Final Justice Part 49

"Boy Scout's Honor," Matt said.

"Were you a Boy Scout?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was."

"Me, too," Colt said. "Well, what the h.e.l.l."

He pulled open his black bow tie.

There were no members of the Homicide Division in Liberties Bar.

"We can wait a couple of minutes and see if somebody shows up," Matt said.

"I will have one of three drinks I allow myself a day," Colt said. "This will be number two; I had a beer at the hotel."

"You allow allow yourself three drinks a day?" Matt asked. yourself three drinks a day?" Matt asked.

"If I have more than that, I get in trouble," Colt said. "Sometimes, I have four, if like I have one at lunch and a beer in the afternoon, then I might have two at night, but never any more than that."

They had a drink. Matt ordered a scotch on the rocks, Colt-at Matt's suggestion-a Bushmills martini, aka an Irish Doctor's Special.

When the bartender delivered them, he looked closely at Colt.

"Anybody ever tell you you look a lot like Stan Colt?"

"Yeah. Lots of people."

"Any of the guys from Homicide been in?" Matt asked.

"Earlier," the bartender said.

Colt looked at Matt.

"You get stuck with the tab," he said. "Alex has my dough, and you didn't want him to come."

Matt laid a bill on the bar.

"I'll get that back to you."

"My pleasure," Matt said. "Alex is not here."

Colt took a sip of his drink.

"I like this," he said.

"Good."

"So what's the plan now? You 'sit on' me here? n.o.body from Homicide shows up? Eventually I get sleepy? And-"

"Finish your drink, we'll take a run past Homicide," Matt said.

"Good," Stan Colt said.

"Nice," Stan Colt said, vis-a-vis Detective Olivia La.s.siter, who was sitting at a desk with a phone to her ear.

"Very," Matt agreed.

He saw that Captain Quaire and Lieutenant Jason Was.h.i.+ngton were in Quaire's office.

"Detective La.s.siter, this is Mr. Colt," Matt said.

Olivia gave him her hand and a smile, but didn't say anything.

"What's going on in there?" Matt asked.

Olivia shrugged. "They both came in about an hour ago."

She started to add something to that, but then directed her attention to the telephone: "Good evening, Lieutenant. Thank you for taking my call. My name is La.s.siter, Philadelphia Homicide, and I'm working a job. . . ."

Matt took Colt's arm and propelled him toward the coffee machine.

"And she's a Homicide detective, too?" Colt asked.

Matt nodded.

"She's been on that phone most of day," Matt said. "Calling every police department in the country, looking for a similar job to one we're working on here."

"The one you were working on before you were told to sit on me?"

Matt nodded. "It's a rape murder. Real sicko. Ties young women up, cuts off their clothes with a large knife, and then . . . jerks off . . . onto them."

"Jesus!"

"And then takes their picture. This time, he killed the victim. "

"And you don't know who he is?"

"We haven't a clue. If we ever find him-that's what La.s.siter is doing on the phone; other detectives are looking down other streets-we can probably get a conviction. But first we have to find him."

Colt's face was serious as he absorbed this.

"I have to check in with my boss," Matt said, pointing at Quaire's gla.s.s-walled office. "I'll be right back."

"I'll talk to her," Colt said. "Take your time."

And then he saw something on Matt's face.

"Do I detect that your interest in the lady detective is not entirely professional?"

"I'll be right back," Matt said, and walked to Captain Quaire's office and knocked on the door.

Quaire waved him in.

"I've got Stan Colt out there, sir."

"I can see. Now, can you get him out of here?"

"I'll try. . . ."

"Tony went to Harrisburg," Was.h.i.+ngton explained, "and talked Lieutenant Stecker, their print expert, into going late to his retirement party. He and Tony are still at the State Police lab running the print through the AFIS. Presuming the doer's prints are on file, and we get a match from the machine, Tony will contact us."

"So get Mr. Colt out of here, and the sooner the better," Captain Quaire ordered. "If there's a match, everybody and his brother will be in here, and he shouldn't."

"He seems to be stricken with Detective La.s.siter," Was.h.i.+ngton said. "May I suggest you take both of them someplace while she at great length explains how we are working the Williamson job?"

"Can I send her in here so you can tell her that?"

"Make it quick," Quaire said.

"Yes, sir."

Matt walked to Olivia and told her the boss wanted to see her.

When she was out of earshot, Colt asked, "What was that all about?"

"I just got permission from the captain for her to tell you what's going on with the Williamson job."

"That's the guy who . . . ?" Colt asked, moving his hand in a pumping motion.

"Cheryl Ann Williamson is the victim," Matt said. "But yeah."

Olivia came out of Quaire's office looking more than a little unhappy.

"Where are we going to do this?"

"Could we do it over dinner?" Stan Colt asked in his most charming manner.

