Final Justice

SIXTEEN

The editorial in the Philadelphia Ledger was brought to Mayor Alvin W. Martin’s attention by Mr. Philip Donaldson, who decided the editorial was worth finally playing one of his aces in the hole, this one the mayor’s unlisted and carefully guarded home telephone number.

After this call, Phil was sure, the number would go unanswered until another unlisted number could be obtained and the original one taken out of service.

“Yeah?” the mayor said, somewhat less than charmingly, into his kitchen telephone.

“Am I mistaken, or did the Honorable Alvin W. Martin, our mayor, answer his phone himself?”

The voice was familiar, but the mayor could not quite place it.

“This is Alvin Martin,” he said, now far more pleasantly, “who not only answers his own phone, but whom you caught in the midst of making his own breakfast.”

“The little woman didn’t make it for you, Mr. Mayor?”

“No, she didn’t. Who is this?”

“Phil Donaldson, Mr. Mayor, of Phil’s Philly. And you’re on the air!”

How the hell did you get this number?

Just in time, the mayor stopped himself from asking that thought aloud. Instead, mustering what charm he could under the circumstances, he said,

“Well, good morning, Phil.”

“And good morning to you, Mr. Mayor.”

“What can I do for you, Phil, so early in the morning?”

“Just a question or two, Mr. Mayor, and then you can go back to making your own breakfast. Do you always make your own breakfast?”

What business is that of yours?

“Is that one of your two questions?”

“Maybe it will be three questions. But what about breakfast? ”

“I try, like every other husband, I suppose, to pitch in whenever my wife is tied up.”

“Tied up?”

You flip sonofabitch!

“A figure of speech, Phil.”

“Of course.”

“The questions, Phil?”

If I ever find out who gave this bastard my number…

“Have you seen this morning’s Ledger, Mr. Mayor?”

“I was just about to.”

“After you finished your breakfast, you mean?”

“I thought I’d have a glance at it while I was eating my breakfast.”

“That’s probably a good idea, Mr. Mayor. The Ledger has some pretty startling, even unkind, things to say in an editorial about the police department generally, and you specifically.”

Oh, shit!

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, they do, I’m sorry to tell you. And I-and all the good folks out there listening in Phil’s Philly-would like to get your reaction to them.”

What the hell’s in this goddamn editorial?

“An editorial, you say, Phil?”

“That’s right, Mr. Mayor. They just about called for you to resign, after you fire Police Commissioner Mariani.”

Goddamn it! What the hell is the Ledger onto now?

"Did they say why, Phil? Or are they just still sore that I won the election?”

“No, it’s a little more serious than that, I’m afraid, Mr. Mayor. Now, I don’t want to put you on a spot, Mr. Mayor…”

The hell you don’t! That’s your stock-in-trade, you slimeball!

“… and if you haven’t read the Ledger… So you read the Bulletin first, did you?”

You prick!

“Actually, Phil, I read both every day before I go to Center City, in no particular order, but I just haven’t had a chance to look at either so far today.”

“Well, what I’d like to do, Mr. Mayor, if you’re willing…”

“Anything within reason, Phil.”

“How about I call you at the office at eleven?” Mr. Donaldson asked, reasonably. “By then you’ll have had plenty of time to read the editorial…”

This is the last fucking time you’re ever going to get me on the phone. How stupid do you think I am?

“I may not be in the office at eleven, Phil.”

“Well, then, where will you be at eleven? Someplace without a telephone? I thought they were all over these days, like inside plumbing.”

“I really don’t know right now, Phil, where I’ll be at eleven. You have to understand…”

“You wouldn’t be trying to give me-and all the good folks out there listening in Phil’s Philly-the runaround, would you, Mr. Mayor?”

“Now, Phil, why would you say something like that?”

“Because that’s what it sounds like, Mr. Mayor.”

You sonofabitch, you got me!

“You call my office at eleven, Phil, and I’ll be happy to take your call.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“I give you my word, Phil.”

“I asked you to cross your heart and hope to die,” Phil said, paused, and added, “Just a little joke. I’ll take you at your word, Mr. Mayor, of course. And we’ll look forward to talking to you at eleven.”

