Final Justice boh-8

by W. E. B Griffin

“Too young, you mean?” Matt asked, and Olivia nodded. “She got her M.D. at twenty-four. I wouldn’t want you to quote me, but she’s smart as hell. And she really can get into the minds of psychopaths. This isn’t the first time she’s helped. She’ll probably give us a pretty good picture of how this guy thinks.”

  “Where to now?” Olivia asked.

  “The Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building, South Rittenhouse Square.”

  “What are we going to do there?”

  “I live there,” Matt said, and waited for her curiosity to overwhelm him. It didn’t.

  When she pulled to the curb in front of the Cancer Society Building, Matt said, “You’ve got my cellular number?”

  “And you’ve got mine,” Olivia said.

  “See you later,” Matt said.

  “Right,” Olivia said.

  He got the Porsche out of the basement garage and headed for New York. When he was out of Center City traffic-on I-95 North-he slipped his cellular into a dash-mounted rack, which permitted hands-off operation, and punched in Joe D’Amata’s number.

  “D’Amata.”

  “Payne. I’m on my way to New York, unless you need me there.”

  “There’s not much you can do here,” D’Amata said. “The crime lab folks are just about finished. Slayberg’s done the scene. We got statements from both McGrorys. What I’d like to do is get the Williamsons’ statements.”

  “I got a statement from the brother,” Matt said.

  “Then just the mother, then.”

  “Olivia’s on her way to the Roundhouse to deliver the pictures to Washington-”

  “He’s not there,” D’Amata interrupted. “He called to say if I needed him, if we needed him, he’s going to take another look at the Roy Rogers.”

  “He’s going to meet with O’Hara, Harris, and the black kid witness at five o’clock, to start all over again.”

  “So he told me.”

  “Olivia’s going from the Roundhouse to see the Williamsons.”

  “Olivia is, is she?”

  “Fuck you, Joe.”

  “I think that’s what they call ‘verbal abuse of a subordinate, ’ Sergeant. You’ll be hearing from the FOP.”

  “Then fuck you twice, Joe,” Matt said.

  D’Amata laughed.

  “You have the Williamson mother’s address?” Matt asked.

  “No, but I probably can get it from Detective Lassiter.”

  “I’ve got her cell number. You need it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Matt gave it to him, then said, “Tell her that I said I want her to introduce you to the Williamsons as the lead detective on the case. Maybe ‘senior homicide investigator’ would be better.”

  There was a pause while D’Amata considered that.

  “Lassiter’s got them calmed down, and we want to show them how hard we’re working, right?”

  “Yeah. Make sense to you?”

  “Yeah. That Philly Phil asshole business is still dangerous. My wife called and asked me what the hell was wrong with the uniforms, they didn’t take the door.”

  “Well, let’s keep the Williamsons stroked.”

  “Consider it done,” D’Amata said. “If anything comes up, I’ll call you.”

  “Same here.”

  “That digital camera’s a long shot, Matt. But let’s hope we get lucky.”

  “Amen, Brother.”

  Sergeant Zachary Hobbs, a stocky, ruddy-faced forty-four-year — old, was holding down the desk in Homicide when Detective Lassiter walked through the outer door.

  Detective Kenneth J. Summers, who should have been working the desk, was meeting a lengthy call of nature, which he blamed on something he must have eaten at the church supper of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church the previous evening.

  “Can I help you?” Hobbs asked. He was not immune to Detective Lassiter’s looks.

  “Lieutenant Washington?”

  “I’m sorry, he’s not here.”

  “Captain Quaire?”

  “He’s not here either. Can I do something for you?”

  “Would you give whichever of them comes in first this envelope, please?”

  She handed it to him.

  “Sure.” He weighed it in his hands. “What is it?”

  “It’s from Sergeant Payne,” Olivia said.

  Hobbs looked at her, waiting for her to go on. After a moment’s hesitation, she did.

