Final Justice Page 5

  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 lieu
tenants 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.

  In an adjacent room was a long conference table, on which water and coffee carafes, cups and saucers, and even lined pads and ballpoint pens had been laid out. There were two telephones on the table, and television sets mounted on the walls.

  This suite was designed not for luxury—although it’s no dump—but as somewhere the boss can gather the underlings together and inspire them.

  Matt walked into the conference room, took a telephone cord from his briefcase, and looked along the walls for a telephone jack. Finding none, he dropped to his knees and got under the table. There were two double telephone jacks, and he plugged the telephone cord into one of them.

  As he backed out, he became aware of nylon-sheathed legs.

  “Can I help you?” a female voice asked as he got to his feet.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I managed to get it in . . . ”Jesus Christ! Will you look at this! “ . . . the hole with only a little trouble.”

  “Laptop?” the blonde asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “To take notes?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She’s probably Stan Colt’s squeeze. Far too beautiful for a common man. Jesus Christ, she’s stunning!

  She put out her hand.

  “I’m Terry Davis,” she said. “With GAM.”

  “Is that one ‘r’ and an ‘i’, or two ‘r’s and a ‘y’?”

  “Not that it matters, but two ‘r’s and a ’y.’ ”

  “And what’s GAM?”

  “Global Artists Management,” she answered, making her surprise that he didn’t know evident in the tone of her voice.

  “Of course,” Matt said, “I should have known.”

  “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Have you had your breakfast?”

  Not quite an hour before, Detective Payne had had two fried eggs, two slices of Taylor ham, two bagels, a glass each of orange juice and milk, and two cups of coffee.

  “I could eat a little something, now that you mention it.”

  “Well, when you have your laptop up and working, won’t you please have some breakfast?”

  “You’re very kind,” Matt said.

  She smiled at him and walked back to the room with the buffet, in the process convincing Payne that both sides of her were stunning.

  He turned the laptop on, pushed the appropriate buttons, thought a moment about whether he wanted to make this official or not, decided he didn’t, and then typed, very quickly, for he was an accomplished typist, the private screen name for Inspector Wohl, and then his own; he wanted a copy of what he was about to type.0935 dignitary is stan colt, coming to town to raise money for west catholic high school. So far two $$dinners, two $$lunches, and a $$benefit performance. will know dates locations etc after breakfasting upper floor suite ritz carlton with mcguire, monsignor schneider, terry davis of gam, others. I think I’m in love. 701.

  In a moment, the computer told him his mail had been sent. Probably less than a minute later, the computer on the table behind Inspector Peter Wohl’s desk at Special Operations headquarters would give off a ping, and a message would appear on his monitor telling him he had an e-mail message from 701, which was Detective Payne’s badge number. A similar action would take place on Detective Payne’s desktop, and when he got back to the office, he would copy the message into his desktop.

  Leaving the computer on, Payne went into the room with the buffet. Lieutenant McGuire, seated at a table with Monsignor Schneider and the other priest, waved him over.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Payne, do you know the monsignor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Monsignor, this is Detective Payne, of Special Operations, which will be providing most of the manpower for Mr. Colt’s security while he’s here.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” the monsignor said, smiling and standing up to offer his hand. “Your boss and I are old friends.”

  Was that incidental information, to put me at ease, or are you telling me that if I displease you in any way, you’ll go right to Wohl?

  “Detective Payne, this is Father Venno, of my office,” the monsignor went on, “who’ll be my liaison, representing the archdiocese.”

  “How do you do, Father?” Matt said politely, putting out his hand and looking over Venno’s shoulder, finding Terry Davis at a table with two empty chairs, and wondering if he could get away with joining her.

  “Why don’t you get a plate—the omelets are wonderful— and join us?” Monsignor Schneider said.

  Shit!

  “Thank you very much, sir,” Payne said.

  Although he didn’t have nearly as much appetite as he’d had when contemplating taking breakfast with Miss Davis, the omelets offered did have a certain appeal, and Detective Payne returned to the table with a western omelet with everything, an English muffin, and a large glass of orange juice.