“I look forward to it myself, Phil. It’s always a pleasure.”

“Have a nice breakfast, Mr. Mayor,” Mr. Donaldson said.

He broke the connection and leaned into his microphone.

“Well, you heard it folks, the mayor gave his word that he’d take my call-which means he’ll take our call-at eleven. That should be an interesting conversation. Make sure you tell all your friends to be tuned in. And now a word from the friendly folks at Dick Golden Ford on the Baltimore Pike. Be right back afterward.”

He turned off his microphone.

“Gotcha, you bastard!” he said.

Lieutenant Jason Washington was in the lieutenant’s office in Homicide when Matt and Olivia walked in. Matt was surprised; it was quarter to eight, and Washington usually showed up at ten or later.

As Matt walked toward the lieutenant’s office, Washington looked up, saw them, and motioned for them to come in.

“Good morning, Detective Lassiter,” he said.

“Good morning, sir,” Olivia said.

“Is there some reason you chose to answer neither your radio nor your cellular, Matthew? Or you, Detective, your cellular?” Washington asked.

“I turned the radio off when I was ferrying Colt around,” Matt said, “or he would have wanted to respond to anything that came over it. And obviously, I didn’t turn it back on this morning.” He took his cellular from his pocket. “And the battery is dead in this.”

“And you, Detective?”

Olivia had her cellular in her hand.

“I guess I didn’t turn it on this morning, sir,” she said.

“Need I say that I would be both disappointed and more than a little annoyed if this ever-the operative word is ‘ever’-happened again?”

“No, sir,” they said, almost in unison.

“Then the incident is closed,” Washington said.

“Have you seen the Bulletin this morning, Lieutenant?” Matt asked.

“With your image adorning page one? Indeed, I have. And so, I daresay, has most of the population of Philadelphia.”

“I wasn’t talking about my picture,” Matt said. “I meant this.”

He laid Section Three of the Bulletin, “Living Today,” open to page four, on the desk.

“Then you stand out like a cork bobbing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, for everyone else in Philadelphia is talking of nothing else… What am I being shown?”

“Look at the guy on the ground in the picture,” Matt said.

Washington looked.

“You can doubtless imagine the odds against that fellow being our critter,” he said after a moment. “But if you wish to turn over the stone under the stone, why don’t you give them a call?”

“I already have.”

Washington looked at him with interest.

“They wouldn’t tell me whether or not this guy had a knife,” Matt said. “Or whether he was just peeping in windows or trying to break in, or whether the window belonged to a young woman…”

“And you have concluded, obviously, that this proves he did indeed have a knife, with which he was trying to break into the apartment of a young woman?”

“I think the possibility exists,” Matt said, a little lamely.

One of the telephones on the desk rang, and Washington had it to his ear before it could ring again.

“Homicide, Lieutenant Washington,” he said.

And a moment later,

“Yes, sir.”

And a moment later,

“Yes, sir. They are both here with me.”

And a final moment later,

“Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”

He put the handset in its cradle.

“Detective Lassiter, it is said that God takes care of fools and drunks. While you are certainly not a drunk, Sergeant Payne qualifies on both counts, and you have apparently been taken under his protective mantle.”

“Sir?” Olivia asked.

“The reason I attempted-and failed, and we now know why, don’t we? — to communicate with the both of you this morning was to relay the order of Deputy Commissioner Coughlin to get you both in here immediately, and keep you here until I had additional instructions from him.”

“I don’t understand,” Matt said. “Is he pissed about the picture? Olivia had nothing to do with that.”

Washington ignored the reply.

“Those were the additional instructions promised. We are to report to Commissioner Mariani forthwith.”

He stood up and gestured for them to precede him out of the office.

“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on?” Matt asked.

“Obviously, you haven’t had time to read the editorial page of the Ledger, have you?”

“No. What’s on the editorial page?”

“Among many other things, your photograph.”

Commissioner Mariani was sitting behind his desk. Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Inspector Wohl were sitting side by side on a couch, and Captain Quaire was sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair just inside the door.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Washington said.

