Final Justice

EIGHTEEN

We’re going to have to check out of the hotel,” Olivia said, almost as soon as they got into the Mustang. "We never should have gone in there in the first place.”

“The alternative would seem to be sleeping on the beach,” Matt said.

“The alternative was any of the motels we saw when we turned off the interstate into Daphne.”

“Every time I stay in a motel off an interstate, I am invariably denied sleep by the sounds of unbridled passion, a crying baby, or a barking dog-often all of the above-coming from the next cubicle. What’s wrong with where we are?”

“An assistant D.A. is coming tomorrow,” she said. “I don’t want him going back to Philadelphia and saying, ‘When I got down there, Payne has got his squeeze in a plush hotel.’ ”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Matt confessed. “And the cold fact seems to be that I do seem to have my squeeze in a plush hotel. You’re right, we better get out of there before our shameful secret becomes public knowledge. But in the morning. Not tonight.”

Matt looked at Olivia, expecting a smile. She was not smiling.

“Is that how you think of me, as your squeeze?”

“That was your term, Mother, not mine.”

Neither said anything else for the next ten minutes, until they were off four-lane U.S. 98 and driving through Fairhope.

“Hey, look at that!” Matt said, cheerfully, pointing. “Trattoria.”

“What?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that was an Italian restaurant, ” he said. “It doesn’t sound Polish. How about it, squeeze? A little linguini, a nice bottle of red, maybe even candles romantically flickering in a bottle covered with dripping wax?”

“Don’t ever call me that again,” she said, coldly.

“Sorry,” Matt said. “I was about to add, ‘Then we can go to the hotel and fool around.’ Does that interest you at all, Detective Lassiter?”

“Just go to the hotel, please.”

“You want to tell me what I’ve done wrong?”

“From your perspective, probably nothing.”

“And from yours?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?”

“Us.”

“What about ‘us’? This afternoon-Christ, from the time I first laid eyes on you-I thought ‘us’ was nice and dared to think the feeling was reciprocal.”

“It’s happening too fast,” she said. “And you’re dangerous.”

“How the hell am I dangerous?”

“You don’t think, that’s your problem,” she said.

“Give me a for example, Mother.”

“You never should have talked to the doer without permission. ”

“Were you there when I said, ‘I can’t talk to you without your lawyer being present’ or words to that effect?”

When she didn’t reply, he asked,

“Anything else I’ve done dangerously?”

“When you chased the guy in Philadelphia, you were drunk.”

“I wasn’t drunk. And you will recall I caught him.”

“After you fell down twice.”

“I fell over a goddamn wire.”

She snorted.

“And the Highway sergeant gave you mints. He saw you were drunk.”

“Isn’t that what they call the pot calling the kettle black?”

“At least I admit it.”

“Okay. I admit it. I was drunk. Happy?”

“And we never should have gone to the hotel in the first place. You should have thought what it would mean to me if it ever got out.”

“I wasn’t aware that our going to a hotel-in which, by the way, we have separate rooms-was going to see you branded forever with a scarlet A on your forehead.”

“It would damned sure keep me from staying in Homicide, ” Olivia said.

“Look, you better be prepared, Olivia-Christ, you’re naive-for all sorts of clever remarks from the guys in Homicide about our ‘vacation’ in Alabama. Whether we move into some dump of a motel or not, there are going to be suggestions that we fooled around.”

“What they’re going to think, is (a) I walked into Homicide, and (b) took one look at the hotshot sergeant, who calls the first deputy commissioner ‘Uncle Denny,’ and (c) jumped into his bed. And you know it, and you know that’ll keep me from staying in Homicide. And you don’t care.”

“As much as I would like it to be otherwise, I think you have absolutely no chance of staying in Homicide.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so. The only reason I’m in Homicide is because Mariani had that brainstorm about giving the top-five guys on the sergeant’s exam their choice of assignment.”

“It had nothing to do, right, with your ‘Uncle Denny’ Coughlin?”

“No, goddamn it, it didn’t. He tried to talk me out of it, as a matter of fact.”

She snorted again.

“And he was probably right. There is no one more aware of my limitations as a Homicide investigator than I am.”

“Amazing! That’s the first modest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Oh, screw you!”

“Fat chance!”

The doorman of the Grand Hotel opened the door for Olivia.

“Olivia, would you like to have dinner with me?”

“I think I’ll have a sandwich in my room. But thank you just the same.”

She smiled at the doorman and walked into the hotel.

Matt drove back into Fairhope and had linguini with Italian sausage and a bottle of Merlot-all of a bottle of Merlot-in La Trattoria, while considering the differences of the mental processes of the opposite sexes.

