Final Justice boh-8 Page 6

  He went over to Spruce Street, and west on it past Broad Street to Nineteenth, where he turned right and then right and right again onto Manning. Manning was more of an alley than a street, but it gave access to the parking garage beneath the brownstone mansion on Rittenhouse Square that housed the Delaware Valley Cancer Society.

  The 150-year-old building had been converted several years before to office space, which, as the owner of the building had frequently commented, had proven twice as expensive as tearing the building down and starting from scratch would have been.

  Inside, the building-with the exception of a tiny apartment in the garret-was now modern office space, with all the amenities, including an elevator and parking space for Cancer Society executives in the basement. Outside, the building preserved the dignity of Rittenhouse Square, thought by many to be the most attractive of Philadelphia’s squares.

  When the owner-the building had been in his family since it was built-had authorized the expense of converting the garret, not suitable for use as offices, he thought the tiny rooms could probably be rented to an elderly couple, perhaps, or a widow or widower, someone of limited means who worked downtown, perhaps in the Franklin Institute or the Free Public Library, and who would be willing to put up with the inconvenience of access and the slanting walls and limited space because it was convenient, cheap, and was protected around-the-clock by the Wachenhut Security Service.

  It was instead occupied by a single bachelor, the owner’s son, Matthew M. Payne, because the City of Philadelphia requires that its employees live within the city limits, and the Payne residence in Wallingford, a suburb, did not qualify.

  The owner of the building had decreed that two parking spaces in the underground garage be reserved for him. Both his wife and his daughter, he thought, would appreciate having their own parking spaces in downtown Philadelphia, and it was, after all, his building.

  Matt Payne pulled the unmarked Crown Victoria into one of the two reserved parking spots. The second reserved parking spot held a silver Porsche 911 Carrera, which had been his graduation present when he had finished his undergraduate work at the University of Pennsylvania.

  He carefully locked the car, then trotted to the elevator, which was standing with its door open. He pressed 3, the door closed, and the elevator started to move. Once he was past the ground floor, he pulled his necktie loose and began to open his shirt. The buttons were open nearly to his belt when the door opened, and he started to step out onto what he expected to be the third floor.

  It was instead the second. Two female employees of the Delaware County Cancer Society had summoned the elevator to take them to the third floor, which was occupied by the various machines necessary to keep track of contributors, and the technicians-all of whom were male-and was seldom visited by anyone not connected with the machines.

  The ladies recoiled at the unexpected sight of a partially dressed male-obviously in the act of undressing even further, and from whose shoulder was slung a rather large pistol-coming out of the elevator at them.

  “Sorry,” Matt Payne said, gathering his shirt together with both hands, and indicating with a nod of his head that they were welcome to join him in the elevator.

  The ladies smiled somewhat weakly and indicated they would just as soon wait for the next elevator, thank you just the same.

  He pushed 3 again, and the elevator rose one more floor.

  When the door opened, there was no one in sight. Matt crossed the small foyer quickly, pushed the keys on a combination lock on a door, shoved it open, and went up the stairs to his apartment two at a time.

  Not quite ninety seconds later, he was in his shower-a small stall shower; there wasn’t room for a bathtub-when his cell phone went off.

  He stuck his head and one arm out from behind the shower curtain.

  “Payne.”

  There was no direct response to that. Instead, Matt heard a familiar voice say, somewhat triumphantly, “Got him, Inspector!”

  A mental picture of police officer Paul T. O’Mara came to Payne’s mind. Officer O’Mara, a very neat, very wholesome-looking young officer in an immaculate, well-fitting uniform, was sitting at his desk in the outer office of the commanding officer of Special Operations. Officer O’Mara was Inspector Wohl’s administrative assistant.

  He had assumed that duty when the incumbent-Officer M. M. Payne-had been promoted to detective.

  Officer O’Mara, like Inspector Wohl, was from a police family. His father was a captain, who commanded the Twenty-fifth District. His brother was a sergeant in Civil Affairs. His grandfather, like Peter Wohl’s father and grandfather, had retired from the Philadelphia police department.