  “That was an unfortunate business on South Broad Street last night, wasn’t it?” Monsignor Schneider said. “At the Gene Autry?”

  “The Roy Rogers, Monsignor,” Father Venno corrected him.

  “Wasn’t it?” the monsignor repeated, directing the question to Matt Payne, his face making it clear he didn’t like to be corrected.

  “Yes, sir, it was,” Matt said.

  “Have there been any developments in the case?”

  “They’re working on it, sir,” Matt said. “I think they’ll wrap it up pretty quickly.”

  “Greater love . . . ,” the monsignor said, somewhat piously.

  “Officer Charlton was a good man,” Lieutenant McGuire said. “A very sad situation.”

  Over Father Venno’s shoulder, Matt saw that the two empty chairs at Terry Davis’s table were now occupied by Sergeant Al Nevins and another man—presumably from GAM—and that everyone was smiling at one another.

  “I’ve just placed you,” Father Venno said, a tone of satisfaction in his voice.

  “Excuse me?” Matt said.

  “You were involved in that . . . unfortunate incident . . . in Doylestown a couple of months ago, weren’t you?”

  “Unfortunate incident?” And it was six months ago, not “a couple,” and I was just starting to think I’d be able to start really forgetting it. Thanks a lot, Father!

  “What unfortunate incident was that?” Monsignor Schneider asked.

  “At the Crossroads Diner, Monsignor,” Father Venno said. “The FBI and Detective Payne were attempting an arrest—”

  “Of a terrorist,” the monsignor interrupted, remembering. “A terrorist armed with a machine gun. Several people lost their lives.” He looked at Payne. “You were involved in that, were you?”

  “Yes, sir, I was,” Matt said.

  “As I recall,” the monsignor said, “three people died, and another young woman was shot.”

  “I believe there wer
e just two deaths, Monsignor,” Lieutenant McGuire said. “The terrorist, a man named Chenowith, and a civilian, a young woman who was cooperating with the FBI. What was her name, Matt?”

  “Susan Reynolds,” Matt answered.

  And I loved her, and she loved me, but we didn’t make it to that vine-covered cottage by the side of the road because that lunatic Chenowith let fly with his automatic carbine.

  He had a sudden painfully clear mental image of Susan on her back in the parking lot behind the Crossroads Diner, her mouth and her sightless eyes open, her blond hair in a spreading pool of blood. The carbine bullet had made a small, neat hole just below her left eye, and a much nastier hole at the back of her head as it exited.

  He laid his fork down, put his napkin on the table, and stood up.

  “Will you excuse me, please?” he said, and looked around the room in search of a bathroom.

  As he walked across the room, he heard Monsignor Schneider ask, “Detective Payne has experience working with the FBI, does he?” and heard Lieutenant McGuire’s answer.

  “Yes, he does, Monsignor.”

  Then he was in the bathroom, hurriedly fastening the lock, and hoping that he could splash cold water on his face quickly enough to force back the bile and nausea he felt rising.

  Ninety seconds later, he was leaning with his back against the bathroom wall, wiping his face with a towel, exhaling audibly. He had managed to keep from throwing up, but there had been a cold sweat, and he could feel the clammy touch of his undershirt on his skin.

  You’re going to have to stop this shit, Matthew. That was a long time ago, Susan is not going to come back, and you’re going to have to really put all of that out of your mind, or they’ll put you in a rubber room.

  Finally, he hung the towel back on its rack, and then, after purposefully taking several slow, deep breaths, unlatched the door and went out of the bathroom. Everyone was filing into the conference room—how the hell long was I in the john?— and he joined the line at the end, taking his seat at the table where he had left the laptop.

  He saw a dark blue plastic folder lying beside his laptop. There was a neatly printed label on its cover: Stan Colt’s Visit to Philadelphia. Matt looked around the table and saw that everyone had been provided with a folder, and that there was another laptop on the table, in front of a man about his age wearing a gray business suit.