And then he drove very carefully back to the Grand Hotel, asked for any messages-there were none-and then went into the hotel’s Bird Cage Lounge, where he sat all by himself in an upholstered chair at a table and had the first of five drinks of Famous Grouse on the rocks. The prospect of a scotch-or even an Irish-martini did not have much appeal.

Between drinks three and four, he used the house phone on the bar to call Miss Olivia Lassiter. The hotel operator said she was sorry, but Miss Lassiter had left word that she didn’t wish to take any more calls tonight.

Between drinks four and five, his cellular buzzed.

It was Detective Joe D’Amata.

“The Black Buddha said to call, Matt. Meet Delta 311 at the Mobile airport-”

“Mobile?”

“That’s what he said. Mobile. Arriving at twelve-thirty-five. ”

“They pronounced that ‘Mow-beel,’ not ‘Mow-bile,’ by the way.”

“No shit?”

“Tell him I’ll be at the ‘Mow-Beel’ airport. Who’s Mrs. Solomon sending down? Did she make up her mind?”

“I dunno,” Joe said. “This is the doer, huh?”

“It sure looks like it, Joe.”

“Good for you, Matt. Having a good time?”

“Absolutely, Joe.”

“Yeah, I bet you are,” D’Amata said, chuckled, and hung up.

After drink five, Matt signaled for the waitress and signed the bill.

“I’ve had all the fun I can stand for one night,” he said to her.

He left a call for half past seven and went to bed.

He woke with a hangover and a clammy undershirt.

He wondered about that and sniffed, and when he first encountered a really foul odor, remembered he had had a nightmare.

I always smell like death warmed over when I have one. And this was one of the better ones:

A Ford van driven by Warren K. Fletcher, white male, five feet ten, thirty-one, of Germantown was backing up toward him with the obvious intention of squashing him between the van and the Porsche. First he couldn’t get the. 38 snub-nose out of its holster no matter how hard he tried, and then when he finally got it out he couldn’t make it fire no matter how hard he pulled on the trigger, and then when he finally got it to fire, he fired five times and missed all five times…

He’d seen the movie before, and when he missed with the last shot, and the van was about to squash him, he usually woke up.

But I don’t remember waking up last night.

Probably the booze.

And Fletcher as the star of my nightmare? Usually it’s Susan.

Is there some significance in Fletcher showing up again?

The sweat soaked T-shirt smelled so foul that he didn’t want to pack it with the rest of his clothing. He took it instead into the shower with him and started to wash it.

To hell with this! I’ll just buy another T-shirt!

He tossed the T-shirt into a trash can and then took a long shower, considered again the gross injustices of the world as he found it, then had an inspiration.

“Screw her!” he said aloud, and when he got out of the shower, he walked still naked and dripping to the bedside telephone and called the concierge.

The concierge said the pro shop of the Lakewood Country Club would have clubs to rent and golf shoes for sale.

“And how about a tee time? As early as possible?”

“Well, perhaps tomorrow, sir. The rain’ll probably stop in time for the course to be playable tomorrow. Shall I reserve a tee time for you then?”

“I’ll be gone, I’m sorry. Thank you very much.”

Having the telephone in his hand reminded him of two calls he had to make, and he made them.

First he called Colonel Richards and told him he thought the peeper was the man they were looking for, and that an assistant district attorney was en route from Philadelphia. And then he called Sergeant Kenny and told him that he would be meeting whoever was coming from Philadelphia at the Mobile airport a little after noon.

“I think whoever’s coming will want to see the chief right away. Is he going to be available then? As soon as I can get from the airport to the station?”

“He’ll be here then, I’m sure.”

“If he needs to talk to me, you’ve got my cellular number.”

“Right,” Kenny said. “Mind telling me what you’ll be doing?”

Until that moment, Matt had no idea-since golf was out and it was raining-how he was going to spend the morning. But it came to him.

“I’m going to take statements from the colonel, the old guy…”

“Mr. Chambers Galloway,” Kenny furnished. “I’ll give you his number.”

“And anybody else… maybe Fats Gambino, if I have time on the way to the airport.”

Kenny chuckled, deep in his throat, reminding Matt of Jason Washington.

“That’ll make Ol’ Fats’s day. His place is right on Airport Boulevard, a couple of miles short of the airport. You can’t miss it. I wouldn’t suggest you tell him you’re coming.”

“And anybody else you think would be a good idea.”

“I’ll think on it, and tell you when you come in.”

“Thanks, Kenny.”

“My pleasure.”