  More important, his father was a friend of both Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Chief Inspector (Retired) Augustus Wohl. When Officer O’Mara, who had five years on the job in the Traffic Division, had failed, for the second time, to pass the examination for corporal, both Commissioner Coughlin and Chief Wohl had had a private word with Inspector Wohl.

  They had pointed out to him that just because someone has a little trouble with promotion examinations doesn’t mean he’s not a good cop, with potential. It just means that he has trouble passing examinations.

  Not like you, Peter, or, for that matter, Matt, the inference had been. You’re not really all that smart; you’re just good at taking examinations.

  One or the other or both of them had suggested that what Officer O’Mara needed was a little broader experience than he was getting in the Traffic Division, such as he might get if it could be arranged to have Personnel, with your approval, of course, assign him to Special Operations as your administrative assistant, now that Matty got himself promoted, and the job’s open.

  Officer O’Mara’s performance as Wohl’s administrative assistant had been satisfactory. He was immensely loyal, hard-working, and reliable. The trouble with Officer O’Mara, as Detective Jesus Martinez had often pointed out, was that he had been at the end of the line when brains were passed out, and an original thought and a cold drink of water would probably kill him.

  Inspector Wohl came on the line a moment later.

  “When’s the meeting going to be over?” he asked without any preliminaries.

  “It’s over, sir.”

  “You’re en route here?”

  “Actually, sir, I’m in the shower.”

  “You had planned to come to work today?”

  “Yes, sir. I will be there directly.”

  The line went dead.

  Shit! Another three minutes, and when he asked, “You’re en route here?” I could have said, “Yes, sir.”

  I wonder what’s going on?

  Why did he put the arm out for me?

  Twenty minutes later-after having twice en route responded to radio requests for his location-Detective Payne entered the walled collection of aging red-brick buildings once known as the U.S. Army Frankford Arsenal and now somewhat hopefully dubbed the “Arsenal Business Center” by the City of Philadelphia.

  When business had not rushed to the Arsenal, the city had given its permission for two units of the police department to occupy some of the buildings. One was the Sex Crimes Unit, and the other the far larger Special Operations Division, which previously had been operating out of a building at Castor and Frankford Avenues. Built in 1892, the Frankford Grammar School had rendered the city more than a century of service before being adjudged uninhabitable by the Bureau of Licenses Inspections.

  It had then served as Special Operations Division Head-quarters-with Inspector Peter Wohl installed in what had been the principal’s office-until space had “become available” in the Arsenal Business Center. Just as soon as funds became available, the city intended to demolish the old school. Unless, of course, it really died of old age and fell down by itself, thereby saving the city that expenditure.

  Matt drove through the collection of old and mostly unused Arsenal buildings until he came to one of the “newer” buildings-the corners
tone was marked 1934-and drove around it, looking for a place to park. There were none. Even the spot reserved for COMMISSIONER was occupied.

  He finally parked a block away and then trotted to the Special Operations headquarters building. Inspector Wohl was now housed in the ground-floor office of what had once been the office of the Arsenal’s commanding officer.

  He pushed open the door from the corridor to Wohl’s outer office.

  Officer O’Mara pushed a lever on his intercom.

  “Sir, Detective Payne is here.”

  “Send him in.”

  Matt knocked politely at the door and waited for permission to enter.

  “Come in, please,” Inspector Wohl called.

  Matt pushed the door open.

  There were five people in the room. Inspector Peter Wohl, sitting behind his desk; Captain Michael J. Sabara, fortyish, a short, barrel-chested Lebanese, who was Wohl’s deputy; Captain David Pekach, the weasel-faced, fair-skinned, small, wiry thirty-seven-year-old commanding officer of the Highway Patrol; and, sitting side by side on Wohl’s couch, two white shirts Matt was really surprised to see in Wohl’s office: Deputy Commissioner (Patrol) Dennis V. Coughlin and his Executive Officer, Captain Francis X. Hollaran.