Matt and Olivia said nothing.

“I presume everyone has seen the Ledger?” Commissioner Mariani asked.

“No, sir,” Matt and Olivia said, in duet.

Mariani gestured impatiently to Captain Quaire to hand the newspaper to them.

Matt took it, and Olivia stepped close to him and read it over his shoulder.

“My God!” Olivia said.

“I’m sure you will understand why I have to ask this question, Detective,” Mariani said. “Did anything improper, or anything that could be construed as improper-say, by Philadelphia Phil-happen while you were in Mr. Colt’s hotel room?”

“No, sir,” Olivia replied, visibly shocked by the question.

“Were you ever alone with Mr. Colt at any time, for even a brief period?”

“No, sir. Matt… Sergeant Payne… was there all the time, and so was Detective… What’s his name, Matt?”

“Detective Hay-zus Martinez,” Matt furnished.

“I’m not surprised, but I had to ask,” Mariani said. “And what you did was only-acting on orders from Captain Quaire- explain to Mr. Colt your involvement in the Williamson murder? ”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there was absolutely nothing social about your visit to Mr. Colt?”

“He bought us dinner, sir.”

Mariani thought that over. It was obvious he hadn’t liked to hear that.

“Philadelphia Phil somehow got the mayor’s unlisted home number,” Coughlin said. “He called him, and asked him to respond to the Ledger editorial. The mayor said he hadn’t read it. Philadelphia Phil will call him at his office at eleven. The mayor’s going to have to take that call. All of Philadelphia Phil’s early-morning listeners heard him promise to take it.”

“And so far, according to Lieutenant Pearson of Northwest Detectives, Mr. Philadelphia Phil-” Mariani began.

“The bastard’s name is Donaldson,” Coughlin furnished. “Phil Donaldson.”

“Mr. Donaldson has called twice there asking to speak to Detective Lassiter,” Mariani went on, “and twice to Homicide, according to Captain Quaire, where he asked to speak to either her or Payne.”

Mariani let that sink in for a moment, then went on:

“Mr. Donaldson, as we all know, is a skilled interviewer. Moreover, it has been suggested to me that he is more than a little annoyed with Lassiter, for her having gotten Mrs. Williamson to say she understood why the uniforms couldn’t take the Williamson girl’s door, after he had painted the uniforms as… We all know what he said.”

“Commissioner, may I go off at a tangent?” Washington asked.

Mariani glared at him but nodded.

“Make it quick, Jason.”

“Just before we were all summoned here, sir, I was about to order Sergeant Payne and Detective Lassiter to immediately proceed to Daphne, Mississippi, to run down a lead in the Williamson case.”

“Sir, that’s Daphne, Alabama,” Matt said.

“ ‘Daphne, Alabama’?” Mariani parroted, incredulously.

“Yes, sir. I believe it’s on the Gulf of Mexico,” Washington said.

“Tell me about the lead, Jason,” Coughlin said.

“Why don’t you explain to the Commissioner what you think you may have, Sergeant Payne?” Washington said.

“Yes, sir. Sir, last night the Daphne police-actually it was a civilian from one of those community watch things- apprehended a man in what looked like the act of prying open the window of a young woman’s apartment.”

“So what?” Quaire snorted. “You’re not suggesting it’s the Williamson doer?”

“Let the sergeant continue, please, Captain,” Peter Wohl said, softly. He added, wonderingly, “Daphne, Alabama? That’s a long way from here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said. “When I heard about this-”

“How did you hear about this?” Mariani asked.

“It was in the newspaper, sir. The Bulletin.”

“Go on, Sergeant,” Wohl said.

“I called down there, sir, and from what I learned, there is enough of a similarity of modus operandi to merit further investigation.”

“Over the years, I have come to appreciate Lieutenant Washington’s belief that the stone under the stone sometimes has to be turned over,” Wohl said. “Even if that stone is as far away as… Where is this place?”

“Daphne, Alabama, sir,” Matt said.

“As far away as Daphne, Alabama, and that turning the stone over might take three, four days, perhaps even longer.”