  “It’s photographs of the victim in the Independence Street job.”

  Sergeant Hobbs immediately tore the envelope open and looked at the eight photographs.

  “Where the hell did Payne get these?” Hobbs asked.

  “The doer forgot his digital camera at the scene. Sergeant Payne downloaded the images to his laptop, and Special Victims printed them for us.”

  “Next question: Who are you, Detective? How did you get them?”

  “My name is Lassiter,” Olivia said. “Northwest. I’ve been detailed to Homicide. Sergeant Payne told me to bring them here.”

  “Detailed? By who?”

  “Chief Lowenstein,” Olivia said.

  “Well, so long as you’re with us, Detective, you’re certainly going to bring a little class to the premises,” Hobbs said. “Where’s the camera?”

  “Detective D’Amata has it,” Olivia said.

  “Okay. As soon as either the boss or the Black Buddha comes in, I’ll see they get these. They may want to talk to you…”

  “I’ll give you my cell phone number,” she said, and did.

  “Where will you be?”

  “I’m going to take the victim’s mother’s statement,” she said.

  “Sergeant Payne told you to?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  He looked at her a moment, then said, “Welcome, welcome. Would you be offended if I said you’re the best-looking detective to come in here in my memory?”

  “Not at all,” Olivia said, and smiled at him. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure,” Hobbs said. “See you around.”

  In the best of all possible worlds, Olivia thought, as she left Homicide and the Roundhouse and got in her unmarked car, the encounter between herself and Sergeant Hobbs of Homicide would have been entirely professional and gender-neutral.

  But the Philadelphia police department was not the best of all possible worlds, and Sergeant Hobbs had made it clear that he found her to be an attractive member of the female gender.

  So what was wrong with that?

  He wondered who the hell I was, which was natural, and he really wondered, which was even more natural, who had detailed me, even temporarily, to Homicide. Once I told him Lowenstein, that was the end of it.

  It really couldn’t have gone any better.

  When Olivia Lassiter, then just shy of her twenty-first birthday, and a junior at Temple University, majoring in mass market communications, had told her parents that she had taken, and passed, the entrance application for the Philadelphia police department, and that she intended to drop out of college to enter the Police Academy, their reaction had been the opposite of unbridled joy.

  Her father, a midlevel executive with an insurance company, had spoken his mind. “You’re crazy. You have gone over the edge! You should be locked up for your own protection.”

  Her mother, a buyer for John Wanamaker amp; Company, had said more or less the same thing, then tried tears approaching hysteria, and said she was throwing her life and “the advantages Daddy and I have given to you” away.

  Olivia had dropped out of Temple and entered the Police Academy and graduated and did a year working a van in the Ninth District, and then a second year in the Central City Business District. Truth to tell, she hadn’t liked either job, and there had been a strong temptation to accept her father’s offer to go back to college, get her degree, and make something of herself.

  But that would have been admitting she’d made a mistake. And she hadn’t been quite prepared to do that. She had been on the job just over a year whe
n a detective’s examination was announced. She took it, and passed it, ranking just high enough to get promoted-among the last few promoted from that list-eighteen months later.

  That had put her in Northwest Detectives. From the first day, she’d liked being a detective, even though she was aware she was conducting a lot of investigations-of recovered stolen automobiles, in particular-that none of her new colleagues on the squad wanted to do.

  It took her several years to pay off her car note and the furniture note, but that happened, too, about the time she realized she was no longer regarded by the squad as the “rookie broad,” but as one of them.

  She knew that she was not very popular with some of the wives and girlfriends of the guys on the squad-they seemed to suspect that the first order of business every day was to jump Detective Lassiter’s bones-but there was nothing she could do about that, even if it was unfair as hell, and untrue. She had no interest, that way, in any of the guys.