Matt considered for a moment having a room-service breakfast, but decided against it, but not because of the thought he had on the way to the dining room, which was that after he ate a leisurely breakfast, he would call Detective Lassiter and suggest that if she was now awake, they had work to do. He would then meet her in the lobby, and she could have a McMuffin and canned orange juice for breakfast at the McDonald’s on their way to Daphne.

She came into the dining room a minute after he took a table, even before the waiter had brought coffee.

Jesus, that’s a good-looking woman!

“Good morning,” Matt said.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Olivia said. “May I?” she asked, indicating a chair.

“Of course.”

He smiled at her. She smiled back, but her smile was a momentary curl of her lips, completely devoid of anything resembling warmth.

Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it. Screw you.

Olivia sat down.

“What we’re going to do this morning is take statements from Colonel Richards and Mr. Galloway,” Matt said, and then, without waiting for a reply, devoted his entire attention to the breakfast menu.

Detective Payne had just about finished his Belgian waffles with strawberries and cream, which he had ordered to accompany his chipped beef over toast with poached eggs, and glanced to see if Detective Lassiter was finished with her whole-wheat toast, when he thought he heard his name being spoken.

He looked toward the headwaiter’s table in time to see the woman behind it nod in his direction, the nod guiding a young man in a business suit toward him.

“Sergeant Payne?” the young man asked.

Matt nodded.

“My name is Roswell Bernhardt, Sergeant. I’m an attorney. Specifically, I’m Mr. Homer C. Daniels’s attorney.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, counselor, but I don’t think I should be talking to you,” Matt said.

“I understand,” Bernhardt said. “Certainly. But what I was hoping you could do is give me the name of someone in your district attorney’s office with whom I could speak.”

“I wouldn’t know what name to give you, Counselor, in the D.A.’s office. Except for that of the D.A. herself. That’s Mrs. Eileen McNamara Solomon.”

“I understood someone’s on the way here,” Bernhardt said, then added. “Sergeant Kenny told me that.”

If Kenny told this guy my name and where to find me, and that somebody’s coming, he must like him. What the hell!

“I’m going to meet someone from the D.A.’s office at the airport, Mr. Bernhardt…”

“Someone with the authority to discuss a plea bargain?”

“… at half past twelve,” Matt went on. “I don’t know who, or what authority he or she might have. But if you’d like, if you give me your card, I’ll pass it on, and tell whoever it is you’d like to speak with him/her.”

Bernhardt produced a card, gave it to Matt, thanked him profusely, and left.

“I wonder what that was all about?” Olivia asked.

“I really have no idea,” Matt said. “Are you about finished with your breakfast?”

She stood up and walked away and waited by the head-waiter’s table until he had settled the bill.

“If you’ll give me the keys to the car, please, I’ll put my luggage into it,” she said.

He wordlessly handed her the keys, then went to his room, packed, and then settled the bill. He made no attempt to rush.

When he got into the Mustang, she didn’t speak.

Jesus, she’s good-looking.

Is she going to stay pissed all day?

For good?

That seems a distinct possibility.

Well, if that bitchy, irrational behavior last night was an indicator of the future, maybe that’s not such an all-around bad thing.

" ’Tis better to have loved and lost, than not to have loved at all,” as they say.

You don’t believe that for a minute, and you know it.

Just keep your mouth shut, and maybe she’ll cool off. Or warm up.

A familiar face came through the revolving doors into the persons-meeting-passengers area, but it was not that of Steven Cohen, Esq., but rather that of Michael J. O’Hara.

“Sherlock goddamn Holmes in the flesh!” Mickey greeted them. “And the beauty with the beast!”

“I won’t ask what brings you to the Redneck Riviera, Mickey,” Matt began.

“What did you say? ‘The Redneck Riviera’?”

Matt nodded. “That’s what they call it.”

“Great! I’m going to do a long piece, and that’s great color.”

“But frankly,” Matt went on, “I was expecting Steve Cohen or somebody else from the D.A.’s office.”

“They’re in the cheap seats,” Mickey said. “They’ll be off in a minute.”

He turned to Olivia.

“Stanley said to tell you he’s sorry as hell about the Ledger and that Phil Donaldson asshole, and that he’ll try to make it up.”

“Stanley?”

“Stanley Coleman, aka-”

“That’s very kind of Mr. Colt, but not necessary,” Olivia said.

“Who’s ‘they,’ Mick, as in ‘they’ll be off’?” Matt asked.

O’Hara turned and pointed.

Steven Cohen, Esq., and Lieutenant Jason Washington were about halfway down a long column of arriving economy-class passengers.

“I didn’t expect the boss,” Matt said.

“They don’t want any mistakes made with this one. For your sake, Matty, I really hope this guy is the one you’re looking for.”