“I think that Lieutenant Washington was right in deciding to send Sergeant Payne and Detective Lassiter all the way down to Daphne, Alabama, for four or five days to run this lead down, wouldn’t you agree, Captain Quaire?” Deputy Commissioner Coughlin said.

“Yes, sir, I certainly would,” Captain Quaire, having just realized the all-around wisdom of getting Sergeant Payne and Detective Lassiter out of town for four or five days, quickly agreed.

“And under the circumstances,” Wohl went on, “that sending them immediately, without waiting for the ordinary administrative procedures to take place, would be justified. Would you agree, Commissioner?”

Mariani thought that over for two seconds.

“Yes, I would agree, Inspector,” he said.

“Have you got any cash, Matt?” Wohl asked.

“Some, and I’ve got credit cards,” Matt said.

“Is there any compelling reason, Detective Lassiter, why you can’t leave, right now, to pursue this investigation wherever it takes you?”

“I’d have to pack,” Olivia said, practically.

“There might not be time for that,” Wohl said. “Perhaps you could pick up whatever you need when you get there?”

“Yes, sir,” Detective Lassiter said.

“In that case, I suggest that you and Sergeant Payne leave for the airport immediately,” Inspector Wohl said. “Leave your car with the Airport unit. I’m sure Lieutenant Washington will arrange to have someone pick it up.”

“Indeed, I will,” Lieutenant Washington said. “Bon chasse, Sergeant Payne.”

“We want to go to Daphne, Alabama, not Florida,” Sergeant Payne said to the lady at the Delta ticket counter in the Philadelphia International Airport.

“According to the computer, Daphne, Alabama, is served by both Mobile, Alabama, and Pensacola, Florida,” the ticket agent said. “I can get you-first class only-on a flight connecting at eleven-twenty-five to Pensacola in Atlanta leaving in thirty-five minutes. If you want to go to Mobile, you’ll have to wait until five-forty-five in Atlanta.”

Matt handed her his American Express card.

“I never leave home without it,” Matt said to the ticket agent.

“Oh, God!” Olivia said.

“Oh, shit, the guns!” Matt said.

The ticket agent looked at him with great interest.

“We’re police officers,” Matt said, which caused the ticket agent to look at him with even greater interest.

Olivia produced her badge and photo identification, which caused the ticket agent to look at her with great interest.

“You’ll have to pack any firearms, unloaded, in your luggage, ” the ticket agent said.

“We don’t have any luggage,” Matt said.

The supervisory ticket agent was consulted.

Two metal lock-boxes were produced. Olivia’s Glock and Matt’s Colt were produced, which caused the people in line to look at them with great interest. The guns were then unloaded to the satisfaction of the supervisory ticket agent, the cartridges placed in small Ziploc plastic bags, and the bags, in padding, placed in one of the lock-boxes. Then the pistols were put in Ziploc bags and, with packing, placed in the other lock-box. Matt filled out an orange Unloaded Firearm Declaration card. It was placed inside with the pistols, then the boxes locked and placed on the baggage belt.

“You’re not the first,” the supervisory ticket agent said, handing Matt the keys and the claim checks to the boxes. “Have a nice flight.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or something else?” the stewardess inquired of the cute young couple in seats 2A and 2B.

“No champagne?” Sergeant Payne replied. “I thought you got champagne in first class?”

“Oh, God!” Olivia said.

“We’re celebrating,” Matt said to the stewardess.

“Just married, maybe?” the stewardess asked.

Matt grabbed Olivia’s hand with his left hand, and held the index finger of his right over his lips.

“Don’t ask,” he said.

“I’ll get your champagne,” the stewardess said, smiling warmly.

“You’re insane,” Olivia said when the stewardess had gone. “You’re absolutely bonkers.”

But she was smiling, and she did not attempt to free her hand.

Matt moved his champagne glass out of the way, took the inflight telephone from its holder between the seats, fed it- with some difficulty-his American Express card, and then made two calls.

The first was to the Homicide Unit, where he left a message for either Captain Quaire or Lieutenant Washington that he and Detective Lassiter were airborne.

