The Witness

TWELVE

There was a telephone in Lieutenant Jack Malone's suite in the St. Charles Hotel, through which, by the miracle of modern telecommunications, he could converse with anyone in the whole wide world, with perhaps a few minor exceptions like Ulan Bator or Leningrad.

He had learned, however, to his horror, when he paid his first bill for two weeks residency, that local calls, which had been free on his home phone, and which cost a dime at any pay station, were billed by the hotel at fifty cents each.

Thereafter, whenever possible, Lieutenant Malone made his outgoing calls from a pay station in the lobby.

When he dropped the dime in the slot this time, he knew the number from memory. It was the fourth time he'd called since returning to the hotel shortly before six.

"Hello?"

"Officer McFadden, please?"

"You're the one who's been calling, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, he hasn't come home," Mrs. Agnes McFadden said.

"I don't really have any idea where he is. You want to give me a number, I'll have him call back the minute he walks in the door."

"I'll be moving around, I'm afraid," Malone said. "I'll try again. Thank you very much."

"What did you say your name was?"

Malone broke the connection with his finger.

"My name is Asshole, madam," he said softly, bitterly. "Lieutenant J. Asshole Malone."

He put the handset back and pushed open the door.

He was not going to get to talk to Officer McFadden tonight, and he would not try again. He had carefully avoided giving McFadden's mother his name-she had volunteered her identity on the first call.

When Officer McFadden finally returns home, his mother will tell him that some guy who had not given his name had called four times for him, but had not said what he wanted or where he could be reached.

McFadden will be naturally curious, but there will be no way for him to connect the calls with me.

On the other hand, if I did call back, and finally got through to him, he would know not only who I am, but whatever I had in mind was important enough that I would try five times to get through to him.

Under those circumstances, there would be no way I could casually, nonchalantly, let it be known that I would be grateful if he didn't tell his pal Payne that I was staking out Holland's body shop. I already know he has an active curiosity, and if I said please don't tell Payne, that's exactly what he will do. And Payne would lose no time in telling Wohl.

That triggered thoughts of Payne in a different area: The poor bastard's probably still over there in that falling-down building, stumbling around in the dark, measuring it.

That was chickenshit of Wohl, making him do that. He sent me over there to look it over. I should not have let myself be talked out of doing what I was sent to do by a rookie cop, even if the rookie works for Wohl. I'm a lieutenant, although there seems to be some questions at all levels about just how good a lieutenant. But he's taking the heat for what I did, and that's not right.

If I were a good guy, I'd get in the car and go over there and help him. But Wohl might not like that. He sent the kid over there to rap his knuckles and Wohl might not like it if I held his hand.

Fuck Wohl! A man is responsible for his actions, and other people should not take the heat for them.

He walked out of the lobby of the St. Charles Hotel and found his car and started out for the school building at Frankford and Castor.

Halfway there, he had another thought, which almost made him change his mind: Am I really being a nice guy about this? A supervisor doing the right thing? Or am I trying to show Payne what a nice guy I am, so that if I get the chance to ask him not to tell Wohl that I am watching Holland, he will go along?

You can be a conniving prick, Jack Malone, always working the angles, he finally decided, but this is not one of those times. You are going there because Payne wouldn't be there if you hadn't been a jackass.

When he reached the building, he at first thought that he was too late, that Payne had done what he had to do and left, because the building was dark. But then he saw, on the second floor, lights. Moving around.

A flashlight. No. A floodlight. Too much light for a flashlight. That's Payne.

Stupid, you know the lights aren't turned on!

He had anotherstupid thought a moment later, when he turned off Frankford Avenue onto Castor Avenue. There was a Porsche 911, what looked like a new one, parked against the curb, lightly dusted by the snow that had begun to fall as he had driven out here.

If there is a more stupid place to park a car like that, I don't know where the hell it would be. When the jackass who owns that car comes back for it, he'll be lucky to find the door handles.

He pulled his Mustang to the curb behind a battered Volkswagen, and added to his previous judgment: Because of the generosity of the Porsche owner, the Bug is probably safe. Why bother to strip a Bug when you can strip a Porsche?

It occurred to him, finally, as he got out of the car that possibly the Porsche was stolen. Not stolen-stolen, never to show up again, but stolen for a joy ride by some kids who had found it with the keys in the ignition.