“He is, Mick. I’m sure. How did you find out?”

“A little Irish bird named Denny told me.”

“Welcome to the Redneck Riviera, boss,” Matt said. “Hello, Mr. Cohen.”

“By calling me ‘Mister,’ Matt, are you implying I’m not welcome in the… what did you say-‘Redneck Riviera’?” Cohen replied, putting out his hand.

“I am really delighted to see you. And yeah, that’s what it’s called. They’ve got a really spectacular seashore. Ol-Detective Lassiter and I saw it when we drove over from Pensacola. ”

Cohen offered his hand to Olivia.

“Matt says he’s sure this is the doer,” Mickey said.

“I really hope so,” Cohen said.

“Well, let us go see this fellow,” Washington said. “Mick has reserved a car.”

“The chief of police will be available,” Matt said.

“Perhaps after we check into the hotel,” Washington said. “Mick’s made reservations for us at the Marriott. Is that where you are?”

“No, sir,” Matt said, looking smugly at Olivia. “We’re in the Eight Dollar Motel right in Daphne. Detective Lassiter thought the Marriott was a little too rich for us.”

“Actually, it’s the Nine Dollar Inn, Sergeant,” Detective Lassiter corrected him.

“Actually, it’s the $37.50 motel, after you pay up front and they give you the AAA discount,” Matt said. “But what the hell.”

They collected their luggage and went to the Hertz counter, where a Lincoln Town Car awaited Mr. Michael J. O’Hara.

“I think the best way to handle this, Detective,” Washington said, “would be for Sergeant Payne to drive us in Mr. O’Hara’s car. En route, he can fill us in on what we should know. In the meantime, you could go to the police station, advise them of our arrival, and tell them we are anxious to speak with the chief at his earliest convenience.”

“Yes, sir,” Detective Lassiter said.

Matt handed her the keys to the Mustang.

“Thank you,” she said with a somewhat brittle smile.

The Mustang stayed on the tail of the Lincoln all the way from the airport through Mobile, across the I-10 bridge over Mobile Bay, and into Daphne, where it turned off U.S. 98 at the Joseph Hall Criminal Justice Center.

En route, as Washington intended he should, Matt told them everything he thought they should know. He pointed out the Gambino Motor Mall, and told them he had spoken with the proprietor, and that Fats had shown him the Peterbilt truck Mr. Daniels had driven into Mobile.

“I called the chief, and he said he just got a search warrant for the truck from a judge in Mobile, but he thought he’d wait until I could go along before he had a look.”

“You didn’t enter the vehicle?” Washington asked.

“No.”

“Good,” Cohen said.

“He certainly had to fuel the truck somewhere,” Washington said, thoughtfully. “If he did so in Philadelphia and used a credit card, that would establish his presence there. On his way down here, as careful as we must presume he is, he probably paid cash. But he may not have had that much cash, and he may have used a card. It’s worth looking into.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said.

“I’ve got to have a picture of that truck,” Mickey said. “How do I find my way back here?”

“After we have accepted the chief’s kind invitation to witness his search of the vehicle, I will arrange something with Detective Lassiter to get you back here,” Washington said.

“I’d like a picture of you two searching the truck,” Mickey said.

“Sergeant Payne and I have had quite enough personal publicity lately, thank you just the same, Michael.”

“There is good publicity and bad publicity, Jason,” Mickey said, “and you two could certainly use some of the good kind.”

“If you’ll pardon me, Michael, what I am trying to do is develop a variety of good reasons that will suggest to Mr. Daniels that denial of his participation is no longer one of his options.”

“That may be easier than you think, Jason.”

“You will remember, Sergeant, to address me as ‘Lieutenant’ when we are about our official business?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, beware! Beware!” Mickey said. “What we have here is the Black Buddha in a bad mood. Cheap seats a little too small for you in the beam, were they, Lieutenant?”

Cohen laughed.

Washington ignored the remark.

“Why will I find it less difficult to reason with Mr. Daniels vis-a-vis confessing all that you-with your vast experience in these matters-think will be the case?”

“Because he sent his lawyer to see me vis-a-vis copping a plea,” Matt said.

“Try to behave, Steve. We’re in the company of the only two cops in Philadelphia who say things like ‘vis-a-vis’ in normal conversation,” O’Hara said.

“Shut up, Mick. I want to hear about this lawyer,” Cohen said. “What did you say to him, Matt?”

“I told him I would give you-whoever Mrs. Solomon sent down here-his card.”

“That’s absolutely all?”

“That’s absolutely all.”

“No suggestions, anything, that I would be interested in a plea bargain?”

