Final Justice boh-8

by W. E. B Griffin

  He’d seen the movie before, and when he missed with the last shot, and the van was about to squash him, he usually woke up.

  But I don’t remember waking up last night.

  Probably the booze.

  And Fletcher as the star of my nightmare? Usually it’s Susan.

  Is there some significance in Fletcher showing up again?

  The sweat soaked T-shirt smelled so foul that he didn’t want to pack it with the rest of his clothing. He took it instead into the shower with him and started to wash it.

  To hell with this! I’ll just buy another T-shirt!

  He tossed the T-shirt into a trash can and then took a long shower, considered again the gross injustices of the world as he found it, then had an inspiration.

  “Screw her!” he said aloud, and when he got out of the shower, he walked still naked and dripping to the bedside telephone and called the concierge.

  The concierge said the pro shop of the Lakewood Country Club would have clubs to rent and golf shoes for sale.

  “And how about a tee time? As early as possible?”

  “Well, perhaps tomorrow, sir. The rain’ll probably stop in time for the course to be playable tomorrow. Shall I reserve a tee time for you then?”

  “I’ll be gone, I’m sorry. Thank you very much.”

  Having the telephone in his hand reminded him of two calls he had to make, and he made them.

  First he called Colonel Richards and told him he thought the peeper was the man they were looking for, and that an assistant district attorney was en route from Philadelphia. And then he called Sergeant Kenny and told him that he would be meeting whoever was coming from Philadelphia at the Mobile airport a little after noon.

  “I think whoever’s coming will want to see the chief right away. Is he going to be available then? As soon as I can get from the airport to the station?”

  “He’ll be here then, I’m sure.”

  “If he needs to talk to me, you’ve got my cellular number.”

  “Right,” Kenny said. “Mind telling me what you’ll be doing?”

  Until that moment, Matt had no idea-since golf was out and it was raining-how he was going to spend the morning. But it came to him.

  “I’m going to take statements from the colonel, the old guy…”

  “Mr. Chambers Galloway,” Kenny furnished. “I’ll give you his number.”

  “And anybody else… maybe Fats Gambino, if I have time on the way to the airport.”

  Kenny chuckled, deep in his throat, reminding Matt of Jason Washington.

  “That’ll make Ol’ Fats’s day. His place is right on Airport Boulevard, a couple of miles short of the airport. You can’t miss it. I wouldn’t suggest you tell him you’re coming.”

  “And anybody else you think would be a good idea.”

  “I’ll think on it, and tell you when you come in.”

  “Thanks, Kenny.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Matt considered for a moment having a room-service breakfast, but decided against it, but not because of the thought he had on the way to the dining room, which was that after he ate a leisurely breakfast, he would call Detective Lassiter and suggest that if she was now awake, they had work to do. He would then meet her in the lobby, and she could have a McMuffin and canned orange juice for breakfast at the McDonald’s on their way to Daphne.

  She came into the dining room a minute after he took a table, even before the waiter had brought coffee.

  Jesus, that’s a good-looking woman!

  “Good morning,” Matt said.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” Olivia said. “May I?” she asked, indicating a chair.

  “Of course.”

  He smiled at her. She smiled back, but her smile was a momentary curl of her lips, completely devoid of anything resembling warmth.

  Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it. Screw you.

  Olivia sat down.

  “What we’re going to do this morning is take statements from Colonel Richards and Mr. Galloway,” Matt said, and then, without waiting for a reply, devoted his entire attention to the breakfast menu.

  Detective Payne had just about finished his Belgian waffles with strawberries and cream, which he had ordered to accompany his chipped beef over toast with poached eggs, and glanced to see if Detective Lassiter was finished with her whole-wheat toast, when he thought he heard his name being spoken.

  He looked toward the headwaiter’s table in time to see the woman behind it nod in his direction, the nod guiding a young man in a business suit toward him.

  “Sergeant Payne?” the young man asked.

  Matt nodded.