  She had taken the sergeant’s exam, placing so low on the list that her chances of promotion were about as good as those of her being taken bodily into heaven. Her ego had been a little damaged-she hadn’t thought she would do that badly-but it really hadn’t bothered her. She liked the squad, she liked Northwest Detectives, and a promotion would have meant not only leaving the Detective Bureau but almost certainly being put back in uniform. Since she had been on the job, she had compiled a long list of uniform sergeant’s jobs she really would have hated.

  The bottom line there was that she liked what she was doing and had no reason to feel sorry for herself. She had wondered idly about going someplace else as a detective, and had snooped around Special Victims and Major Crimes and Intelligence enough to know that she was better off with Northwest Detectives. The District Attorney’s Squad was a possibility to think of, and so was Special Operations, and for that matter even Homicide.

  Olivia thought of herself as a realist, and understood that her chances of getting assigned to Homicide-even in ten years-were practically nonexistent.

  But now this had been dumped in her lap, this detail- however long it lasted-to Homicide. There was no question at all that Opportunity Had Knocked, but there was a big question about how to deal with it. If she played it right, there was a chance-slim, but a chance-that it would help her get into Homicide. Maybe not now. But later.

  And if she screwed up somehow, in any way, she knew she could kiss any chances of getting into Homicide farewell forever.

  Olivia had just turned onto North Broad Street when her cell phone buzzed. She fumbled in her purse for it and finally pushed Answer.

  “Lassiter.”

  “D’Amata. You know who I am?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I want you to start thinking of me as the senior Homicide investigator on this case,” D’Amata said. “Not just some ordinary Homicide schmuck.”

  “Okay. You want to tell me why?”

  “Because when I told our beloved leader, Sergeant Payne, that I wanted to go with you to take the Williamson mother’s statement, he said sure, but tell her to introduce you as ‘the senior Homicide investigator on the case.’ ”

  “He say why?”

  “Our orders, Detective Lassiter, are to keep the Williamsons stroked. I think it’s a good idea. Our leader is as smart as a whip.”

  “Okay. Whatever you say. I’m on North Broad, six blocks from City Hall, en route to Mother Williamson’s. You need the address?”

  “Yeah.”

  “404 Rockland. It’s just south of Roosevelt Boulevard.”

  “I know where it is. I’ll meet you there. On the street. Either I wait or you wait, okay? Payne wants us together.”

  “See you there.”

  Olivia pushed the End button and dropped the phone back into her purse.

  Sergeant Matthew Payne, she thought, was very likely going to cause some sort of problems for her vis-a-vis making the best of her opportunity to try to get into Homicide.

  She had known who Detective Payne was before he walked into Cheryl Williamson’s living room. She had seen him on television when there had been the shooting in Doylestown, covered with that poor girl’s blood, tears running down his cheeks. It had made her cry.

  And, purely as a matter of female curiosity, when she finally got her hands on the new sergeants list, she had looked to see who had scored well.

  Detective Payne of Special Operations had scored number one.

  The first time she had seen him in the flesh was when he walked into Cheryl Williamson’s living room. The first thing she’d thought was that he was even better looking than he’d looked on television, and the second thing was Christ, not now. I have never before been physically attracted to anyone on the job. Not now, please, God, and not a hotshot like this one.

  The one thing I could do for sure that would screw up my chances of getting into Homicide would be for me to get involved with their fair-haired boy. And I will not. Not. Not.

  TEN

  Matt more or less obeyed the speed limits crossing New Jersey. It was a temptation not to, but he was driving the Porsche, and from painful experience he had come to believe that so far as the New Jersey State Police were concerned, ticketing a Porsche often was the high point of their tour, giving them great joy and satisfaction.

  As he came out of the Lincoln Tunnel, he looked at his watch. It was half past two, which explained why his stomach was telling him he was hungry. He turned uptown, and ten minutes later turned onto West Forty-second Street toward Times Square. Just before he got there, he saw Times Square Photo.

