Final Justice boh-8 Read online

  “How prescient of you, Commissioner,” Hollaran said, smiling.

  “How do you think you’re going to like the last-out shift in Night Command, Captain?”

  The last-out-midnight to eight A.M.-shift in Night Command was universally regarded as the department’s version of purgatory for captains. Those who occupied the position usually had seriously annoyed the senior brass in one way or another. There was no relief from the midnight-to-morning hours; the occupant was required to be in uniform at all times while on duty, and he was the only captain in the department to whom the department did not issue an unmarked car.

  Some Night Command captains took their lumps and performed their duties without complaint, while waiting until they were replaced by some other captain who had annoyed the hierarchy, but many heard the message and retired or resigned.

  “Come on,” Hollaran said, not awed by the threat. “Matt took the exam, grabbed the brass ring, and he’s a good cop and you know it.”

  “… and would be given his choice of assignment,” Coughlin went on, ignoring him. “And that he should seriously consider a couple of years in uniform.”

  “And?”

  “He said his three choices were going to be Special Operations, Highway, and Homicide.”

  “Somehow, I can’t see Matt on a motorcycle,” Hollaran said.

  “And Highway’s under Special Operations, and he’s been in Special Operations too long as it is,” Coughlin said.

  “Which leaves Homicide,” Hollaran said.

  “Which, since he knows he can’t stay in Special Operations forever, is really what he wants. He’s got the system figured out.”

  “And that surprises you? With you and Peter Wohl as his rabbis?”

  Coughlin flashed him an annoyed look.

  Hollaran suddenly smiled.

  “You’re having obscene thoughts again, Frank?” Coughlin asked. “Or something else amuses you?”

  “The Black Buddha,” Hollaran said. “Wait till he finds out the empty sergeant’s slot in Homicide will be filled by brandnew Sergeant Payne.”

  Coughlin smiled, despite himself.

  “They’re pretty close,” Coughlin said. “Which makes their situation even more uncomfortable for both of them.”

  “They’ll be able to handle it,” Hollaran said.

  At 9:05, Detective Matthew M. Payne-a six foot tall, lithely muscled, 165-pound twenty-six-year-old with neatly cut, dark, thick hair and dark, intelligent eyes-arrived in the parking lot behind the Roundhouse, at the wheel of an unmarked, new Ford Crown Victoria.

  He was neatly dressed in a tweed jacket, gray flannel slacks, a white button-down-collar shirt, and striped necktie, and when he finally found a place to park the car and got out of the car, carrying a leather briefcase, he looked more like a stockbroker, or a young lawyer, than what comes to mind when the phrase “police detective” is heard.

  There seemed to be proof of this when he entered the building and had to produce his badge and identification card before the police officer guarding access to the lobby would pass him into it.

  But as he was walking toward the elevator, he was recognized by a slight, wiry, starting-to-bald thirty-eight-year-old in a well-worn blue blazer. He was not a very imposing-looking man, but Matt-and others-knew him to be one of the best homicide detectives, in the same league as Jason Washington.

  “As I live and breathe, the fashion plate of Special Operations, ” Detective Anthony C. Harris greeted him. “What brings you here from the Arsenal down to where the working cops work?”

  “Hey, Tony!” Payne said, smiling as they shook hands. He looked quickly at his watch. “Got time for a cup of coffee?”

  Harris shook his head.

  “Guess who wants me to take a look at the Roy Rogers scene,” Harris said.

  “South Broad? That one? I saw Mickey’s piece in the Bulletin.”

  Harris nodded.

  “I thought they’d have them by now,” Payne said. “Mickey said ‘massive manhunt.’ ”

  “It would help if we knew who we’re looking for,” Harris said. “No one’s picked anybody out of the mug books, and there’s no talk on the streets.”

  “I thought there were a bunch of witnesses?”

  “There were. I have just been looking at police artist sketches. To go by them, twenty-five different people shot Kenny Charlton.”

  Payne picked up on the use of Charlton’s first name. “You knew him?”