“Nothing. And the only reason I said I’d pass on his card was because Sergeant Kenny told him where to find me.”

“And Sergeant Kenny is who?”

“Local cop. A good one. Been very helpful.”

“And when and where did this conversation take place?” Cohen asked.

“At breakfast.”

“If he ran Matt down at the Nine Dollar No Tell Motel,” O’Hara said, “he must be really interested in copping a plea.”

“Actually, it was in the Marriott. We stayed there last night.”

“And got out before somebody arrived from Philadelphia who would wonder what you were doing in the Grand Hotel? And might talk?”

“ ‘The Grand Hotel’?” Washington asked.

“Marriott’s Grand Hotel. One of the stars in the galaxy of Marriott Resorts. When I told Stanley I was coming down here, he said to stay there. He said it’s great.”

“I have to ask, Matthew. You haven’t behaved inappropriately with Detective Lassiter down here, have you?” Washington said.

“Two rooms. She slept in her bed, I slept in mine.”

That’s the truth. Admittedly not all of it, but the truth.

“But you do have something going with her, right?” Mickey asked.

“Go to hell, Mick.”

“Answer Mr. O’Hara’s question, please,” Washington said.

“I thought for a while there might be something, but if there was, there ain’t no more.”

“While I confess I find this discussion of Matt’s sex life absolutely enthralling,” Cohen said, “can we get back to this guy’s lawyer? You said you’ve got his card, Matt?”

Matt found it and handed it to Cohen in the backseat.

“Do Philadelphia cell phones work down here?” he asked.

“Mine does,” Matt said, and handed Cohen his cellular telephone.

When Matt saw Sergeant Kenny standing beside a thirtyish man in a business suit in the tile-walled outer room of the Daphne police department, he was surprised to see how they resembled each other.

“I got to get a picture of that guy with you, Jason,” O’Hara said.

“Sergeant Payne,” Kenny said. “This gentleman would like a word with you and the other people from Philadelphia.”

The man with Kenny smiled, stuck out his hand, and marched up to Matt.

“Sergeant, I’m Special Agent Bendick of the Federal Bureau,” he said.

“Federal Bureau of what?” Matt’s mouth, on automatic, asked innocently.

“Investigation, of course. The FBI.”

“How can I help the FBI?” Matt asked.

“It’s how the FBI can help you, Sergeant,” Special Agent Bendick said. “A telephone call would have saved you a trip all the way down here. But no real harm done. We’ll handle it from here.”

“Jesus Christ!” Mickey O’Hara said. “You guys really have no shame at all, do you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, J. Edgar Junior. Anything to get the FBI favorable notice in the papers, right? You can already see the headline, right? ‘FBI Apprehends Philadelphia Murderer.’ ”

“Who are you, sir?” Special Agent Bendick asked.

"O’Hara’s my name.”

“And are you some sort of law enforcement officer?”

Mickey shook his head, “no.”

“I couldn’t get on the cops. My parents were married,” Mickey said. He took out his digital camera and aimed it at Special Agent Bendick, Sergeant Payne, and Lieutenant Washington.

“I’d rather not have my photograph taken, if you don’t mind,” Special Agent Bendick said, holding his hand out in a vain hope-Mickey nimbly dodged around it-of covering the lens so that a photograph would be impossible.

“Jesus, didn’t they tell you about the freedom of the press at the Quantico School for Boys?” Mickey asked.

“Sir,” Washington said, “if we feel that any assistance from the FBI would be useful to us in this investigation, I will seek same through the appropriate channels.”

“And you are?” Special Agent Bendick demanded.

“My name is Jason Washington. I’m a lieutenant with the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department.”

“I’m Special Agent Bendick of the Mobile office of the FBI, Lieutenant…”

“So you said.”

“And inasmuch as this case crosses state lines, the FBI-”

“I don’t believe this case meets the necessary criteria for the unsolicited involvement of the FBI, Mr. Bendick,” Steve Cohen said.

“And may I ask who you are?”

“My name is Steven Cohen. I’m an assistant district attorney in Philadelphia.”

“I don’t really understand your attitude,” Special Agent Bendick began.

“They’re understandably a little pissed, J. Edgar Junior, that you tried to steal their pinch for the glory of the FBI. Unfortunately, you picked the wrong guys,” Mickey said.

He quickly snapped another photograph.

“If you will excuse us, Mr. Bendick,” Washington said. “We have an appointment with the chief.”

“Right this way, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Kenny said, waving them toward one of the steel doors.

“Mr. O’Hara,” Washington said. “This is official police business, to which, unfortunately, I cannot make you privy at this time. Perhaps you’d like to stay here and continue your conversation with Mr. Bendick?”