  What the hell is going on?

  “I’m delighted, Detective Payne,” Inspector Wohl said, sarcastically, “that you have managed to squeeze time for us into your busy schedule.”

  “There’s one bastard I would really like to see shuffling around in shackles,” Captain Hollaran said, handing something to Captain Pekach.

  “You’d like to see him in shackles?” Captain Sabara replied. “I’d like to see him fry. I’d strap him in the chair myself.”

  Despite his somewhat menacing appearance, Captain Michael Sabara was really a rather gentle man. Matt was surprised at his vehemence.

  “Fry”? “I’d strap him in the chair myself”?

  Who are they talking about?

  “You were saying, Detective Payne?” Inspector Wohl went on.

  “Sorry, sir. I had to change my clothes,” Payne said.

  “When was the last time you got a postcard, Dave?” Commissioner Coughlin asked.

  “I get one every couple of months,” Pekach replied. “The one before this was from Rome. This one’s from someplace in France.”

  “Probably from where he lives,” Coughlin said, shaking his head. “The sonofabitch knows the French won’t let us extradite him.”

  “Unless it had something to do with Monsignor Schneider, I don’t think I want to hear why you had to change your clothes,” Inspector Wohl said.

  “Nothing to do with the monsignor, sir.”

  “Good,” Inspector Wohl said. “I presume everything went well at the meeting?”

  “Everything went well at the meeting,” Matt said. “I e-mailed you, sir.”

  “So you did,” Wohl said. “And I was delighted to hear that you think you’re in love, but wondered why you thought you should notify me officially.”

  “You’re in love, are you, Payne?” Captain Pekach asked.

  “No, sir, I’m not.”

  “Then why did you tell Inspector Wohl you were, and as part of your official duties?” Commissioner Coughlin asked.

  “It was a little joke, sir,” Matt said.

  Jesus, why the hell did I do that?

  And damn it, I sent it to his personal e-mail address, so it wasn’t official.

  “You have to watch that sort of thing, Matty,” Commissioner Coughlin said, his tone suggesting great disappointment in Matt’s lack of professionalism.

  “Who are you in love with, Payne?” Captain Sabara asked.

  “There was a girl at the meeting,” Matt said. “I…”

  “The sort of girl you could bring home to dinner with your mother?” Sabara pursued.

  “Or to dinner with my Martha?” Captain Pekach asked.

  Martha was Mrs. Pekach.

  “Sir?”

  “More important,” Sabara asked, “what makes you think this female is in love with you?”

  I am having my chain pulled. Just for the hell of it? Or is there more to this?

  “Actually, sir, I knew she was in love with me from the moment she saw me. I seem to have that effect on women.”

  There were smiles, but not so much as a chuckle.

  “Let me put it to you this way, Matty,” Commissioner Coughlin said, very seriously. “The one thing a detective-or a newly promoted sergeant-doesn’t need is a reputation as a ladies’ man…”

  What did he say-“or a new sergeant”?

  “… it tends to piss off the wives of the men they’re working with,” Coughlin finished.

  Now there was laughter.

  “Congratulations, Matty,” Coughlin said. “You’re number one on the list.”

  He stood up, went to Matt, shook his hand, and put his arm around his shoulders.

  “I’ll be damned,” Matt said.

  “Damned? Probably, almost certainly,” Wohl said. “But for the moment, we’re all proud of you.”

  “Yeah, we are, Matt,” Pekach said. “I don’t think even our beloved boss was ever number one on a list.”

  “Yeah, he was,” Coughlin corrected him. “Peter was number one on the lieutenant’s list.”

  Officer O’Mara appeared at the door with a digital camera, lined them all up, with Matt in the middle, and took four pictures of them.

  “There’s a dark side to this,” Pekach said. “Matt, you know Martha’s going to have a party for you.”

  “She doesn’t have to do that,” Matt said.

  “She will want to,” Pekach said.