Maybe I should find a phone and call it in.

Fuck it, it's none of my business. A district RPC will roll by here eventually and he he'II see it.

Fuck it, it is my business. I'm a cop, and what cops do is protect the citizenry, even from their own stupidity. As soon as I have a word with Payne, I will call it in.

There was now a layer of snow covering the thawed and then refrozen snow on the steps to the building, and he slipped and almost went down, catching himself at the last moment.

When he straightened up, he could see Payne's light, now on the first floor. He stopped just outside the outer door. The light grew brighter, and then Payne appeared. Except it wasn't Payne. It was a Highway cop.

McFadden!

Payne appeared a moment later.

I should have guessed he might be over here helping out his buddy.

All of a sudden, he was blinded by the light from one of the lamps.

"Who are you?" McFadden demanded firmly, but before Malone could speak, McFadden recognized him, and the light went back on the ground. "Hello, Lieutenant. Sorry."

"How's it going?" Malone asked, far more cheerfully than he felt.

"Aside from terminal frostbite, you mean?" Payne said. "Did WoInspector Wohl send you to check on me?"

"No. I just thought you might be able to use some help. You're finished, I guess?"

"Yes, sir. McFadden's been helping me. Do you know McFadden, Lieutenant?"

"Yeah, sure. Whaddaya say, McFadden?"

"Lieutenant."

"Well, at least let me buy you fellas a hamburger, or a cheese-steak, something, and a cup of coffee," Malone said, adding mentally,said the last of the big spenders.

"Well, that's very kind, Lieutenant," Payne said. "But not necessary. We're going over to my place and, presuming our fingers thaw, make a nice drawing, drawings, for Inspector Wohl. I thought we'd pick up some ribs on the way."

"It'd be my pleasure," Malone said. "Where do you live?"

"Downtown. Rittenhouse Square."

"I live at 19^th and Arch," Malone said. "We're all headed in the same direction. And I haven't had my dinner. Why don't you let me buy the ribs?"

He looked at Payne and saw suspicion in his eyes.

"Why don't we all go to my place for ribs?" Payne said, finally.

"Where's your car?" Malone asked.

"We're parked over there," McFadden said, and pointed to where Malone had parked behind the Volkswagen.

"I want to find a phone," Malone said. "And call that Porsche in."

"Why?" Payne asked, obviously surprised.

"I have a gut feeling it's wrong," Malone said. "A Porsche like that shouldn't be parked in this neighborhood."

"That's Payne's car, Lieutenant," McFadden said. "Nice, huh?"

Malone thought he saw amusement in McFadden's eyes.

"Very nice," Malone said.

"Lieutenant," Payne said. "You're sure welcome to come with us. I appreciate your coming out here."

"I haven't had my dinner."

"You'd better follow me, otherwise there will be a hassle getting you into the garage," Payne said.

"I'm sorry?" Malone asked.

"The parking lot in my building," Payne said. "There's a rent-a-copit would be easier if we stuck together."

"Okay. Sure," Malone said.

The little convoy stopped twice on the way to Payne's apartment, first in a gas station on Frankford Avenue, where Payne made a telephone call from a pay booth, and then on Chestnut Street in downtown Philadelphia. There Payne walked quickly around the nose of his Porsche and into Ribs Unlimited, an eatery Jack Malone remembered from happier days as a place to which husbands took wives on their birthdays for arguably the best ribs in Philadelphia, and which were priced accordingly.

In a moment Payne came back out, trailed by the manager and two costumed rib-cookers in red chef's hats and white jackets and aprons, bearing large foil-wrapped packages and what looked like a half case of beer.

Payne opened the nose of his Porsche, and everything was loaded inside. Payne reached in his pocket and handed bills to the manager and the two guys in cook's suits. They beamed at him.

Payne closed the nose of his Porsche, got behind the wheel, and the three-car convoy rolled off again.

I didn't know Ribs Unlimited offered takeouts, Malone thought, and then, Jesus Christ, me and my big mouth: When I offer to pay for the ribs, as I have to, I will have to give him a check, because I have maybe nineteen dollars in my pocket. A check that will be drawn against insufficient funds and will bounce, unless I can get to the bank and beg that four-eyed asshole of an assistant manager to hold it until payday.