The second was to the law offices of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, where he asked to be connected with Mrs. Craig. Mrs. Irene Craig, a tall, silver-haired svelte lady in her fifties, was executive secretary to Mr. Brewster Cortland Payne II, a founding partner of the firm.

“Your dad’s on his way in, Matty,” Mrs. Craig greeted him. “I don’t know if he’s seen the Ledger or not, but the colonel’s already in the library reading up on libel.”

The colonel was Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, another founding partner of the firm, whom Matt’s father sometimes described as the firm’s resident pit bull.

“That’s not really what I called about, Mrs. Craig,” Matt said. “I need a favor…”

“Matty, what else did you do?”

Her tone was maternal. She had known Sergeant Payne since he wore diapers.

“Nothing,” he protested. “I’m on a plane to Atlanta. Final destination, via Pensacola, Florida, Daphne, Alabama.”

“I don’t think I’m going to like this,” Mrs. Craig said.

“What if I told you it’s police business?”

“I’d have trouble believing you. Where did you say you were headed? Alabama?”

“Daphne, Alabama,” he furnished. “And what I need is a rental car in Pensacola, and then someplace to stay-two rooms-in Daphne, Alabama.”

“Somebody’s with you?”

“Yeah. We’re going to need two rooms.”

“I’ll need his name.”

“It’s a her. Olivia Lassiter. Two ‘s’s.”

“Oh?”

“Detective Lassiter.”

“Oh. Her.”

“Like I said, it’s police business.”

“I’m sure it is. How do I get in touch with you? Will your cellular work in Alabama?”

“We’ll soon find out. We get to Atlanta at ten-fifty. Oh, wait a minute. My cellular battery’s dead.”

There was a slight delay as Matt got Olivia’s cell phone number. He gave it to Mrs. Craig.

“Thanks, Mrs. Craig.”

“You realize you’ve made your father’s day, I hope. What do I tell him? I don’t even want to think about your mother.”

“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“How do you spell Daphne?”

“I have no idea.”

“Good morning, Mr. Donaldson,” the Hon. Alvin W. Martin said, charmingly. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“It’s Phil, Mr. Mayor. Calling for all the people out there in Phil’s Philly.”

“All right then, Phil.”

“Thank you for taking my call.”

“It’s always a pleasure, Phil.”

“I’ve been trying to call Detective Lassiter and Sergeant Payne, Mr. Mayor. They don’t seem to be available.”

“Is that so?”

“They seem to be out of town, Mr. Mayor.”

“So I understand. Commissioner Mariani told me.”

“You wouldn’t want to tell me where and why, would you, Mr. Mayor?”

“I’ll tell you why. They have a developing lead in the Williamson murder, one that looks very promising.”

“Which just happens to make them unavailable to talk to me, right?”

“I’m afraid, Phil, that seems to be the case. But as soon as they get back in town, I’m sure they will be as delighted to talk to you-and all the people out there in Phil’s Philadelphia — as I am.”

“And when will that be?”

“In four or five days, possibly.”

“And in the meantime, we don’t get to hear what happened in Stan Colt’s hotel room, right? That’s a convenient coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d call it the press of duty, Phil. A matter of priorities. Solving that case takes precedence, as I’m sure you’ll understand, over just about everything else.”

“So what you’re telling me, Mr. Mayor-correct me if I’m wrong-is that no one out there in Phil’s Philly is going to hear what went on in Stan Colt’s hotel room until Sergeant Payne and the beautiful lady detective come back to town?”

“I didn’t say that, Phil. Would you like to talk to someone who was in Mr. Colt’s hotel suite all the time Sergeant Payne and Detective Lassiter were there?”

“And who would that be?”

“Pick up the extension, please, Detective Martinez, and say hello to Mr. Donaldson.”

“Hello.”

“With whom am I speaking, please?”

“Detective Jesus Martinez.”

“Good morning, Detective. Say hello to all the people out there in Phil’s Philly.”

“Hello.”

“And where are you assigned, Jesus… You don’t mind if I call you ‘Jesus,’ do you?”