  Now the question was finding someplace to park, someplace where the parking attendants might not find great joy and satisfaction in seeing how deeply they could scratch the glistening silver paint of a Porsche.

  He moved through the crowded streets, and a few minutes later found himself entering Times Square again from the north. The only parking places he had found had SORRY, FULL signs in front of them.

  He noticed, at first idly and then with great interest, an automobile-a somewhat battered black Ford Crown Victoria-parked on the right curb between Forty-third and Forty-fourth Streets, right beside a sign reading NO PARKING NO STOPPING AT ANY TIME. There were several antennae mounted on it, and it rode on black heavy-duty tires. The fenders were battered, and there were no wheel covers.

  If that’s not an unmarked car, my name is not Sherlock Holmes.

  Matt pulled the Porsche to the curb in front of the Ford, then backed up until their bumpers almost touched.

  The Ford’s horn blew imperiously, and the driver put his arm out the window and gestured for him to move on.

  Matt instead got out of the car.

  Now he could see the driver and the man sitting beside him. The driver was heavyset and looked to be in his forties. His ample abdomen held his tweed sports coat apart and strained the buttons of his shirt. The man beside him was younger. He was wearing a leather jacket and a black turtle-neck sweater. Matt thought he was in his mid-twenties.

  Matt found his leather wallet with the badge and photo ID and took it out. He decided that standing on the sidewalk and speaking to the young man in the passenger seat would be safer than speaking to the driver, and went to that side of the car. The other choice would most likely have seen him rolled through Times Square under the wheels of a bus.

  The young man rolled the window down.

  “I’m Sergeant Payne, and-”

  “Get in,” the older man said, pointing to the rear seat.

  Matt got in.

  “Let me see that,” the older man said, and Matt handed him his badge and photo ID.

  “What can we do for you, Sergeant Payne?” the older man said, and then passed the ID to the younger one.

  “I’m on the job, working a homicide,” Matt said.

  “You’re not trying to tell me they kill people in the City of Brotherly Love?” the younger one said.

  The older one chuckled.

  “The doer left his camer
a at the scene,” Matt said. “Kodak tells me they shipped it to Times Square Photo.”

  “Take the next right. It’s right around the corner,” the older one said.

  “I called them before I came here,” Matt said. “They spoke just enough English to make it clear they are not very cooperative. ”

  “Welcome to New York,” the younger one said. “Only a few of us speak English, and even fewer are cooperative.”

  The older one chuckled.

  “The doer-”

  “By ‘doer,’ you mean ‘the suspected perpetrator’?” the younger one interrupted.

  “Right. He’s a real sicko-”

  “By which you mean he’s ‘psychiatrically challenged,’ right?” the younger one asked. “Has difficulty accepting the common concept of right and wrong as the modus operandi for his life?”

  “Yeah, you could put it that way,” Matt said. “I want to get this guy before he does it to another young woman.”

  “A noble thought,” the young one said. “How could we be of assistance?”

  “It would help me a hell of a lot if one of you would go into the store with me. I really need to have a look at their sales records.”

  “Presumably, Sergeant,” the young one said, “this fishing expedition of yours has been cleared by the New York police department’s Office of Inter-Agency Cooperation?”

  Oh, shit!

  “No. I haven’t cleared anything with anybody. I just got in my car and drove here. This happened early today, and right now this is our best lead. I just acted on my urge.”

  The young man considered this a moment.

  “Charley, take us out of service for ten minutes. I’m going to take a little walk with Sergeant Payne.”

  “Right, Lieutenant,” the older one said, reaching for an under-the-dash microphone.

  Lieutenant?

  The young one got out of the passenger seat, then opened the rear door and motioned Matt out. Then he walked to the Porsche and got in.

  Matt carefully watched the traffic and then quickly got behind the wheel.

  “Do all the sergeants in Philadelphia get wheels like this?” the young man asked. Before Matt could reply, he ordered, “Two blocks down and make a right.”

  Matt got into the flow of traffic.