Sergeant Kenny waited until Cohen and Matt had gone through the steel door, then followed them through it.

Special Agent Bendick looked at the closed door, then at Mickey O’Hara, who was again raising his camera, and then, mustering what dignity he could, marched out of the building.

“I have a confession to make,” Washington said. “I was not overjoyed when Commissioner Coughlin told me Mickey was coming with us. But now?”

“He was magnificent,” Cohen said.

“What did Mickey call him, ‘J. Edgar Jr.’?” Matt asked, laughing.

“I don’t think we’ve heard the last of him,” Cohen said.

“Fuck him,” Washington said, coldly.

Matt was surprised. Washington very rarely used vulgar language.

Washington turned to Sergeant Kenny and offered his hand.

“My name is Washington, Sergeant,” he said.

“How are you?” Kenny said. “Payne said you were about as big as me.”

“And this is Mr. Cohen, an assistant district attorney.” They shook hands.

“Detective Lassiter was supposed to tell you we would be here as soon as we got ourselves settled…”

“She’s in with the chief. Come on, I’ll take you in.”

“Thank you.”

“You got any kin down this way, Lieutenant?” Kenny asked.

“Not so far as I know, but a first glance at the genetic evidence does seem to make that a distinct possibility, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Walter Davis, a tall, well-built, well-dressed-in a gray pin-striped, three-piece suit-man in his middle forties, who was the special agent in charge (the “SAC”) of the Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sensed his secretary’s presence at his office door and raised his eyes to her from the documents on his desk.

“Yes, Helen?” he asked, a slight tone of impatience in his voice. He had asked not to be disturbed if at all possible.

“I know, I know. But it’s Burton White, the SAC in Mobile…”

“Put him through. Thank you, Helen.”

Walter Davis had known Burton White since they had been at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, and they had crossed paths often since. They had risen through the ranks together. Not quite as high together, as Philadelphia was a more important post than Mobile.

It is always pleasant, Davis thought, as he waited for the light on his telephone to illuminate, to touch base with a peer who has not risen quite as far as oneself.

The light came on, and Davis grabbed the phone.

“Burton, you old sonofabitch! How are you, buddy? How’s things down there in the sunny South?”

“It’s raining, and this is the Heart of Dixie, Walt. It says so on our license plates.”

“Well, it’s good to hear your voice, buddy. What can Philadelphia do for our outpost in the Heart of Dixie?”

“I’m having a little problem with the local cops. Your local cops. I thought you might be able to help me-the Bureau- out on this.”

“Do whatever I can, you know that. My local cops? What are they doing way down there?”

“You had a murder up there…”

“We have a lot of murders up here.”

“This one was of a young woman raped and murdered in her apartment. It was on the NCIC, looking for a similar modus operandi.”

“That one made the front pages. It seems like the cops were actually on the scene, but couldn’t take the door because there was no sign of forced entry. They took a beating for a while in the press.”

“Well, one of my agents heard about the case, and then there was a similar modus operandi in a little village across the bay from here, and he went to check it out…”

“And it was the man the locals here are looking for? Good for you, Walt! A little favorable publicity never hurts the Bureau, does it? You’re sure you’ve got the right man?”

“When he got over there, your locals were already there.”

“You don’t say. That’s odd. I had lunch with the Commissioner-Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani-yesterday, and he didn’t say anything to me.”

The sonofabitch! There’s no way Philadelphia cops would go all the way to Alabama without Mariani knowing all about it. And he didn’t say a goddamn word!

“There were Philadelphia Homicide cops there, plus an assistant D.A.”

“Well, your man took over, didn’t he, Burton?”

“He ran into a stone wall, Walt. I was hoping you could speak to somebody up there.”

“You didn’t get any names, by chance?”

“There was a Lieutenant Washington, a Sergeant Payne, and a female detective-I don’t have a name on her-an assistant D.A. named Cohen, and some wiseass of a reporter named O’Hara, who accused my agent of shamelessly trying to steal the arrest. Do you think you could say a word in the appropriate ear up there?”

Of course I could. And then Mariani would shove it down my throat. With great joy.

“No. I don’t think I could, Burton.”

“ ‘No’? Just like that? ‘No’?”

“Let me tell you about the locals you’re dealing with, Burton,” Davis said. “Starting with the sergeant. You remember a couple of months ago, when one of my people had to put down a terrorist?”

“The guy with the machine gun? A real O.K. Corral shoot-out? ”

“That’s the case. Well, he had with him a local cop who, it has been reliably reported to me, said, ‘Some of my best friends are FBI agents, but I wouldn’t want my sister to marry one.’ ”

“A real wiseass, eh?”