“Suit yourself.”

“All right, Jesus. Could you tell me what you were doing in Stan Colt’s hotel room all the time the mayor says Sergeant Payne and the lovely Detective Lassiter were in there?”

“I was on the Dignitary Protection Detail.”

“Mr. Colt needed protection? From what, Jesus?”

“Excuse me?”

“What does Stan Colt need police protection from, Jesus? Pretty women?”

“You bet he does. They was all over the street outside the hotel.”

“Who was?”

“His fans were. His lady fans.”

“And they were all beautiful?”

“Not all of them. Some was dogs.”

“Well, Phil,” the mayor of Philadelphia said, “you asked for the truth.”

“Yes, I did,” Phil said. “Detective Martinez-Jesus-what I’m interested to hear-what all the folks out there in Phil’s Philly want to hear-is what happened in Stan Colt’s hotel room.”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to tell me, right?”

“Lassiter told him what had gone down on the Williamson job.”

“By which you mean the brutal murder of Cheryl Williamson? You call that a job?”

“That’s what we call it.”

“And why did Detective Lassiter feel she was equipped to tell him ‘what had gone down’? And why was she telling him?”

“She was the first detective on the scene. And the Homicide captain told her to tell him.”

“I see,” Phil said. “And what you’re telling me-correct me if I’m wrong-is that all that happened in Stan Colt’s hotel room was that Detective Lassiter told him about the Williamson murder?”

“Yeah.”

“She told him everything, right?”

“Probably not. She’s a pretty good cop, from what I’ve seen, and I don’t think she told him everything.”

“Why not? What’s everything?”

“You don’t tell civilians some things about a job. I don’t know what she didn’t tell him, but I’m sure there was a lot.”

“And what else happened?”

“He bought us a steak dinner. He’s a pretty good guy.”

“Phil,” the mayor of Philadelphia said, “I really hate to break this up, but Detective Martinez has got to get back to his duty-Mr. Colt is having lunch with the cardinal in connection with his fund-raising for West Catholic High School, and Detective Martinez has to be with him. And I’ve got a pretty full plate myself. How about just one more question?”

“Well, let me think of one more question,” Mr. Donaldson said, “to ask for all the folks out there in Phil’s Philly.”

He paused a moment.

“Just tell me the first thing that pops into your mind, Jesus, please,” he said. “Do you think assigning police officers to protect Mr. Colt is a good investment of the time of yourself and other detectives like you?”

“Hell, yes. Christ, he comes to town to raise money for West Catholic. It wouldn’t be right if we let his fans get at him. They’re nutty. What they would like to do is tear his clothes off for souvenirs.”

“Thank you for calling, Phil,” the mayor of Philadelphia said. “It’s always a pleasure.”

“Thank you for taking my call, Mr. Mayor.”

The mayor put his phone in the cradle and signaled for Martinez to do the same thing.

“Gotcha, you bastard!” the mayor said, and extended his hand to Detective Martinez.

“Thank you very much, Detective. You did very well.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the studio, Mr. Donaldson turned off his microphone. “Shit,” he said aloud.

And then he had a second thought.

“Shit! I forgot to ask him about Wohl and Washington in D’Allesandro’s!”

A Pensacola, Florida, police officer watched the carousel delivering baggage and then stepped up to Matt when he saw him take the metal lock-boxes, which he recognized from previous use.

“That looks too small for a couple of shotguns,” he said, pleasantly. “If that’s handguns, why don’t you wait until you’re out of the airport before you open the box?”

“Sure,” Matt said. “You use the term ‘on the job’ down here?”

“Sure.”

“We’re on the job, from Philadelphia. Had to leave in a hurry. What we need is someplace where we can buy clothing for a couple of days, and some nice place for lunch.”

“Leave the airport, take a left at the second light. You’ll see a shopping mall on the left. Then, when you leave there, get back on the same street, go the same way as far as you can, then make another left. McGuire’s Irish Pub. Best place in town.”

“Thanks. And then we’re headed for Daphne, Alabama.”