  “One of the good guys, Matt,” Harris said, just a little bitterly. “With a little bit of luck, right after I get a positive ID on these two bastards, they’ll resist arrest.”

  I’m a cop, a detective-hell, I think I’m going to be a sergeant-and I don’t know if he means that or not.

  Harris, too, was quick to pick up on things on other people’s faces. The subject was changed.

  “So what’s new with you, Matt?” he asked.

  “A famous movie star is coming to Philadelphia,” Matt said.

  “I thought all movie stars were famous,” Harris said. “Which one?”

  “They haven’t told me yet,” Matt said. “I’m on my way to the auditorium for the preliminary meeting with Gerry McGuire of Dignitary Protection. And just for the record, there are also infamous movie stars.”

  “Score one for the fashion plate,” Harris said. “Don’t let this go to your head, but the Black Buddha and I miss you, Matt, now that we’re back with the police department…”

  Both Jason Washington and Tony Harris, over their bitter objections, had been transferred to the Special Operations Division when it was formed, and only recently-after they had trained other Special Operations detectives to Inspector Peter Wohl’s high standards-had been allowed to return.

  “Fuck you, Tony!”

  “… and we don’t see much of you. Why don’t you-not today, wait till we get the Charlton doers-come by when you have the time and buy us lunch?”

  “Yeah. I will.”

  “Give my regards to the movie star,” Harris said, touched Payne’s arm, and walked across the lobby to the exit.

  Matt walked across the lobby toward the auditorium.

  The Dignitary Protection Unit, as the name suggests, is charged with protecting dignitaries visiting Philadelphia. Philadelphia’s own dignitaries-the mayor, for example, and the district attorney-are protected by police officers, but those officers are not under the Dignitary Protection Unit.

  Staffing the unit poses a problem. Sometimes there are several-even a dozen-dignitaries requiring protection, and sometimes only one or two, or none at all.

  What has evolved is that only a few men-a lieutenant, two sergeants, and half a dozen detectives-are assigned full time to Dignitary Protection.

  When needed, additional detectives-who don’t wear uniforms on duty, and thus already have the necessary civilian clothing-are temporarily reassigned from their divisions, then returned to their regular duties after the visiting dignitary has left town.

  Over time, most of the detectives placed on temporary duty with Dignitary Protection had come from the Special Operations Division, as had uniformed officers of the Highway Patrol, which was part of Special Operations. Special Operations had citywide authority, for one thing, which meant that its officers knew more about the back alleys and such of the entire city than did their peers who spent their careers in one district. That was useful to Dignitary Protection.

  And the department had yet to hear a complaint from any visiting dignitary that en route from Pennsylvania Station or the airport to his hotel his car had been preceded and trailed by nattily uniformed police officers mounted on shiny motorcycles with sirens screaming and blue lights flashing.

  But the Roman Emperor spectacle was really a pleasant byproduct of the fact that Highway Patrol officers were the elite of the department. It was hard to get into Highway, hard to stay there if you didn’t measure up, and while there you could count on being where the action-heaviest criminal activity- was.
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  The dignitary in his limousine, in other words, was protected by four-or eight, or even twelve-of the best-trained, best-equipped streetwise uniforms in the department.

  Consequently, Dignitary Protection had gotten in the habit of requesting temporary personnel from Special Operations first, because the commanding officer of Special Operations almost always gave Dignitary Protection whatever it asked for, without question.

  There had been a lot of talk that the smart thing to do would be to simply transfer the unit-if dignitary protection wasn’t a special operation, what was? — to Special Operations.

  That hadn’t happened, for a number of reasons never really spelled out, but certainly including the fact that Inspector Peter Wohl, the commanding officer of Special Operations, probably could not have won an election for the most popular white shirt in the department.

  For one thing, at thirty-seven, he was the youngest inspector in the department. For another, he already had, in the opinion of many inspectors and chief inspectors, too much authority. And in the course of his career-especially when he had been a staff inspector in Internal Affairs, again the youngest man to hold that rank-he had put a number of dirty cops, some of them high ranking, in the slam.