Five minutes later they were unloading the nose of the Porsche in a basement garage.

Payne's apartment, which they reached after riding an elevator and then walking up a narrow flight of stairs, was something of a disappointment.

It was nicely furnished, but it was very small. Somehow, after the Porsche, and because it was on Rittenhouse Square, he had expected something far more luxurious.

McFadden carried the case of beer into the kitchen, and Malone heard bottles being opened.

"Here you are, Lieutenant," he said. "You ever had any of this? Tuborg. Comes from Holland."

"Denmark," Payne corrected him, tolerantly.

Malone took out his wallet.

"This is my treat, you will recall," he said. "What's the tab?"

"This is my apartment," Payne said with a smile. "You owe us a cheese-steak."

"I insist."

"So do I," Payne said, and put the neck of the Tuborg bottle to his lips.

"Well, okay," Malone said, putting his wallet back in his pocket.

Did he do that because he is a nice guy? Or because he is the last of the big spenders? Or was I just lucky? Or has Wohl had a confidential chat with him about The New Lieutenant, and his problems, financial and otherwise?

"You two eat in the living room," McFadden ordered, "so I can have the table in here."

"Among Officer McFadden's many, many other talents," Payne said cheerfully, "he assures me that he is the product of four years of mechanical drawing in high school. He is going to prepare drawings of that goddamn old building that will absolutely dazzle Inspector Wohl."

McFadden smiled. "My father works for UGI," he said. "My mother wanted me to go to work there as a draftsman." (United Gas Industries, the Philadelphia gas company.)

"My father's a fireman," Malone said. "I was supposed to be a fireman."

"Let's eat, before they get cold," Payne said. "Or do you think I should stick them into the oven on general principles?"

McFadden laid a hand on the aluminum. "They're still hot. Or warm, anyway."

He opened one of the packages. Payne took plates, knives and forks, and a large package of dinner-sized paper napkins from a closet.

"You going to need any help?" he asked McFadden.

"No," McFadden said flatly. "Just leave me something to eat and leave me alone."

"You'd better put an apron on, or you'll get rib goo all over your uniform," Payne said.

"They call that barbecue sauce," McFadden said. "'Rib goo'! Jesus H. Christ!"

Payne handed him an apron with MASTER CHEF painted on it. Then he began to pass out the ribs, coleslaw, baked beans, salad, rolls, and other contents of the aluminum-wrapped packages.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Malone picked it up. It was the cash register tape from Ribs Unlimited. Three complete Rib Feasts at $11.95 came to $35.85. They had charged Payne retail price for the BEER, IMPORT, which, at $2.25 a bottle, came to $27.00. With the tax, the bill was nearly seventy dollars.

And Payne had tipped the manager and both cooks. Christ, that's my food budget for two weeks.

"Fuck it," McFadden said. "Eat first, work later. McFadden's Law."

He sat down and picked up a rib and started to gnaw on it.

"That makes sense," Payne said. "Sit down, Lieutenant. They do make a good rib."

"I know. I used to take my wife there," Malone said without thinking.

McFadden silently ate one piece of rib, and then another. He picked up his beer bottle, drank deeply, burped, and then delicately wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

"Are you going to tell me, Lieutenant, what's going on at half past four tomorrow morning at that school building?" McFadden suddenly asked, "Hewon't tell me."

"What makes you think something's going on?"

"The word is out that something is," McFadden said.

"Can I tell you without it getting all over Highway before half past four tomorrow morning?" Malone replied, after a moment's hesitation.

"Then you'd better not tell me, Lieutenant," McFadden said. "Not that I would say anything to anybody-just between you, me, and the lamppost, Lieutenant, the only thing Highway has going for me is that it keeps me from doing school crossing duty in a district-but Highway is going to find out, and I wouldn't want you to think I was the one who told them."

"He's right, Lieutenant," Payne said. "If Charley knows something's going to happen, so does everybody in Highway, and they will snoop around until they find out what."

"As Lieutenant Malone, I can't tell you," Malone said. "But we're off duty, right? And you're Charley, and I'm Jack, and this won't go any further?"

He saw Payne's eyes appraising him.