"You mean in a restaurant?"

"I was thinking of my place," Colt said. "At the Ritz-Carlton. We could be alone, and get room service."

"You were planning to come along, Sergeant?" Olivia asked.

"Absolutely," Matt said.

"I haven't had my dinner," Olivia said.

"Then it's settled," Stan Colt said. He punched Matt affectionately on the shoulder. "I really appreciate this, Matt."

FOURTEEN.

[ONE].

It was either a light rain or a heavy drizzle, and Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin, holding an umbrella over his head with his right hand, stood at the gas charcoal grill in the backyard of 8231 Jeanes Street in Northwest Philadelphia wondering if he could trust the brand-new, state-of-the-art $129.95 electronic thermometer stuck in one of the two rolled-and-tied tenderloins of beef on the grill.

It indicated that the interior temperature of the meat was 145 degrees Fahrenheit, which in turn meant, according to the instruction manual, that when permitted to rest for five minutes, the meat should be just a little more done than rare.

Denny Coughlin didn't think so. It didn't look nearly that done to him.

"To h.e.l.l with it," Coughlin muttered, and reached for the very long-handled, stainless-steel knife, part of a $79.95 Master Griller's Kit-knife, fork, and grill-sc.r.a.per-that had been another gift from Coughlin to Chief Inspector (Retired) August and Mrs. Olga Wohl, at whose grill he was standing.

When he tried to cut the loin that was not electronically connected to the Interior Temperature Gauge, the perfectly tied-and-rolled meat rolled across the grill but remained uncut.

"s.h.i.+t," Chief Inspector Coughlin muttered, laid the umbrella upside down on the gra.s.s, picked up the extra-long-handled fork from the Master Griller's Kit, impaled the tenderloin with the sensor in it, sliced it halfway through, and examined it carefully.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," he said.

The thermometer was telling the truth.

He looked up in annoyance at the sky. It had suddenly begun to rain harder. Much harder.

He looked back at the tenderloins. The flexible metal cord connecting the sensor impaled precisely in the center of one of them would have to be removed before he could move the meat to the platter.

He touched it gingerly, and it didn't seem to be that that hot. He got a decent grip on it and gave it a tug. It remained impaled. He picked up the fork again, and using the fork to hold the meat in place, tugged harder. The sensor came free, suddenly, which caused Coughlin, in the moment in which he realized the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing was burning his fingers and let go of it, to throw both the sensor, the metal cord, and the Stainless Steel Easy-To-Read, Dishwasher-Safe Interior Temperature Indicating Device into the gra.s.s of Chief Wohl's backyard. hot. He got a decent grip on it and gave it a tug. It remained impaled. He picked up the fork again, and using the fork to hold the meat in place, tugged harder. The sensor came free, suddenly, which caused Coughlin, in the moment in which he realized the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing was burning his fingers and let go of it, to throw both the sensor, the metal cord, and the Stainless Steel Easy-To-Read, Dishwasher-Safe Interior Temperature Indicating Device into the gra.s.s of Chief Wohl's backyard.

There were cheers, whistles, and applause from Chief Wohl's back porch, where Chief Wohl, Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein, Inspector Peter Wohl, Captain Frank Hollaran, and Mr. Michael J. O'Hara were standing- out of the rain-watching the Master Chef at work.

After glancing momentarily at the porch, Commissioner Coughlin impaled the tenderloins, one after the other, and placed them on the platter-a stainless-steel plate with blood grooves resting in a depression in a wooden plate with handles; yet another culinary gift to the Wohls. Then he balanced the platter on his right hand, like a waiter, and sort of squatted to pick up the umbrella.

Then he marched toward the porch under the umbrella and somewhat unsteadily climbed the stairs, to further whistles, cheers, and applause from the men standing on it.

"You can all kiss my royal Irish a.s.s," Commissioner Coughlin announced.

Five minutes later, Commissioner Coughlin, fresh from drying his face and hair, sat down to table with everybody, which now included Mrs. Olga Wohl, Mrs. Sarah Lowenstein, and Mrs. Barbara Hollaran, at a table heavily laden with what else they were going to eat.

"I've got to get one of those little digital cameras and carry it with me," Chief Lowenstein said. "I'd love to have pictures of the Master Chef at work."

"I already told you what you can do," Coughlin said. "And, yes, Augie, thank you for asking, I will have a gla.s.s of that wine."

"I've got mine," Mickey O'Hara said, holding up his camera. "But I've seen that Angry Irishman look in his eyes before and didn't think I'd better."

Twenty minutes after that, as Sarah Lowenstein poured coffee and appropriate comments of approval were being offered vis-a-vis the chocolate cake Barbara Hollaran had prepared for the nearly ritual once-every-other-week supper at the Wohls', Commissioner Coughlin's cellular phone buzzed.