“Oh, shit,” Matt muttered, and walked over.
“Good morning, Mr. Mayor, Commissioner, Monsignor,” Matt said.
“My goodness,” Monsignor Schneider said, “what happened to your face?”
“I lost my footing chasing a fellow last night, Monsignor.”
“How was that, Sergeant?” the mayor asked.
“I was chasing a car thief, sir.”
“The one on Knight’s Road?” Commissioner Mariani asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Sergeant,” the commissioner said. “But it was a little more than that, wasn’t it? The fellow ran a light, slammed into a family in a van, and sent them all to the hospital? And then left the scene?”
"Yes, sir.”
“I saw that in the paper,” the mayor said.
“Did you catch him?” Monsignor Schneider asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“You really do get around, don’t you, Sergeant?” the monsignor said, admiringly.
“What’s with the hand?” the commissioner asked.
“I bruised it on the driveway, sir.”
“And still managed to catch this fellow?” the monsignor asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you do, walk up on it, Sergeant?” Mariani asked.
“Yes, sir. I was taking… a detective-we were working on the Williamson job-home. And it happened right in front of us.”
“And how is that going?” Schneider asked. “The Williamson ’job,’ I think you said?”
“Well, sir, we have a pretty good psychological profile of the doer that should help us find him, and we have some pretty good evidence to put him away once we do-”
“For example?” the monsignor interrupted.
“With all respect, Monsignor, I’m not supposed to talk about details of an ongoing investigation.”
“And that’s a good rule, and I’m pleased to see you’re paying attention to it,” Commissioner Mariani said. “But I’d like to know, and I think the mayor would, and neither the mayor nor me is about to ask Monsignor Schneider to give us a moment alone. I’m sure he understands why.”
“My lips are sealed, Sergeant,” the monsignor said.
“Yes, sir,” Matt said. “There was sperm at the scene, sir. They are already doing the DNA. Once we catch this fellow, get another DNA sample from him, and match it, it’ll prove conclusively that he was at the scene.”
“The certainty of a DNA match is on the order of several million to one, Monsignor,” Commissioner Mariani pronounced.
“Absolutely fascinating,” the monsignor said. “I was just telling the commissioner and the mayor, Sergeant, that when I last spoke with Stan, he made it pretty clear that while he’s here-and we don’t have him occupied-he’d like to spend some time watching the police-specifically you, Sergeant- at work. I confess I hadn’t thought about what you just said about your having to be closemouthed about details of an ongoing investigation.”
“I don’t think that would be any problem with Mr. Colt,” the mayor said. “Do you, Commissioner?”
“The problem, Mr. Mayor,” Mariani replied, “would be making sure that Mr. Colt understood that whatever he saw, or heard, when he was with Sergeant Payne couldn’t go any further.”
“I don’t think that would be a problem at all,” Monsignor Schneider said. “I’m sure Stan would understand. After all, he’s played a detective on the screen so often.”
The commissioner smiled. A little wanly, Matt thought.
A Traffic Unit sergeant walked up to them, saluted, and said, “Commissioner, Mr. Colt’s airplane’s about to land.”
Lieutenant Ross J. Mueller of the Forensic Laboratory of the Pennsylvania State Police in Harrisburg rose to his feet and extended his hand when Tony Harris was shown into his office.
“What can we do for you, Detective?” he asked, smiling cordially.
Mueller was a very large, muscular man who wore a tight-fitting uniform and his hair in a crew cut. Tony remembered what Dick Candelle had said about him probably having trouble finding his ass with both hands.
“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” Tony said, “but I really hoped I could see Lieutenant Stecker.”
Mueller looked at his watch.
“At the end of this tour-in other words, in an hour and five minutes-Lieutenant Stecker will hang up his uniform hat for the last time, and enter a well-deserved retirement. I’m taking his place. Now, how can Headquarters help Philadelphia?”
“Sir, I’m working a homicide…”
“In what capacity?”
“Sir?”
“As the lead detective? One of the investigators? In what capacity?”
“I’m the lead detective on the job, sir.”
“And you’re here officially?”
“Yes, sir, I’m here officially.”
“I thought perhaps that was the case. I don’t recall hearing that you were coming.”
“Sir, I just got in the car and came out here.”
“You didn’t check with your supervisor so that he could make an appointment for you?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“And who is your supervisor?”
“Lieutenant Jason Washington, sir.”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Lieutenant Mueller said, writing Washington’s name on a lined pad.
If you don’t know who Jason Washington is, Herr Storm Trooper, you really can’t find your ass with both hands.
“Could you give me his phone number, please?” Lieutenant Mueller asked.
Tony gave him, from memory, the number of the commanding officer of the K-9 Unit of the Philadelphia police department. It was in his memory because he had noticed that it was identical, except for the last two digits, which were reversed, to that of the Homicide Unit.
He had made the quick judgment that despite his implied offer to help, Lieutenant Mueller was going to be part of the problem, not a solution.