Is he going to go to Wohl first thing in the morning?"Inspector, I think I should tell you that that new lieutenant can't keep his mouth shut."

Fuck it, I sense an opening here to get to McFadden. If I can get McFadden to agree not to tell Wohl about finding me at Holland's, Payne will probably, or at least possibly, fall in line. And if he doesn't, if I blow this, things can't get any worse than they are now.

"Okay, Jack," McFadden said. "Out of school, what's going on in the morning?"

Malone saw Payne's eyes flash between him and McFadden and back again.

Shit! He's suspicious as hell.

"If I did, Payne, would you feel you had to tell Inspector Wohl I told him?"

Payne met his eyes. Then he picked up his bottle of beer and took a pull at it.

"Lieutenant," Payne said. "I don't really know what the hell is going on here."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We're out of school, right?"

"Absolutely."

"No, then. I wouldnot tell the Inspector you told Charley about what' s going on at half past four in the morning. I was going to tell him anyway. I was just pulling his chain, not telling him before. That's not what's bothering me."

"What is, then?"

"You showed up at the school tonight, for one thing. 'Call me Jack,' and 'Let me buy you fellas a cheese-steak,' for some more."

Christ, I'm losing control. Am I just bad at this? Or are these two a lot smarter than I gave them credit for being?

"I went out to the school because I thought you were taking heat for something that was my responsibility."

"What do you want from us, Lieutenant?" Payne asked, both his tone of voice and the look in his eyes making it clear he hadn't bought that at all. "Has it got something to do with Charley finding you snooping around Holland's body shop?"

Christ, he already knows! What did I expect? Well, fuck it, I blew it.

"Are you going to tell Inspector Wohl about that?" Malone asked.

"Unless you can come up with a good reason I shouldn't", Payne said.

Malone glanced at McFadden. He recognized the look in McFadden's eyes. He had seen it a hundred times. A cop who knew that the suspect had been lying all along had just told him he knew he had been lying all along, and was waiting to see what reaction that would cause.

And I am the guy they caught lying.

When all else fails, tell the truth.

"Holland is dirty," Malone said.

"How do you know?" McFadden asked, picking up another rib.

"You've been on the street," Malone said, meeting McFadden's eyes. " Youknow when you know someone's dirty."

"Yeah," McFadden said. "But sometimes when you know, you're wrong."

Charley McFadden's response surprised Matt Payne.

What the hell are they talking about? Some kind of mystical intuition?

"Iknow, McFadden," Malone said. McFadden seemed to be willing to give Malone the benefit of the doubt.

Because he's a lieutenant? Or because Charley was on the street? Is there something to this intuition business that these two, real cops as opposed to me, understand and I don't?

And then Officer Matthew M. Payne had a literally chilling additional thought.

I knew. Jesus H. Christ, I knew. When I saw Fletchers van, I knew it was wrong. I told myself, consciously, that all it was, was a van, but I knew it was dirty. If I hadn't subconsciously known it was dirty, hadn't really been careful, Warren K. Fletcher would have run over me. The only reason I'm alive and he's dead is because, intuitively, I knew the van was dirty.

"You want to tell us about it?" McFadden asked.

"You know Tom Lenihan?" Malone asked.

McFadden shook his head no.

"He's Chief Coughlin's driver," Matt offered, and corrected himself." Was. He made lieutenant."

"Right," Malone said. "Now he's in Organized Crime."

"What about him?"

"We go back a ways together. When he made lieutenant, he bought a new car. For him new. Actually a year-old one with low mileage. I went out to Holland Pontiac-GMC to help him get it."

"And?"

"He got a Pontiac Bonneville. They gave him a real deal, he said."

"That doesn't make Holland a thief," Matt Payne said.

"Holland himself came out. Very charming. A lot of bullshit."

"What's wrong with that?" Charley asked.

"Holland has six, seven dealerships. Why should he kiss the ass of a new police lieutenant who just bought a lousy used Bonneville?"

"Maybe because he knew he worked for Denny Coughlin," Matt thought out loud.

"Same thought. Why should a big-shot car dealer kiss the ass of even Denny Coughlin?"

"That's all you have?" McFadden asked.