“When you leave McGuire’s, you’ll have to turn right. Get on I-110 until you hit I-10. Turn west. It’s about forty miles.”

“You get the car, Matt,” Olivia said. “I have to-”

“Right the other side of the stairs,” the officer said, pointing.

When Olivia had walked away, the officer said, “Her, too?”

“Detective Olivia Lassiter.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed.

Hertz had a car waiting for them, a Ford Mustang convertible. And the clerk drew a Magic Marker route on a map showing how to reach the Marriott in Point Clear, Alabama. Matt saw that Point Clear was next to Fairhope, and Fairhope was next to Daphne, which was right on Interstate 10.

They found the shopping mall-a large one-without trouble, and went inside.

“Just what we’re looking for,” Matt said, happily, pointing to the entrance to Victoria’s Secret.

“I’m not going in there with you,” Olivia said. “I’m not going in there, period.”

“You told me on the plane you maxed out your credit card,” Matt said. “I have you in my power, Little Maiden.”

“You sonofabitch!”

“I’ll wait outside,” Matt said. “See what they have in translucent black.”

While he was waiting for Olivia, Matt found an ATM and withdrew a thousand dollars. When she appeared at the door to motion him in to sign the credit card charge, he handed her five hundred dollars.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll give you a check.”

“When we get back to Philly,” he said.

“It’ll take months for the city to write a check, you know that?”

“You have an honest face. I can wait.”

An hour later, having bought enough clothing and other necessities of life to last them four days, and suitcases to carry it in, they got back into the Mustang and went looking for McGuire’s Irish Pub.

“I can’t believe you ate the whole thing,” Olivia said to Matt, making reference to the assorted sausage plate he had ordered for lunch. It looked to her more than adequate for the both of them, but by the time she had seen it, the waitress had delivered her Irish stew, which looked like it, too, had been intended for at least two people.

“I have to keep up my strength,” he said, and looked around for the waitress to get the bill.

Then he looked at her.

“You know,” he said, seriously, “there’s only one person in the department who thinks this peeper may be our doer.”

Olivia shook her head, “no.”

“Two,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’ve got a gut feeling, Matt,” Olivia said. “You know?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Washington says you should listen to your gut.”

“What’s next?” she asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “Before we go to the police station, or wherever they have this guy, I’d like to know more than we read in the paper.”

“How are you going to get that?”

“I think I’m going to start with the civilian-from the Citizens’ Watch, or whatever the hell it’s called-who saw him by the window.”

“How are you going to find him?”

“When we get to the hotel, the first thing I’m going to do is plug in my brandnew cellular battery charger, then I’ll ask, look in the phone book, whatever.”

She nodded.

The waitress delivered the bill. Matt handed his credit card to the waitress and said, “Please add fifteen percent for yourself. Great meal.”

Olivia shook her head as the waitress walked away.

“What?”

“You didn’t even look at that check,” she said. “And God knows how much we spent in the shopping center. And you got a lot of money from the ATM. Don’t you worry about maxing out your card?”

“No, I don’t,” Matt said. “And I took the money from my bank. If you get money on a credit card, they charge you some outrageous interest.”

“So you are rich? I heard something-”

“I’m comfortable, Olivia. So what?”

“It must be nice.”

“It is.”

It took them a little over an hour to drive from McGuire’s Irish Pub to the Marriott in Point Clear, Alabama. Their route took them first through Daphne. There Olivia touched his arm and pointed out a sign identifying the entrance to the Lake Forest Yacht Club amp; Condominiums.

A mile or so away they saw the Joseph Hall Criminal Justice Center, which was obviously the police station, an attractive brick building that looked as if it had been built last year. As they went through Fairhope, they saw the Fairhope Police Station, another clean, attractive building that looked even newer.

The hotel was several miles the other side of Fairhope, down a tree-lined road along the shore of Mobile Bay. There were half a dozen fair-sized sailboats bobbing along in the bay.

“I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this,” Matt said.

Neither was the hotel what Matt had expected to find after Mrs. Craig had told him she’d reserved two rooms in his name at the Marriott.