  “My name is Roswell Bernhardt, Sergeant. I’m an attorney. Specifically, I’m Mr. Homer C. Daniels’s attorney.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, counselor, but I don’t think I should be talking to you,” Matt said.

  “I understand,” Bernhardt said. “Certainly. But what I was hoping you could do is give me the name of someone in your district attorney’s office with whom I could speak.”

  “I wouldn’t know what name to give you, Counselor, in the D.A.’s office. Except for that of the D.A. herself. That’s Mrs. Eileen McNamara Solomon.”

  “I understood someone’s on the way here,” Bernhardt said, then added. “Sergeant Kenny told me that.”

  If Kenny told this guy my name and where to find me, and that somebody’s coming, he must like him. What the hell!

  “I’m going to meet someone from the D.A.’s office at the airport, Mr. Bernhardt…”

  “Someone with the authority to discuss a plea bargain?”

  “… at half past twelve,” Matt went on. “I don’t know who, or what authority he or she might have. But if you’d like, if you give me your card, I’ll pass it on, and tell whoever it is you’d like to speak with him/her.”

  Bernhardt produced a card, gave it to Matt, thanked him profusely, and left.

  “I wonder what that was all about?” Olivia asked.

  “I really have no idea,” Matt said. “Are you about finished with your breakfast?”

  She stood up and walked away and waited by the head-waiter’s table until he had settled the bill.

  “If you’ll give me the keys to the car, please, I’ll put my luggage into it,” she said.

  He wordlessly handed her the keys, then went to his room, packed, and then settled the bill. He made no attempt to rush.

  When he got into the Mustang, she didn’t speak.

  Jesus, she’s good-looking.

  Is she going to stay pissed all day?

  For good?

  That seems a distinct possibility.

  Well, if that bitchy, irrational behavior last night was an indicator of the future, maybe that’s not such an all-around bad thing.

  " ’Tis better to have loved and lost, than not to have loved at all,” as they say.

  You don’t believe that for a minute, and you know it.

  Just keep your mouth shut, and maybe she’ll cool off. Or warm up.

  A familiar face came through the revolving doors into the persons-meeting-passengers area, but it was not that of Steven Cohen, Esq., but rather that of Michael J. O’Hara.

  “Sherlock goddamn Holmes in the flesh!” Mickey greeted them. “And the beauty with the beast!”

  “I won’t ask what brings you to the Redneck Riviera, Mickey,” Matt began.

  “What did you say? ‘The Redneck Riviera’?”

  Matt nodded. “That’s what they call it.”

  “Great! I’m going to do a long piece, and that’s great color.”

  “But frankly,” Matt went on, “I was expecting Steve Cohen or somebody else from the D.A.’s office.”

  “They’re in the cheap seats,” Mickey said. “They’ll be off in a minute.”

  He turned to Olivia.

  “Stanley said to tell you he’s sorry as hell about the Ledger and that Phil Donaldson asshole, and that he’ll try to make it up.”

&nb
sp; “Stanley?”

  “Stanley Coleman, aka-”

  “That’s very kind of Mr. Colt, but not necessary,” Olivia said.

  “Who’s ‘they,’ Mick, as in ‘they’ll be off’?” Matt asked.

  O’Hara turned and pointed.

  Steven Cohen, Esq., and Lieutenant Jason Washington were about halfway down a long column of arriving economy-class passengers.

  “I didn’t expect the boss,” Matt said.

  “They don’t want any mistakes made with this one. For your sake, Matty, I really hope this guy is the one you’re looking for.”

  “He is, Mick. I’m sure. How did you find out?”

  “A little Irish bird named Denny told me.”

  “Welcome to the Redneck Riviera, boss,” Matt said. “Hello, Mr. Cohen.”

  “By calling me ‘Mister,’ Matt, are you implying I’m not welcome in the… what did you say-‘Redneck Riviera’?” Cohen replied, putting out his hand.