  Almost all police officers of all ranks, although they don’t like to admit it, have ambivalent feelings toward dirty cops, and the cops who catch them and send them to the slam. Dirty cops deserve the slam, and the guys who put them there deserve the gratitude and admiration of every honest police officer.

  On the other hand, Jesus Christ, Ol’Harry was a good cop for seventeen years before this happened, and how’s his family going to make out while he’s doing time? And when he gets out, no pension, no nothing. I’m glad he’s not on my conscience.

  When Wohl-after having placed second of eleven examinees on the written examination for promotion to inspector- appeared before the senior officers conducting the oral part of the exam, his ability to handle the conflicting emotions that dealing with dirty cops evoked was one of the reasons he got promoted.

  So while just about everyone agreed that Dignitary Protection belonged in Special Operations, it didn’t go there. It stayed a separate unit.

  There was so much going on between Dignitary Protection and Special Operations, however, that Inspector Wohl had decided there should be one man charged with liaison between the two. He had assigned this duty-in addition to his other duties-to Detective Matthew M. Payne.

  It was no secret anywhere in the department that Inspector Wohl was Detective Payne’s rabbi, and there were many who thought that this was the reason Payne was given the assignment. And to a degree, the suspicions had a basis in fact.

  The function of a rabbi is to groom a young police officer for greater responsibility-and higher rank-down the line. As he had risen upward in the police department, Inspector Wohl’s rabbi had been Inspector, then Chief Inspector, then Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin.

  As Commissioner Coughlin had risen upward through the ranks, his rabbi had been Captain, and ultimately the Hon. Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, who had liked to boast that he had held every rank in the police department except policewoman, before answering the people’s call to elective public office.

  And His Honor, too, had had a rabbi. His had been-ultimately, before he retired-Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, whose only son Peter had entered the Police Academy at twenty, two weeks after he had graduated from Temple University.

  Wohl did think that learning about Dignitary Protection would do Detective Payne some good-the more a cop knew about the department, the better-but another major reason was efficiency.

  Whoever sat in at the meetings at Dignitary Protection would be expected to report to Wohl precisely what had happened, and what would be asked of Special Operations.

  Matt Payne not only had the ability to write a report quickly and accurately, but he had almost permanently attached to his right wrist a state-of-the-art laptop computer, on which and through which the final reports of what happened at the Dignitary Protection meeting would be written and transmitted to Inspector Wohl’s desktop computer long before Detective Payne himself could return to Special Operations headquarters in what once had been the U.S. Army’s Frankford Arsenal.

  As Payne was about to push open the door to the auditorium, Sergeant Al Nevins, a stocky, barrel-chested forty-five-year — old, trotted across the lobby and caught his arm.

  Nevins was one of the two sergeants permanently assigned to Dignitary Protection.

  “God loves me,” he said. “You’re early. I was afraid you’d show up on time, and I put out the arm for you, and radio reported they couldn’t find you.” He offered no explanation, instead turned and, raising his voice, called across the lobby, “Lieutenant Payne’s here.”

  Lieutenant Gerry McGuire, the commanding officer of Dignitary Protection-a somewhat plump, pleasant-looking forty-five-year-old-walked across the lobby to them. He was-surprising Matt-in uniform.

  “I tried to have Al reach out for you, Matt,” McGuire said. “I’m glad you’re here. We’re going to do this, now, in the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “Who’s coming to town, sir?” Matt asked.

  “Stan Colt,” Lieutenant McGuire said.

  “My life is now complete,” Matt said.

  Stan Colt was an almost unbelievably handsome and muscular actor who had begun his theatrical career in a rock band, used the fame that had brought him to get a minor part in a police series on television, and then used that to get his first role in a theatrical motion picture, playing a detective. That motion picture had been spectacularly successful, largely, Matt thought, because of the special effects. There had been a half-dozen follow-ons, none of which Matt had seen-the first one had reminded him of the comic books he’d read as a kid; in one scene Stan Colt had fired twenty-two shots without reloading from a seven-shot. 45 Colt, held sideward-but he understood they had all done exceedingly well at the box office.