It turned out to be more of a luxury resort than a hotel. Ancient oaks lined the drive to the entrance. There were signs indicating the direction of a golf course, and he could see both an enormous swimming pool and the masts of a fleet of sailboats.

A gray-jacketed bellman pulled their luggage from the backseat of the roofdown Mustang and said, “Welcome to the Grand Hotel.”

There were two pleasant young men behind the reception desk.

“My name is Payne,” Matt said, as he handed one of them his American Express card. “I’m supposed to have a reservation. ”

The young man consulted his computer.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Two ‘nice’ singles is what was requested. We think our bayside rooms are ‘nice,’ and we’ve put you into two of those. I’m afraid they’re not adjacent…”

“That’s fine,” Detective Lassiter said.

“… at $305 per day. Will that be satisfactory, Mr. Payne?”

“That’s fine,” Matt said.

They were handed brochures outlining all the hotel had to offer and electronic keys to the rooms. Two bellmen appeared.

“Call me when you’re settled,” Matt said. “I’m going to get on the phone.”

“You want me to come there?” Olivia asked.

“Probably a good idea,” Matt said.

Following the bellmen, they marched off through the lobby toward the elevators.

The young man who had handled their reservation turned to the other.

“What would you like to bet me that only one set of sheets will be mussed tonight?” he asked.

“Police department,” a female voice with a thick southern accent announced.

“Good afternoon,” Detective Olivia Lassiter said. “I’m hoping you can help me.”

“Be happy to try, ma’am.”

“Do you happen to have a phone number where I could call the Jackson’s Oak Citizens’ Community Watch?”

“You mind if I ask why you want to call them?”

“Well, we just moved into the area, and my husband wanted to ask about volunteering.”

“Would you believe you’re the sixth call we’ve had today, saying the same thing?”

“Is that so?”

“You got a pencil handy?”

“Yes, I do.”

“The best person to call is Colonel Lacey Richards Jr.,” the Daphne police operator said. “He’s the one who really runs Jabberwocky. He lives on Captain O’Neal Drive…”

Pause.

“Damn, I had his number here somewhere.”

There was another pause.

“Here it is,” the Daphne police operator said, and recited it.

Another female with a thick southern accent answered Sergeant Payne’s call, and said that she was sorry, “but the colonel’s out playing golf. He should be back about five.”

“Thank you very much,” Sergeant Payne replied. “I’ll call again then.”

He put the telephone down, leaned against the headboard of the king-sized bed, and looked across the room at Detective Olivia Lassiter, who was sitting in an armchair.

“He’s playing golf, but will be back at five. I still think we should see what he has to say before we talk to the cops.”

“So do I,” Olivia said.

“On the other hand, if all they’ve got him on is a Peeping Tom charge, which is a misdemeanor, he may post bail and be long gone.”

“They won’t let him post bail without knowing who he is. We can find him.”

“Great minds run in similar paths,” Matt said. He looked at his watch. “We have a little over an hour. What do you want to do?”

Detective Lassiter looked at him for a long moment, then stood up, and then looked at him a long moment again.

Then she reached down for the hem of the light blue cotton dress she’d bought in the shopping mall in Pensacola and pulled it off over her head.

“Jesus Christ!” Matt said.

“Well, you said to see what they had in translucent black,” Olivia said.

“Hello?”

“Colonel Richards?”

“Right.”

“Colonel, my name is Matthew Payne…”

“Has this got something to do with the Jackson’s Oak Citizens’ Community Watch?”

“Yes, sir. It does.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you my office number. You call there in the morning, and ask my secretary to mail you an application.”

“Colonel, I’m a sergeant with the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department…”

“You’re calling from Philadelphia?”

“No, sir. I’m in the Grand Hotel in Point Clear.”

“You came all the way down here about that pervert I bagged last night… Hey, you said Homicide, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“I knew that sonofabitch was up to more than peeping through windows,” Colonel Richards said.

“Colonel, I’d like to talk to you.”

“Sure. When?”

“At your earliest convenience, sir.”

“How about right now? Let me tell you how to get here.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”