“I’m going to call your Lieutenant and introduce myself,” Lieutenant Mueller said, “and suggest the next time he thinks we can help Philadelphia, he call and set up an appointment.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I wasn’t aware that was necessary, and I don’t think Lieutenant Washington is, either.”
“Probably not,” Mueller said, smiling. “But you’ve heard, I’m sure, Detective… Harris, was it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That a new broom sweeps clean.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve heard that.”
“I’m the new broom around here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you’re here. So how may we be of assistance?”
“Sir, as I said, I’m working a homicide. We have a visor hat… like a baseball cap, without a crown, that the doer left at the scene. Our lab, specifically Mr. Richard Candelle, has been able to lift only a partial that’s probably an index finger.”
"Candelle, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe I have met your Mr. Candelle. African-American, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. He is.”
“Go on, Detective Harris.”
“I was hoping that you could have a look at it, and see if you couldn’t find more than we have.”
“We have, as you might not be aware, an Automated Fingerprint Identification System.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve heard that.”
“It’s state-of-the-art technology. In the hands of an expert- I’ve been certified in its use myself-it sometimes can do remarkable things.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, we’ll have a look at it for you, Detective. And get word back to you within, possibly, seventy-two hours.”
“Sir, I’d sort of hoped to stick around until you…”
“Take a hotel room, you mean? Well, if that’s all right with your supervisor, it’s fine with me. As I say, we’re talking about three days, if things go well.”
“I meant today, sir.”
“That’s out of the question, I’m afraid. You just leave the evidence item with me, and we’ll get to it as soon as possible.”
“The thing is, Lieutenant, my supervisor, Lieutenant Washington-you’re sure you don’t know him?”
“Quite sure. I’d remember a name like that.”
“Well, sir, Lieutenant Washington wants to ship the hat- the evidence item-to the FBI lab first thing in the morning.”
“Well, that solves our problem then, doesn’t it? The FBI really knows how to handle this sort of thing.”
“Thank you for seeing me, sir. And I’m sorry I didn’t have an appointment.”
“Just don’t do it again in the future, Detective.”
“No, sir, I won’t.”
The airplane, a Cessna Citation, came in from over Bucks County, touched down smoothly, and began to taxi to the terminal.
Nesfoods International had a Citation either identical to this one or very nearly identical to it. Matt’s father had told him he had to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to convince the Internal Revenue Service that when the Nesbitts (father and/or son) and their families rode it to Kentucky or Florida the purpose was business, not to watch the Kentucky Derby or lie on the sands of Palm Beach.
The Citation stopped two hundred feet from them, and ground handlers went quickly to it to chock the wheels.
The mayor, the commissioner and the monsignor started to walk toward it. The commissioner turned and signaled for Matt to come with them.
The door rotated open, revealing stairs, as they-and a gaggle of photographers and reporters holding microphones- approached the airplane.
Matt saw what looked like a fat woman sporting a dirty blonde pageboy haircut and wearing pajamas come quickly out of the door and down the stairs-then noticed the goatee. The man held one 35mm camera with an enormous lens in his hands, and another, with a slightly smaller lens, hung from his neck.
He knelt to the right and aimed his camera at the door.
Stan Colt appeared in the doorway, smiling and ducking his head.
“Go down a couple of steps!” the fat photographer ordered.
Colt obeyed. He carefully went down two steps, then waved and flashed a wide smile. He was wearing blue jeans, a knit polo shirt, and a Philadelphia 76ers jacket. His fans applauded. Some whistled.
Colt came down the rest of the stairs and walked to Monsignor Schneider, who enthusiastically shook his hand and introduced him to the mayor and the commissioner, who both enthusiastically shook his hand.
Jesus, he’s a hell of a lot smaller and shorter than he looks in the movies!
Photographs were taken, and the momentous occasion was both recorded on videotape and flashed via satellite to at least two of Philadelphia’s TV stations, which interrupted their regular programming to bring-live-to their viewers images of Mr. Colt’s arrival.
Matt saw that a young man his age and a prematurely gray-haired woman Matt guessed was probably in her late thirties had begun to take luggage from both the cabin and the baggage compartment. Both were stylishly dressed. Matt had no idea who they were, but presumed they had been on the airplane.
When they had all the luggage off the plane, they began to carry it to a black GMC Yukon XL, on the doors of which was a neat sign reading “Classic Livery.”
The side windows of the truck were covered with dark translucent plastic. Matt knew that the truck-there were several just like it-was usually used to move cadavers from hospitals to funeral homes that rented their funeral limousines from Classic Livery. He wondered if the truck was going to be able to haul all the luggage.
The commissioner indicated the white limousine. Colt nodded, then sort of trotted over to the fans behind their barriers, shook hands, kissed two of the younger females, and then, waving, sort of trotted to the white limousine and ducked inside.
The fat photographer got in the front seat. The mayor and the commissioner got in the back.
“Hi!” Terry Davis said.
He hadn’t seen her get off the Citation.
Jesus, she looks good!
“Hi!”
“You’re going wherever they go from here?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said.
“Got room for me?”
“Absolutely.”
He saw that she had two large pieces of what he thought of as “limp” luggage and a squarish item he thought was probably a makeup kit. Plus an enormous purse.