"Two reasons," Matt said. "One he likes cops, which I doubt, or because he's getting his rocks off knowing he's making a fool of the cops."

"What the fuck areyou talking about?" Charley challenged.

"That's the gut feeling I had," Malone said.

"I don't know what the fuck either one of you is talking about," McFadden said.

"Tell me some more," Matt said. "What do you think? How's he doing it? Why?"

"I don't knowexactly how he's doing it," Malone said. "But I have an idea why, how it started. A lot of car dealers are dirty. I mean, Christ, you know, they make their living cheating people. The only reason they don't cheat more, which is stealing, is because they don't want to get arrested."

"Okay," McFadden said. "So what?"

"So they all know how to steal something, cheating on a finance contract, swapping radios and tires around, buying hot parts for repair work," Malone said. "Now let's say Holland, maybe early on, maybe that's the reason he's so successful, figured out a way to steal cars. He's so successful, the thievery is like business, so the thrill is gone."

"Jesus, Lieutenant," McFadden said, his tone suggesting that Malone had just asked him to believe the cardinal archbishop was a secret compulsive gambler.

"Let him talk, Charley," Matt said, on the edge of sharpness.

"I also read somewhere that some thieves really want to get caught," Malone said. "And I read someplace else that some thieves really do it for the thrill, not the money."

"So you see Bob Holland as a successful thief who gets his thrills, his sense of superiority, by being a friend of the cops?"

"No wonder they think you're crazy," McFadden said, and then, realizing that he had spoken his thought, looked horrified.

"I don't think-" Matt said. "I'm not willing to join them."

"Who's them?" McFadden asked.

"Those who suggest Lieutenant Malone is crazy to think Bob Holland could be a thief," Payne said.

McFadden looked at Payne, first in disbelief, and then, when he saw that Payne was serious, with curiosity.

"Based on what, you think he's stealing and selling whole cars?" McFadden asked.

"I know how," Malone said. "I just haven't figured out how to get Holland yet."

"Great!" McFadden said. "Then youdon't know, Lieutenant."

"I do know," Malone said. "Tom Lenihan is driving a stolen car."

"How do you know that?" McFadden asked, on the edge of scornfully.

"Because the VIN tag and the secret mark on his Bonneville are different," Malone said. "I looked."

The VIN tag is a small metal plate stamped with the Vehicle Identification Number and other data, which is riveted, usually where it can be seen through the windshield, to the vehicle frame.

"No shit?" McFadden asked.

"What's the secret mark?" Matt asked, curiosity having overwhelmed his reluctance to admit his ignorance.

"The manufacturer's stamp," Malone said, "in some place where it can' t be seen, unless you know where to look, either all the numbers, or some of the numbers, on the VIN tag. So that if the thief swaps VIN tags, you can tell."

If he knows that, Matt wondered, why doesn't he just go arrest Holland?

"Does Lieutenant Lenihan know?" Charley asked.

"No," Malone said.

"Why?"

"Because I didn't tell him. If I told him, he would go to the Auto Squad, and they would get a warrant and go out there. I don't want some body shop mechanic, or even the guy that runs the body shop, taking the rap for this, I want Holland."

"Holland probably hasn't been in the body shop for years, and can prove it," McFadden said. "You're sure they're doing this in the body shop?"

"Where else?"

"Well, let's figure out how he's stealing cars, and then we can figure out how to catch him," Charley said.

"Stealing and selling," Matt corrected him.

"Hypo-something," McFadden said. "What is that you're always saying, Matt?"

"Hypothetically speaking," Matt furnished.

"Right," McFadden said. "Okay. From the thief's angle. You steal a car, and you can do what with it?"

"Strip it or chop it," Malone said.

"What's the difference?" Matt asked.

"A quick strip job means you take the tires and wheels, the radio, the air-conditioner compressor, the battery, anything you can unbolt in a hurry. A chop job is when you take maybe the front clip-you know what that is?"

"The fenders and grill," Matt answered.

"Sometimes the whole front end, less the engine," Malone said. " Engines have serial numbers. Or the rear end, or the rear quarter panels. Then you just dump what's left. Clip job or strip job."

"Or you get the whole car on a boat and send it to South America or Africa, or someplace," McFadden said. "You don't think that's what Holland is doing, do you, Lieutenant?"

