabara said, handing Wohl one of the phones on Captain Quaire’s desk. “It’s Mickey O’Hara.”

Sabara was sitting in Quaire’s chair. Peter Wohl and Jason Washington were sitting on wooden chairs-Washington with his legs sprawled in front of him, Wohl sitting in his chair backward. Quaire had left five minutes earlier, at Wohl’s pointed suggestion that since everybody had a lot to do in the morning, and he could think of nothing else they could do tonight, it might be a good idea to get some rest, it was already almost eleven.

Sabara, Wohl had just told him, was going to be responsible for providing what detectives Washington-to whom Wohl had given responsibility for the Paschall Homes Housing Project-decided he needed, and to make sure there were Highway Patrol cars always no farther than five minutes away from the surveillance site.

“And how is my all-time favorite journalist?” Wohl said into the phone.

“Pissed is how I am,” O’Hara said. “Suspecting, as I do, that I am about to get another runaround.”

“Another? Implying you have already been run around? By whom?”

“The Master Chef,” O’Hara said. “You were there, Peter. Denny Coughlin promised to keep me informed. He didn’t. And when I called him just now, he told me to call you, and you’d fill me in.”

“Fill you in about what?” Wohl said, innocently.

“I knew it, I knew it. Be advised, Inspector, that my promise to have seen and heard nothing is now null and void.”

“Where are you, Mick?”

“Liberties.”

“Washington and I will be there in five minutes. We’re just finishing up here.”

“I’ll trust you that far, Peter. But not sixty seconds longer.”

“We’ll be there in about five minutes. We’re leaving right now. Okay?”

“You have ten minutes, Old Pal of Mine,” O’Hara said, and the line went dead.

Washington’s cellular buzzed as he and Inspector Peter Wohl walked out of the Roundhouse into the parking lot.

“Joe D’Amata, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t tell me, please, Joseph, that you have encountered a problem at the warehouse. I want that car in the project right now.”

“It’s an old Chevy van, not a car. And I don’t know if it’s a problem or not, but I thought I should tell you.”

“Please do. The suspense is too much for my tired old heart.”

“When I came out of the warehouse just now, there was a Ford parked halfway up the street. Lights out but people in it. When I got closer, I saw Payne was sitting in it.”

“You refer to our Sergeant Payne?” Washington asked.

The question caught Wohl’s attention.

“Yeah. And sitting beside him was either Stan Colt or somebody who looks a hell of a lot like Stan Colt. Is there something I don’t know?”

“What were they doing?” Washington asked.

“Looking at the warehouse,” D’Amata said.

“With their lights out?”

“With their lights out.”

“Joseph,” Washington said, looking at Wohl, “I have no explanation whatever for Sergeant Payne and Stan Colt being outside the IAD warehouse in an unmarked car with the lights out, but I will make inquiries and advise you. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

Washington pushed the End button and looked at Wohl. Wohl took out his cellular and pushed an autodial number.

“Matt, is Mr. Colt with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Meet me at Liberties. Now. Do not go inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant Washington, and Sergeant Payne arrived at Liberties within thirty seconds of one another.

Lieutenant Washington went inside Liberties.

Mr. Michael J. O’Hara was sitting alone at the bar.

“You better be about to tell me that Peter’s right on your heels,” O’Hara greeted him.

“Peter’s right on my heels.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“We’ve identified one of the miscreants in the Roy Rogers job, and have a good idea who the other one is.”

“I heard that much at Augie Wohl’s.”

“Mrs. Solomon is very concerned that, unless we exercise great care, the malefactors may slip through the cracks in the floor of the criminal justice system.”

“Which means what, exactly?”

“That an arrest will not be made until such time as Mrs. Solomon feels there is a stronger case than what we have now, which is identification of one of them by fingerprints. ”

Inspector Wohl went to Matt’s unmarked Crown Victoria and got in the backseat.

“Mr. Colt, I’m Inspector Wohl,” Wohl said.

Stan Colt reached over the back of the seat and enthusiastically shook Wohl’s hand.

“Hey! Great! How are you? Matt’s been telling me all about you!”

“You were seen outside the IAD warehouse, Sergeant Payne,” Wohl said. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

“Mr. Colt wanted to see it, so I showed it to him.”

“Okay. Is there anything else Mr. Colt wants to see tonight? ”

“We’re going to D’Allesandro’s for a cheese steak,” Matt said.

“And we’d love to have you come along,” Stan Colt said.

“That’s very kind, but it’s been a long day, and what I’m going to do is have a nightcap with Lieutenant Washington and go home.”

“Tell you what, Inspector,” Colt said. “Why don’t we all go in there and have a nightcap, then Matt and I will go to D’Allesandro’s, and then we’ll all go home.”

Mr. Colt put action to his words by getting out of the car, walking quickly to the door of Liberties, motioning cheerfully for Matt and Wohl to follow him, and disappearing inside.

“Jesus Christ!” Wohl said. “Mickey’s in there, waiting for me to tell him what’s going on.”

“I saw the pressmobile,” Matt said.

“This isn’t funny, goddamn it!”

“What are you going to do?” Matt asked.

“Goddamn movie actor!”

“Actually, he’s not really such a bad sort,” Matt said. “He sort of grows on you.”