“Whose father is a senior partner in what is probably our most important law firm. That’s the sergeant. The lieutenant is probably Jason Washington. Is he a great big black fellow? ”

“That’s the man. My agent says he’s enormous.”

“Who is married to a lady who moves in the same exalted arty circles as our mayor, and incidentally is the best Homicide investigator I’ve ever known.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Cohen is one of our two-hundred-odd assistant district attorneys. He specializes in the prosecution of homicides. He is generally held in high esteem-on a scale ranging upward from one to two hundred, he would be mighty close to two hundred, in other words-by those who know him. Including me.”

“Well, they didn’t behave with anything like professional courtesy, no matter who they are. They stood right there while this belligerent reporter-”

“And that would be Mr. Michael J. O’Hara, Burton, the Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter of the Philadelphia Bulletin,” Davis interrupted, “whom I have been assiduously attempting to cultivate since they made me the SAC here. Without conspicuous success. I can only hope your agent didn’t antagonize him.”

There was silence on the line for a long moment, before Davis continued.

“So, for the reasons mentioned, Burton, no, I cannot say a word in the appropriate ear here. My advice, for what it’s worth, is to stay away-far away-from these people unless they ask for your assistance, in which case I suggest you be the spirit of cooperation.”

“Chief Yancey,” Jason Washington said, “I would be very grateful if there were someplace private where I could confer with Mr. Cohen and Sergeant Payne for a few minutes before we talk to Mr. Daniels.”

“You’re welcome to use this,” the chief said.

“You are very kind, sir,” Washington said, and waited for the others to leave.

“What’s this, Jason?” Cohen asked the moment the door closed.

“With the caveat that what I suggest would have to have your approval-not implied approval, and certainly not grudging approval-I am going to suggest a scenario for the initial interview.”

“Shoot.”

“Sergeant Kenny will handcuff and shackle Mr. Daniels in his cell, and bring him… here, I suppose, inasmuch as they do not have an interview room as such, would be as good a place as any, and I think the chief would make it available to us-and handcuff him to a heavy and, it is to be hoped, uncomfortable chair, if such can be located.

“Here, for ten minutes, he will wait-with Sergeant Kenny standing out of his sight behind his chair-while absolutely nothing happens. It will, I think, in his frame of mind, seem like much longer.

“It is possible that he will feel the call of nature, and I hope this indeed happens, because it will give Sergeant Kenny the opportunity to lead him-after he takes, say, five minutes getting permission to do so, while another silent officer stands behind the chair-back to his cell, and then back here, all the time in handcuffs and shackles. The ten-minute time clock will start again, if this happens, on his return here.

“I think his only experience with being either handcuffed or shackled was when he was first detained by the concerned citizens. There is a feeling of both helplessness and humiliation when one is shackled and handcuffed.”

“You don’t want to go too far with that, Jason,” Cohen said.

“Handcuffs and shackles are a normal security precaution. Nothing will take place that could possibly be construed as a threat of physical violence.

“His attorney will next appear. Mr. Daniels will almost certainly ask him what’s going on, to which Mr. Bernhardt will give the only reply he knows, that they are waiting for the police-I hope the word ‘homicide’ is used-and another ten minutes will pass.

“Then Sergeant Payne will enter the room and prepare to begin the first interview-”

“Sergeant Payne?” Cohen asked, incredulously, “and where am I?”

“Pray indulge me. I will be grateful for any objections or suggestions you might have, but let me finish, please, first.”

“Go ahead.”

“Payne will unlimber a recording device, not hurrying at all. One with two microphones would be good, and if we can find one with four, that would be even better.”

“A little theater, Jason?”

Washington nodded.

“When the recording device is set up, Matt will respectfully summon you from the corridor. When you come in, Matt will say, ‘Mr. Daniels, this is Mr. Cohen, an assistant district attorney for Philadelphia, who specializes in prosecution of those charged with murder.’

“And then he will turn on the tape recorder, and go through the routine there… ‘This interview of Mr. Homer C. Daniels, in connection with the murder of Cheryl Williamson,’ et cetera. You both know the routine.”

Both nodded.

“And then Matt will say, ‘Mr. Daniels, I understand that you have been advised of your rights as established by the United States Supreme Court, commonly called ‘the Miranda Decision,’ but just to make sure that you are fully aware of your constitutional rights in this situation, I’m going to go over them again with you in the presence of your attorney.”

“And re-Miranda-ize him?” Cohen said. He was now smiling.

Washington nodded.