"Holland is selling whole cars."

"With legitimate VIN tags," McFadden said. "Where's he get those?"

"From wrecks," Malone said. "There's no other place. He goes-hedoesn' t go, he sends one of his people-to an insurance company auction-"

"A what?" Matt interrupted.

"You run your car into a tree," Malone explained. "The insurance company decides it would cost too much to fix. They give you a check and take your car. Once a week, once every other week, they-not just one insurance company, a bunch of them-have an auction. The wrecks are bought by salvage yards, body shops, people like that."

"And Holland just takes the VIN off the wreck and puts it on the stolen car, right, and says it's been repaired, and puts it on one of his lots?" Matt asked.

"That's how I see it," Malone said.

"Well, if we know that," Matt asked, "what's the problem? All we have to do is-"

"Let me tell you, Payne, all we have to do," Malone said, more than a little contempt in his tone. "Let me give you a for example. For example, we take Tom Lenihan's car. We go back to Holland with it and say it's stolen, and where did you get it? They say,'Gee, whiz, we didn't know it was stolen. We carefully checked the VIN tag when we bought it at the insurance auction. See, here's the bill of sale.' So then we go to the insurance auction, and they say,'That's right, we auctioned that car off for ABC Insurance, and sure, we checked the VIN tag. No, we didn't check for the secret stamping, there's no law says we have to, all the law says we have to do is check the VIN tag and fill out the forms for the Motor Vehicle Bureau. We did that. Besides, we are respectable businessmen, and we resent you hinting we're a bunch of thieves.

"Oh," Matt said, chagrined.

"If we went out there tomorrow morning, with Tom Lenihan's Pontiac, which weknow is stolen, you know what would happen? First of all, nobody would get arrested. Lenihan would have to give the car up, because it's stolen. The original owner would get it back, but would have trouble with Motor Vehicles because the VIN tag doesn't match the stamped ID on the frame somewhere. Holland would piss his pants, he was so sorry that this happened to an honest man like himself and an honest man like Lenihan. He would give Lenihan another car, maybe even a better one, to show what a good guy he is. Holland would then have his lawyer sue the auction for selling him a hot car. It would take years to get on the docket. There would be delays after delays after delays. Finally it either would die a natural death or the auction would settle out of court, and as part of the deal, both parties would agree never to divulge the amount of the settlement. You getting the picture, Payne?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then he wouldn't steal any more cars until he figured we didn't have the time to watch him anymore," Malone said.

"Then how do you plan to catch Holland, Lieutenant?" McFadden asked.

"I've got a couple of ideas."

"That's what I'm asking," McFadden said.

"If Inspector Wohl finds out I haven't listened to all the good advice I've been given to forget Holland, in other words, if you tell him you saw me at the body shop, or Payne tells him about tonight, what's the difference?"

"The only people I told about you being outside the body shop is Matt and Hay-zus."

Jesus, he has told somebody!

"Who's-what did you say?"

"Hay-zus, Jesus in English, Martinez. He was my partner when we was undercover in Narcotics."

"And how many people do you think he's told, since you told him?"

"Nobody. I told him to keep it under his hat until I had a chance to ask Payne."

"So what about you, Payne?" Malone asked. "Are you going to get on the phone to Wohl the minute I leave here, or wait until tomorrow morning, or what?"

"It's an interesting ethical question," Matt said. "On one hand, for reasons I don't quite understand. I wouldreally like to see Holland caught. On the other, so far as Wohl is concerned, my primary loyalty is to him-"

"Your primary loyalty should be to the Police Department," Malone interrupted. "You're a cop. It's your duty to catch crooks."

Matt met Malone's eyes, but didn't respond.

"That's the reason you would really like to see Holland caught. You' re a cop," Malone went on.

"And on the other hand, Inspector Wohl trusts me," Matt said. "I like that. I admire him. I don't want to betray whatever confidence he has in me."

"So you are going to tell him?"

"I don't do very well deciding ethical questions when I've had four bottles of beer," Matt said. "I think I'd better sleep on this."

"I see."

"I won't, if I decide I have to tell him, tell him about tonight. If I tell him anything, it will be just that Charley saw you staking out Holland's body shop. Maybe that can slip my mind too. I don't want to decide that, either way, tonight. But if I do decide to tell him, I'll tell you before I do."