  “I am really delighted to see you. And yeah, that’s what it’s called. They’ve got a really spectacular seashore. Ol-Detective Lassiter and I saw it when we drove over from Pensacola. ”

  Cohen offered his hand to Olivia.

  “Matt says he’s sure this is the doer,” Mickey said.

  “I really hope so,” Cohen said.

  “Well, let us go see this fellow,” Washington said. “Mick has reserved a car.”

  “The chief of police will be available,” Matt said.

  “Perhaps after we check into the hotel,” Washington said. “Mick’s made reservations for us at the Marriott. Is that where you are?”

  “No, sir,” Matt said, looking smugly at Olivia. “We’re in the Eight Dollar Motel right in Daphne. Detective Lassiter thought the Marriott was a little too rich for us.”

  “Actually, it’s the Nine Dollar Inn, Sergeant,” Detective Lassiter corrected him.

  “Actually, it’s the $37.50 motel, after you pay up front and they give you the AAA discount,” Matt said. “But what the hell.”

  They collected their luggage and went to the Hertz counter, where a Lincoln Town Car awaited Mr. Michael J. O’Hara.

  “I think the best way to handle this, Detective,” Washington said, “would be for Sergeant Payne to drive us in Mr. O’Hara’s car. En route, he can fill us in on what we should know. In the meantime, you could go to the police station, advise them of our arrival, and tell them we are anxious to speak with the chief at his earliest convenience.”

  “Yes, sir,” Detective Lassiter said.

  Matt handed her the keys to the Mustang.

  “Thank you,” she said with a somewhat brittle smile.

  The Mustang stayed on the tail of the Lincoln all the way from the airport through Mobile, across the I-10 bridge over Mobile Bay, and into Daphne, where it turned off U.S. 98 at the Joseph Hall Criminal Justice Center.

  En route, as Washington intended he should, Matt told them everything he thought they should know. He pointed out the Gambino Motor Mall, and told them he had spoken with the proprietor, and that Fats had shown him the Peterbilt truck Mr. Daniels had driven into Mobile.

  “I called the chief, and he said he just got a search warrant for the truck from a judge in Mobile, but he thought he’d wait until I could go along before he had a look.”

  “You didn’t enter the vehicle?” Washington asked.

  “No.”

  “Good,” Cohen said.

  “He certainly had to fuel the truck somewhere,” Washington said, thoughtfully. “If he did so in Philadelphia and used a credit card, that would establish his presence there. On his way down here, as careful as we must presume he is, he probably paid cash. But he may not have had that much cash, and he may have used a card. It’s worth looking into.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said.

  “I’ve got to have a picture of that truck,” Mickey said. “How do I find my way back here?”

  “After we have accepted the chief’s kind invitation to witness his search of the vehicle, I will arrange something with Detective Lassiter to get you back here,” Washington said.

  “I’d like a picture of you two searching the truck,” Mickey said.

  “Sergeant Payne and I have had quite enough personal publicity lately, thank you just the same, Michael.”

  “There is good publicity and bad publicity, Jason,” Mickey said, “and you two could certainly use some of the good kind.”

  “If you’ll pardon me, Michael, what I am trying to do is develop a variety of good reasons that will suggest to Mr. Daniels that denial of his participation is no longer one of his options.”

  “That may be easier than you think, Jason.”

  “You will remember, Sergeant, to address me as ‘Lieutenant’ when we are about our official business?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, beware! Beware!” Mickey said. “What we have here is the Black Buddha in a bad mood. Cheap seats a little too small for you in the beam, were they, Lieutenant?”

  Cohen laughed.

  Washington ignored the remark.

  “Why will I find it less difficult to reason with Mr. Daniels vis-a-vis confessing all that you-with your vast experience in these matters-think will be the case?”

  “Because he sent his lawyer to see me vis-a-vis copping a plea,” Matt said.

  “Try to behave, Steve. We’re in the company of the only two cops in Philadelphia who say things like ‘vis-a-vis’ in normal conversation,” O’Hara said.

  “Shut up, Mick. I want to hear about this lawyer,” Cohen said. “What did you say to him, Matt?”