  “I’ve got to go back to work,” Coughlin said. He looked at Hollaran. “Frank and I would have been out of here long ago if Detective Payne hadn’t found it necessary to take a bath in the middle of the morning.”

  “It was a matter of absolute necessity,” Matt said.

  “So we’ll leave just as soon as Matty calls his father and mother and lets them have the good news.”

  “Sir?” Wohl asked, confused.

  “You don’t mind if I borrow him for a couple of hours, do you, Peter?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll wait for you outside, Matty,” Coughlin said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was a round of handshakes, and in a moment Matt and Wohl were alone in the office.

  “Sit down, have a cup of coffee, and call,” Wohl said. “You seem a little shaken.”

  Matt said aloud what he was thinking.

  “I thought I was going to pass,” he said. “Not number one, but pass. But now that it’s happened… Sergeant Payne?”

  “You’ll get used to it, Matt,” Wohl said, poured him a cup of coffee, and pointed to the couch, an order for him to sit down.

  “Coughlin will wait,” he said. “Prepare yourself for another ‘what you need is a couple of years in uniform’ speech.”

  “Another? You know about the first?”

  Wohl nodded. “And for the record, Matt, I think he’s right.”

  “I don’t want to be a uniform sergeant,” Matt said.

  “You need that experience,” Wohl said. “End of my speech.”

  “Thank you,” Matt said, sat down, took out his cellular, and started pushing autodial buttons.

  It didn’t take long.

  Mrs. Elizabeth Newman, the Payne housekeeper, said:

  “I thought you knew, Matt, your mother went to Wilmington overnight.”

  Goddamn it, I did know!

  “Thanks, Elizabeth. I did know. I forgot.”

  On the second call, Mrs. Irene Craig, Executive Secretary to Brewster Cortland Payne, Esq., founding partner of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, arguably Philadelphia’s most prestigious law firm, said, a certain tone of loving exasperation in her voice, “I left two messages on your machine, Matt. Your dad went to Washington on the eight-thirteen this morning, and is going to spend the night with your mother in W
ilmington.”

  And I got both of them, too, goddamn it!

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Craig. Forgive me.”

  “No, I won’t. But I love you anyway.”

  On the third call, a nasal-voiced female somewhat tartly informed him that Dr. Payne would be teaching all day, and could not be reached unless it was an emergency.

  “Thank you very much. Tell Dr. Payne, please, that unless we have her check within seventy-two hours, we’re going to have to repossess the television.”

  “Amy always teaches all day on Monday,” Inspector Wohl said.

  Inspector Wohl knew more about Dr. Payne’s schedule than her brother did. They were close friends, and on-and-off lovers.

  Matt looked at him but said nothing.

  “Low-ranking police officers should not keep Deputy Commissioners waiting,” Wohl said. “You might want to write that down.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”

  Deputy Commissioner Coughlin was standing on the stairs to the building waiting for him.

  “You drive, Matty,” he ordered. “Frank had things to do. You can either drop me at the Roundhouse later, or I’ll catch a ride somehow.”

  “Yes, sir. Where are we going?”

  “The Roy Rogers at Broad and Snyder,” Coughlin said. “You heard about that?”

  “Yes, sir. I ran into Tony Harris at the Roundhouse this morning. Did they get the doers?”

  “Not yet,” Coughlin said. “We will, of course. We should have already. I’d like to know why we haven’t.”

  And en route, I will get the speech.

  I really hate to refuse anything he asks of me.

  And he’s right-and Peter made it clear he agrees with him-I probably would learn a hell of a lot I don’t know and should if I went to one of the districts as a uniform sergeant.

  But I don’t want to be a uniform sergeant, spending my time driving around a district waiting for something to happen, getting involved in domestic disturbances, petty theft, and all that.

  I like being a detective. I like working in civilian clothing.

  And I didn’t come up with that ruling that the high-five guys get their choice of assignment. They offered that prize, and I won it, fair and square, and I want it.