"Fair enough," Malone said.

He stood up and offered Matt his hand.

"Thank you."

"For the ribs, you mean," Matt said.

"Yeah, for the ribs," Malone said. Then he leaned over and shook McFadden's hand. Charley nodded at him, but said nothing.

Malone found his coat and walked out of the apartment.

"I wonder if he really has some ideas about catching Holland, or whether that was just bullshit," McFadden said.

"Why couldn't he tell-who did he work for in Auto Squad?"

"That's part of Major Crimes. Major Crimes is commanded by a captain. I forget his name."

"Why couldn't he tell him what he told us?"

"You really don't understand, do you?" McFadden said. "Sometimes, you're smart, Matt, and sometimes you're dumber than dog shit."

"I prefer to think of it as 'inexperienced,'" Matt said. "Answer the question."

"Okay. Don't Make Waves."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning the Auto Squad and Major Crimes has enough, more than enough, already to do without getting involved in something that might turn against them. It's not as if people are going to die because Holland is stealing cars. Who the hell is really hurt except the insurance company?"

"I could debate that:You are. Your premiums are so high because cars are stolen and have to be paid for."

"And sometimes," Charley said, smiling at him, "you sound like the monks in school. Absolute logic. You're absolutely right. But it don't mean a fucking thing in the real world. Whoever runs Major Crimes decided he didn't want to go after Bob Holland because there are other car thieves out there heknows he can catch, car thieves whowill go to jail, and who don't call the mayor by his first name. You understand?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Don't get me wrong, Matt. For the record, I hope, when you settle yourethical problem, that you decide you don't have to tell Wohl. I'd like to go after Holland."

"Help Malone, you mean?"

"Yeah. Don't you?"

"Yeah. I would. But I think it would be stupid. And probably dangerous."

"To your job, you mean? I don't think you'd be likely to get shot or anything trying to catch Holland."

"Yeah, to my job. I like my job."

"Right. You get your rocks off stumbling around fall-down buildings in the dark with a tape measure, right?"

"You'd better finish those drawings while you can still draw a reasonably straight line."

"Yeah. Jesus, it's getting late, isn't it?"

He sat down at the table. Matt went around picking up the remnants of the meal and the empty beer bottles. When he opened the cabinet under the sink, to put rib bones in the garbage can, he saw the martini glass. It had Helene's lipstick on it. It had somehow gotten broken when they had been thrashing around on the couch.

As the memories of that filled his mind's eye, he felt a sudden surge of desire.

My God, I'd like to be with her again!

"You going to tell me what's happening at half past four tomorrow morning?" Charley asked.

"They know who the doers are on that Goldblatt furniture job-"

"The Islamic Liberation Army?"

"-and they're going to pick them up all at once."

"Highway, you mean?"

"No. Special Operations. ACT."

"Jesus, that's interesting. How come not Highway?"

"A couple of reasons. I think Wohl wants Special Operations-the ACT guys-to do something on their own. And I think he's concerned that this Islamic Liberation Army thing could get out of hand."

"What do you mean, 'out of hand'?"

"He doesn't want a gang of armed robbers to get away with it, or get special treatment, because they're calling themselves a liberation army."

"That liberation army business is bullshit, huh?"

"Yeah. And finally, Chief Lowenstein told Wohl he wanted Highway to pick up these guys. I think Wohl wants to make the point that he will take requests, or suggestions, from Lowenstein, but not orders. In other words, if Lowenstein had said he wanted ACT to make the arrests, Wohl would have sent Highway."

"If the ACT guys blow it, Wohl'll have egg on his face."

"Yeah," Matt said, "and if you should happen to be around Castor and Frankford at that time of the morning, Wohl would figure out where you heard what was happening and I would have egg, or worse, on mine."

"Yeah, I suppose. Shit! Okay. I won't be there."

Matt finished cleaning up and then stood and looked over Charley's shoulder as he worked. It became quickly apparent that Charley was a quite competent draftsman.

I didn't learn a damned thing in high school, for that matter in college, that has any practical value.

"I wish I could do that," Matt said.

"So do I," McFadden said. "Then I could get the fuck out of here."