  “I told him I would give you-whoever Mrs. Solomon sent down here-his card.”

  “That’s absolutely all?”

  “That’s absolutely all.”

  “No suggestions, anything, that I would be interested in a plea bargain?”

  “Nothing. And the only reason I said I’d pass on his card was because Sergeant Kenny told him where to find me.”

  “And Sergeant Kenny is who?”

  “Local cop. A good one. Been very helpful.”

  “And when and where did this conversation take place?” Cohen asked.

  “At breakfast.”

  “If he ran Matt down at the Nine Dollar No Tell Motel,” O’Hara said, “he must be really interested in copping a plea.”

  “Actually, it was in the Marriott. We stayed there last night.”

  “And got out before somebody arrived from Philadelphia who would wonder what you were doing in the Grand Hotel? And might talk?”

  “ ‘The Grand Hotel’?” Washington asked.

  “Marriott’s Grand Hotel. One of the stars in the galaxy of Marriott Resorts. When I told Stanley I was coming down here, he said to stay there. He said it’s great.”

  “I have to ask, Matthew. You haven’t behaved inappropriately with Detective Lassiter down here, have you?” Washington said.

  “Two rooms. She slept in her bed, I slept in mine.”

  That’s the truth. Admittedly not all of it, but the truth.

  “But you do have something going with her, right?” Mickey asked.

  “Go to hell, Mick.”

  “Answer Mr. O’Hara’s question, please,” Washington said.

  “I thought for a while there might be something, but if there was, there ain’t no more.”

  “While I confess I find this discussion of Matt’s sex life absolutely enthralling,” Cohen said, “can we get back to this guy’s lawyer? You said you’ve got his card, Matt?”

  Matt found it and handed it to Cohen in the backseat.

  “Do Philadelphia cell phones work down here?” he asked.

  “Mine does,” Matt said, and handed Cohen his cellular telephone.

  When Matt saw Sergeant Kenny standing beside a thirtyish man in a business suit in the tile-walled outer room of the Daphne police department, he was surprised to see how they resembled each other.

  “I got to get a picture of that guy with you, Jason,” O’H
ara said.

  “Sergeant Payne,” Kenny said. “This gentleman would like a word with you and the other people from Philadelphia.”

  The man with Kenny smiled, stuck out his hand, and marched up to Matt.

  “Sergeant, I’m Special Agent Bendick of the Federal Bureau,” he said.

  “Federal Bureau of what?” Matt’s mouth, on automatic, asked innocently.

  “Investigation, of course. The FBI.”

  “How can I help the FBI?” Matt asked.

  “It’s how the FBI can help you, Sergeant,” Special Agent Bendick said. “A telephone call would have saved you a trip all the way down here. But no real harm done. We’ll handle it from here.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mickey O’Hara said. “You guys really have no shame at all, do you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me, J. Edgar Junior. Anything to get the FBI favorable notice in the papers, right? You can already see the headline, right? ‘FBI Apprehends Philadelphia Murderer.’ ”

  “Who are you, sir?” Special Agent Bendick asked.

  "O’Hara’s my name.”

  “And are you some sort of law enforcement officer?”

  Mickey shook his head, “no.”

  “I couldn’t get on the cops. My parents were married,” Mickey said. He took out his digital camera and aimed it at Special Agent Bendick, Sergeant Payne, and Lieutenant Washington.

  “I’d rather not have my photograph taken, if you don’t mind,” Special Agent Bendick said, holding his hand out in a vain hope-Mickey nimbly dodged around it-of covering the lens so that a photograph would be impossible.

  “Jesus, didn’t they tell you about the freedom of the press at the Quantico School for Boys?” Mickey asked.

  “Sir,” Washington said, “if we feel that any assistance from the FBI would be useful to us in this investigation, I will seek same through the appropriate channels.”

  “And you are?” Special Agent Bendick demanded.

  “My name is Jason Washington. I’m a lieutenant with the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department.”