“And then Matt will say something to this effect: ‘Mr. Daniels, I’m Sergeant Matthew Payne, Badge Number, of the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia-’ ”

“Won’t he have already said that?” Cohen interrupted.

“Possibly, but redundancy is sometimes useful,” Washington said, and went on: " ’-and what I am going to do now is tell you why we believe, beyond any reasonable doubt, that in taking the life of Miss Cheryl Williamson you are in violation of Paragraph 2502(b) of the Criminal Code of Pennsylvania; that, in other words, you are guilty of Murder of the Second Degree.’

“At this point, I really hope Mr. Daniels will think he sees a slight glimmer of hope. ‘Second Degree? That can’t be as bad as First. Maybe I’m not going to be executed after all.’ ”

“I think I see where you’re going, Jason,” Cohen said.

“At this point, Steve, you will disabuse him of this hope by interrupting Matt and handing Mr. Bernhardt a xerox of page thirty-four of the Crime Codes, and saying, one lawyer to another, ‘I didn’t know if this was readily available to you, Counselor, you might want to look it over.’ And when he has had a moment to do so, you will add, collegially, ‘You’ll see that the only difference between Murder of the First Degree and of the Second, is that the First is premeditated, and Second while the accused was engaged in the perpetration of a felony. A little farther down the page, you’ll see that perpetration of a felony is defined as-’ ”

" ’- engaging in, or being an accomplice in the commission of,’ ” Cohen picked up, quoting from memory, “ ‘or an attempt to commit, or flight after committing, or attempting to commit robbery, rape, or deviate sexual intercourse, by force or threat of force, arson, burglary, or kidnapping.’ ”

“So by now he understands he’s really in trouble,” Matt said.

“Which understanding you will then buttress,” Washington said, “by proceeding something like this: ‘Mr. Daniels, I’m not going to be asking you, right now, many questions, because frankly I don’t have to. What I’m going to do is run through what we know right now, and then give you the opportunity to confer with your attorney, and after that you and he, and Mr. Cohen, can confer, if you like.’ ”

“And then I go down what we do have,” Matt said. “Starting with what?”

“I would suggest the camera. ‘We have the camera you left at the scene, Mr. Daniels, and the images it contained. We know that you bought the camera at Times Square Photo and Electronics, on…’ Do you have the date?”

“It’s in here,” Matt said, indicating his laptop.

Washington nodded.

“… ‘and we have your signature on the sales slip. Among the images in the camera are those of the knife you used, and which the police took away from you here. One of the images shows sperm on the blade of the knife. We think it’s reasonable to believe it’s yours, and that we can convince a judge there is sufficient cause for him to issue a search warrant, which will give us a sample of your tissue so that a DNA comparison can be made’…”

“I get the picture,” Matt said.

“Overconfidence is dangerous, as I’ve tried to point out to you before,” Washington said. “That is especially true of someone like you, who has an abundance of confidence in himself that is not entirely justified.”

Matt looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“Does this scenario have any appeal at all to you, Counselor? ” Washington said.

“It might even work, Jason,” Cohen said.

“I will accept that as meaning it has your full approval,” Washington said, but it was more a question than a statement.

Cohen thought this over for a moment, then nodded.

“Matt, you go someplace quiet-Mickey’s car, perhaps- with your laptop, and refresh your memory about the details. Your performance will be more effective if you can readily recite from memory, for example, the date he bought the camera.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t have to tell you, do I, not to have your laptop with you? I don’t want it subpoenaed.”

“No, sir.”

“Refreshing your memory should take no more than ten minutes, and during that time, I will set the stage in here and give Sergeant Kenny an understanding of his role-and how important it is-in our theatrical production.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said.

Cohen waited until he was gone and the door had closed behind him.

“Jason, you and I have marched down this path together for a long time,” he said. “And you know I’ll go to the wire and beyond for you. But will you tell me why you’re sending Matt to do this? He’s a nice kid, and I really like him, but…”

“Primarily, Steve, for the educational aspects of it. This is his first homicide job.”

“And if he blows it?”

“I don’t think he will. He’s smart, he can think on his feet, et cetera.”

“But if he does?”

“Then we will both-Matt and I, I mean-know he doesn’t belong in Homicide, won’t we?”

“Then it’s sink or swim time, right?”

“I shall have to make note of that phrase,” Washington said. “It is so profound.”

“What about Daniels, if Matt blows it?”

“Then, psychologically guided interrogation having proven ineffective, I fear I shall be forced to revert to the rubber hose system.”

Cohen chuckled.

“That’s really not so funny,” Washington said. “I really would like to work that walking obscenity over with a rubber hose.”