  “Matt,” McGuire said, “be aware that the mayor and the commissioner look upon him as a Philadelphia icon, right up there with Benjamin Franklin.” He looked at his watch and added, “I mean now, we’re due there at nine-thirty.”

  He waved Matt ahead of him across the lobby. Sergeant Nevins followed them.

  “What’s going on at the Ritz-Carlton?” Matt asked.

  “Mr. Colt’s advance party is there,” Lieutenant McGuire replied. “And possibly the archbishop, though more likely Monsignor Schneider. And the commissioner said he might drop by. Colt’s people are calling it a ‘previsit breakfast conference. ’ ”

  “What’s going on?”

  “West Catholic High School is going to give Mr. Colt his high school diploma,” McGuire said. “Which he apparently didn’t get before he went off to show business and fame. In connection with this, there will be two expensive lunches, two even more expensive dinners, and a star-studded performance featuring Mr. Colt and a number of friends. The proceeds will all go to the West Catholic Building Fund. The archbishop, I understand, is thrilled. And the mayor and the commissioner are thrilled whenever the archbishop is thrilled.”

  “I get the picture,” Matt said.

  The elevator door opened and Lieutenant McGuire led the way out of the building to the parking lot.

  “Where’s your car, Al?” McGuire asked. “Mine’s in the garage again.”

  “Mine’s right over there,” Matt said, pointing, and immediately regretted it.

  The assignment of unmarked cars in the Philadelphia police department-except in Special Operations-worked on the hand-me-down principle. New cars went to the chief inspectors, who on receipt of their new vehicles handed down their slightly used vehicles to inspectors, who in turn handed down their well-used, if not worn-out, vehicles to captains entitled to unmarked cars, who passed their nearly worn-out vehicles farther down the hierarchy.

  Special Operations had a federal grant for “Experimental Policing Techniques,” which
, among other things, provided money for automobiles. Special Operations vehicles were not provided out of the department budget, in other words, and the grant was worded so that “unneeded and unexpended funds” were supposed to be returned to the federal government.

  The result of that was that not one dollar of “unneeded and unexpended funds” had ever been returned to Washington, and everyone in Special Operations who drove an unmarked car-down to lowly detectives and patrol officers in plainclothes assignments-drove a new vehicle.

  When the annual grant money was received, new cars were purchased by Special Operations, and the used Special Operations cars were turned over to the department motor pool for assignment.

  From Matt’s perspective, it was a good deal for the department all around. Once a year, the department got thirty-odd cars-most of them in excellent shape-for nothing. And the department did not have to provide-and pay for-thirty-odd unmarked cars to Special Operations.

  However, from the perspective of Lieutenant McGuire- and of most other lieutenants and captains, and even more than a few more senior officers-lowly detectives and officers in plainclothes should not be driving new cars when captains and lieutenants were driving cars on the steep slope leading to the crusher.

  All Lieutenant McGuire said, however, when he got in the front seat of the car beside Matt, was “I love the smell of a new car.”

  They drove up Market Street to City Hall, and then around it, to the Ritz-Carlton, whose main entrance was on the west side of South Broad Street just across from City Hall.

  McGuire looked at his watch again and said, “Park in front. I don’t want to be late.”

  Matt pulled into space normally reserved for taxis, put a plastic covered POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign on the dashboard, and then hurried after McGuire and Nevins.

  The Stan Colt advance party was in a large suite, the windows of which looked down on the statue of William Penn atop City Hall.

  A buffet had been laid out-an impressive one, complete to a man in chef’s whites manning an omelet stove-and there were seven or eight people in the room, including two men in clerical collars. Matt knew the archbishop by sight, and he wasn’t one of the two, so the gray-haired one in the well-tailored suit had to be Monsignor Schneider.