W.E.B Griffin: The Witness

Payne closed the door and went back to his desk

When he got out of bed, at quarter past seven, John J. "Jack" Malone almost immediately learned that among a large number of other things that had gone wrong recently in his life he could now count the plumbing system of the St. Charles Hotel, where he resided. Specifically, both the hot and cold taps in his bathroom ran ice-cold.

While he fully understood that the St.Charles was not in the league of the Bellevue-Stratford or the Warwick, neither was it a flea bag, and considering what they were charging him for his "suite" (a bedroom, a tiny sitting room, and an alcove containing a small refrigerator, a two-burner electric stove, and a small table), it seemed to him that the least the bastards could do was make sure the hot water worked.

There was no question that it was not working. That, until he just now had been desperately hoping, it was not just the time required to get hot water up from the basement heater to the tenth floor. The damned water had been running full blast for five minutes and it was just as ice-cold now as it had been when he first turned it on.

A shower, under the circumstances, was clearly out of the question. Shaving was going to be bad enough (he had a beard that, even with a hot-towel preshave soak, wore out a blade every time he sawed it off); he was not going to stand under a torrent of ice water.

At least, he consoled himself, he had nobly kept John Jameson in his bottle last night. He had not so much as sniffed a cork for fortyeight hours, so he would not reek of old booze when he presented himself to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl and announced he was reporting for duty. All he would smell of was twenty-four hours worth of flaking skin plus more than a little nervous sweat. It was possible that a liberal sprinkling of cologne would mask that.

Possible or not, that was his only choice.

He had slept in his underwear, so he took that off, rubbed his underarms briskly with a stiff towel, and then patted himself there and elsewhere with cologne. The cologne, he was painfully aware, had been Little Jack's birthday gift to Daddy. Little Jack was nine, Daddy, thirty-four.

Three weeks before, the Honorable Seymour F. Marshutz of the Family Court had awarded Daddy very limited rights of visitation (one weekend a month, plus no more than three lunch or supper visits per month, with the understanding that Jack would give Mrs. Malone at least three hours notice, preferably longer, of his intention to exercise the lunch/supper privilege) in which to be Daddy.

He tore brown paper from around three bundles from the laundry before he found the one with underwear in it, and then put on a T-shirt and boxer shorts. Then he went to the closet for a uniform.

The uniform was new. The last time he'd worn a uniform, he had been a cop in the 13^th District. He'd worn plainclothes as a detective in South Detectives, and then when he'd made sergeant, he'd been assigned as driver to Chief Inspector Francis J. Cohan, another plainclothes assignment. When Chief Cohan had been made deputy commissionerOperations, as sort of a reward for a job well done, Cohan had arranged for Jack Malone to be assigned to the Major Crimes Division, still in plainclothes. When he'd made lieutenant, four months before, he had gone out and bought a new uniform, knowing, that sooner or later, he would need one. As commanding officer of the Auto Squad, it was up to him whether or not to wear a uniform; he had elected not to.

Sooner had come much quicker than he expected. Captain Charley Gaft, who commanded Major Crimes, had called him up yesterday and told him he was being transferred, immediately, to Special Operations, and suggested he use the holiday to clean out his desk in Major Crimes.

"Can I ask why?"

"Career enhancement," Captain Gaft replied, after a just barely perceptible hesitation.

That was so much bullshit.

"I see."

There had been a tone in his voice that Captain Gaft had picked up on.

"It could be a number of things," Gaft offered.

"Sir?"

"You know Tony Lucci?" Gaft asked.

"Yes, sir."

Tony Lucci, as a sergeant, had been Mayor Jerry Carlucci's driver. When he had made lieutenant (four places under Jack Malone on the list), he had been assigned to Special Operations. The word was that he was the mayor's spy in Special Operations.

"He's taking over for you here, and you're replacing him at Bustleton and Bowler. I was told about both transfers, not asked, but it seems possible to me that the mayor may have been interested in seeing that Tony got an assignment that would enhance his career."

"Oh, it washis career enhancement you were talking about?"

"Maybe Lucci knows when it's best to back off, Jack."

"Are we talking about Holland here?"

"I'm not. I don't know about you."

Malone did not reply.

"You're beingtransferred, Jack," Captain Gaft went on. "You want a little advice, leave it at that. Maybe it was time. Sometimes people, especially people with personal problems, get too tied up with the job. That sometimes gets people in trouble. That didn't happen to you. Maybe if you weren't being transferred, it would have. Am I getting through to you?"

"Yes, sir."

He's really a good guy. What I really did was go over his head. If you go over a captain's head, even if you're right, you'd better expect trouble. I went over his head, and nobody thinks I'm right, and it could be a lot worse. There are a lot of assignments for a lieutenant a lot worse than Lucci's old job in Special Operationswhatever Lucci's job was.

Gaft didn't stick it in me, although everybody would have understood it if he had. Or Cohan took care of me again. Or both. More than likely, both. But there is sort of a "this is your last chance, Malone, to straighten up and fly right" element in this transfer.

"You're expected at Bustleton and Bowler at eight-thirty. In uniform. Maybe it would be a good idea to clear out your desk here today. Any loose ends we can worry about later."

"Yes, sir," Malone had said. "Captain, I enjoyed working for you."

"Most of the time, Jack, I enjoyed having you work for me. When you get settled out there with the hotshots, call me, and we'll have lunch or something."

"I'll do that, sir. Thank you."

"Good luck, Jack."

Malone had bought only one new uniform when he'd made lieutenant. There had not been, thanks to his lawyer's money-up-front business practice, enough money for more than one. Now he would need at least one-and preferably two-more. But that was his problem, not the Police Department's. He would just have to take the one he had to a two-hour dry cleaners, until, by temporarily giving up unimportant things, like eating, he could come up with the money to buy more. EZ-Credit was something else that had gone with Mrs. John J. Malone.

Malone examined himself in the none-too-clear mirror on the chest of drawers. He did not especially like what he saw. Gone was the trim young cop, replaced by a lieutenant who looked like a lieutenant.

Chubby, Malone thought. Hairline retreating. A little pouchy under the eyes. Is that the beginning of a jowl?

He left his suite and walked down the narrow, dimly lit corridor to the elevator, which, after he pushed the button, announced its arrival with an alarming combination of screeches and groans.

He stopped by the desk, which was manned by a cadaverous white male in a soiled maroon sports coat. "There's no hot water."

"I know, they're working on it," the desk clerk said, without raising his eyes from the PhiladelphiaDaily News.

"If it's not fixed by the time I get home from work, I'll blow up the building," Malone said.

The desk clerk raised his eyes from theDaily News.

"I didn't know you were a cop," he said.