“My car’s over there,” he said, gesturing in the general direction.
“Will all this stuff fit in a Porsche?”
“The city’s car,” he said. “It’s a Ford.”
When he picked up her limp luggage, his left hand hurt.
“What did you do to your face?” Terry asked, as she picked up her own bag.
“I fell down,” Matt said, as he started to walk to the Crown Victoria.
He saw that Detective Jesus Martinez had finally shown up; he was standing with McFadden, and they did, he thought, indeed look like Mutt and Jeff.
“You better follow me,” Matt said, and his voice was drowned out by the roar of the Highway bikes starting up.
“You better follow me,” Matt repeated.
His hand hurt again when he loaded Terry’s luggage into the backseat.
By the time Terry’d gotten in and he’d gotten the engine started, McFadden and Martinez had pulled their identical unmarked Crown Victorias in behind him.
And the convoy had left. He could see the GMC and four assorted vehicles bearing the press bringing up the end of it, disappearing around the corner of the administration building.
Discretion forbade racing to catch up with the convoy. He knew where it was going; he could probably catch up with it on I-95.
But when he reached the airport exit, it was barred by a line of cars stopped by two Eighth District uniforms and a sergeant apparently charged with seeing that Mr. Colt’s fans did not join the convoy.
Matt drove to the side of the line of cars, and when he reached the head of it, reached under the dash and pushed the button that caused the blue lights under the grille to flash and the siren to start to growl.
The uniform sergeant waved the first fan’s car through the gate, then waved Matt through the space he had occupied, with McFadden and Martinez following.
“So tell me about the face,” Terry said when he had caught up with the convoy and was driving a stately fifty-five miles per hour down I-95 at the end of it.
“I was trying to stop a homicidal maniac from detonating an atom bomb and ending life as we know it on our planet.”
Terry giggled. It was an accurate synopsis of Stan Colt’s last opus.
“And in so doing, I fell down.”
“And landed on your face?”
“Correct.”
“But you caught the bad guy?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he do?”
“Stole a car, ran a red light, and slammed into a family in their van.”
“That’s awful. But what did it have to do with you?”
“I saw the crash. That made it my business.”
“Stan will love that story,” Terry said.
“Please don’t tell him,” Matt said.
She looked at him strangely.
“Okay. If you don’t want me to.”
Lieutenant Luther Stecker of the Pennsylvania State Police had obviously just finished shaving when his doorbell rang, for he answered the door in a sleeveless undershirt, with a towel hanging from his neck, and with vestiges of shaving cream under his chin and near his left ear.
He was a small and wiry man who wore what was left of his gray hair in a crew cut.
He waited wordlessly for his caller to announce his purpose.
“Lieutenant Stecker?” Tony Harris asked.
Stecker nodded.
“Sir, I’m Detective Harris from Philadelphia Homicide.” Stecker nodded and waited for Harris to go on.
“I’m working a j
ob, and I really need your help.”
“This is my last day on the job. Why’d you come here?”
“I went by the lab, sir. And saw Lieutenant Mueller.”
And again Stecker waited expressionlessly for him to go on.
“Lieutenant, Dick Candelle said if anybody can come up with enough points from what I’ve got, it’s you.”
“You know Candelle?”
“Yes, sir. We go back a while.”
“And he couldn’t develop enough points from what you’ve got?”
“No, sir. But all he had to work with was a partial, sir. Probably an index finger.”
A plump, pleasant-looking woman appeared behind Stecker.
“What?” she asked.
“This is Detective Harris from Homicide in Philadelphia.”
“Did you tell him this is your last day on the job, and that.. ” She looked at her watch. “… in an hour and ten minutes, you’re having your retirement party at the Penn-Harris? ”
“Tell me about the job,” Stecker said.
“Two black guys held up a Roy Rogers,” Harris said. “They killed a Puerto Rican lady.”
“That’s terrible,” the gray haired lady said, sucking in her breath.
“And then when a uniform-a friend of mine, nice guy, Kenny Charlton, eighteen years on the job, two kids- responded to the robbery in progress, one of the doers-who was wearing the visor hat, cap, I’ve got-stuck a. 38 under his vest and blew him away.”
Stecker didn’t say anything.
“The only tie we have to these critters is this,” Tony said. He held up the plastic evidence bag containing the crownless visor cap.
“That’s all? No witnesses?”
“Nothing’s worked.”
“Grace, why don’t you get Detective Harris a cup of coffee and a piece of cake while I put my shirt on.”
“Luther, your party starts in an hour and ten minutes.”
“You told me,” Lieutenant Stecker said.
The chancellery of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia was prepared for the “photo op” presented by Mr. Stan Colt paying a courtesy call upon the cardinal.
The cardinal “just happened” to be on the ground floor of the chancellery as the Highway bikes, Lieutenant McGuire’s unmarked car, the white Lincoln limousine, and the mayoral Cadillac limo rolled up it. That permitted the recording for posterity of images of the cardinal warmly greeting Mr. Colt as he got out of the limo.
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