W. Griffin: Final Justice

The result of that was that not one dollar of “unneeded and unexpended funds” had ever been returned to Washington, and everyone in Special Operations who drove an unmarked car-down to lowly detectives and patrol officers in plainclothes assignments-drove a new vehicle.

When the annual grant money was received, new cars were purchased by Special Operations, and the used Special Operations cars were turned over to the department motor pool for assignment.

From Matt’s perspective, it was a good deal for the department all around. Once a year, the department got thirty-odd cars-most of them in excellent shape-for nothing. And the department did not have to provide-and pay for-thirty-odd unmarked cars to Special Operations.

However, from the perspective of Lieutenant McGuire- and of most other lieutenants and captains, and even more than a few more senior officers-lowly detectives and officers in plainclothes should not be driving new cars when captains and lieutenants were driving cars on the steep slope leading to the crusher.

All Lieutenant McGuire said, however, when he got in the front seat of the car beside Matt, was “I love the smell of a new car.”

They drove up Market Street to City Hall, and then around it, to the Ritz-Carlton, whose main entrance was on the west side of South Broad Street just across from City Hall.

McGuire looked at his watch again and said, “Park in front. I don’t want to be late.”

Matt pulled into space normally reserved for taxis, put a plastic covered POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign on the dashboard, and then hurried after McGuire and Nevins.

The Stan Colt advance party was in a large suite, the windows of which looked down on the statue of William Penn atop City Hall.

A buffet had been laid out-an impressive one, complete to a man in chef’s whites manning an omelet stove-and there were seven or eight people in the room, including two men in clerical collars. Matt knew the archbishop by sight, and he wasn’t one of the two, so the gray-haired one in the well-tailored suit had to be Monsignor Schneider.

In an adjacent room was a long conference table, on which water and coffee carafes, cups and saucers, and even lined pads and ballpoint pens had been laid out. There were two telephones on the table, and television sets mounted on the walls.

This suite was designed not for luxury-although it’s no dump-but as somewhere the boss can gather the underlings together and inspire them.

Matt walked into the conference room, took a telephone cord from his briefcase, and looked along the walls for a telephone jack. Finding none, he dropped to his knees and got under the table. There were two double telephone jacks, and he plugged the telephone cord into one of them.

As he backed out, he became aware of nylon-sheathed legs.

“Can I help you?” a female voice asked as he got to his feet.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I managed to get it in… ”Jesus Christ! Will you look at this! “… the hole with only a little trouble.”

“Laptop?” the blonde asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“To take notes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She’s probably Stan Colt’s squeeze. Far too beautiful for a common man. Jesus Christ, she’s stunning!

She put out her hand.

“I’m Terry Davis,” she said. “With GAM.”

“Is that one ‘r’ and an ‘i’, or two ‘r’s and a ‘y’?”

“Not that it matters, but two ‘r’s and a ’y.’ ”

“And what’s GAM?”

“Global Artists Management,” she answered, making her surprise that he didn’t know evident in the tone of her voice.

“Of course,” Matt said, “I should have known.”

“If you need anything else, just let me know.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Have you had your breakfast?”

Not quite an hour before, Detective Payne had had two fried eggs, two slices of Taylor ham, two bagels, a glass each of orange juice and milk, and two cups of coffee.

“I could eat a little something, now that you mention it.”

“Well, when you have your laptop up and working, won’t you please have some breakfast?”

“You’re very kind,” Matt said.

She smiled at him and walked back to the room with the buffet, in the process convincing Payne that both sides of her were stunning.

He turned the laptop on, pushed the appropriate buttons, thought a moment about whether he wanted to make this official or not, decided he didn’t, and then typed, very quickly, for he was an accomplished typist, the private screen name for Inspector Wohl, and then his own; he wanted a copy of what he was about to type.

0935 dignitary is stan colt, coming to town to raise money for west catholic high school. So far two $$dinners, two $$lunches, and a $$benefit performance. will know dates locations etc after breakfasting upper floor suite ritz carlton with mcguire, monsignor schneider, terry davis of gam, others. I think I’m in love. 701.

In a moment, the computer told him his mail had been sent. Probably less than a minute later, the computer on the table behind Inspector Peter Wohl’s desk at Special Operations headquarters would give off a ping, and a message would appear on his monitor telling him he had an e-mail message from 701, which was Detective Payne’s badge number. A similar action would take place on Detective Payne’s desktop, and when he got back to the office, he would copy the message into his desktop.

Leaving the computer on, Payne went into the room with the buffet. Lieutenant McGuire, seated at a table with Monsignor Schneider and the other priest, waved him over.

“Yes, sir?”

“Payne, do you know the monsignor?”

“No, sir.”

“Monsignor, this is Detective Payne, of Special Operations, which will be providing most of the manpower for Mr. Colt’s security while he’s here.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” the monsignor said, smiling and standing up to offer his hand. “Your boss and I are old friends.”

Was that incidental information, to put me at ease, or are you telling me that if I displease you in any way, you’ll go right to Wohl?

“Detective Payne, this is Father Venno, of my office,” the monsignor went on, “who’ll be my liaison, representing the archdiocese.”

“How do you do, Father?” Matt said politely, putting out his hand and looking over Venno’s shoulder, finding Terry Davis at a table with two empty chairs, and wondering if he could get away with joining her.

“Why don’t you get a plate-the omelets are wonderful- and join us?” Monsignor Schneider said.

Shit!

“Thank you very much, sir,” Payne said.

Although he didn’t have nearly as much appetite as he’d had when contemplating taking breakfast with Miss Davis, the omelets offered did have a certain appeal, and Detective Payne returned to the table with a western omelet with everything, an English muffin, and a large glass of orange juice.

“That was an unfortunate business on South Broad Street last night, wasn’t it?” Monsignor Schneider said. “At the Gene Autry?”

“The Roy Rogers, Monsignor,” Father Venno corrected him.

“Wasn’t it?” the monsignor repeated, directing the question to Matt Payne, his face making it clear he didn’t like to be corrected.

“Yes, sir, it was,” Matt said.

“Have there been any developments in the case?”

“They’re working on it, sir,” Matt said. “I think they’ll wrap it up pretty quickly.”

“Greater love…,” the monsignor said, somewhat piously.

“Officer Charlton was a good man,” Lieutenant McGuire said. “A very sad situation.”

Over Father Venno’s shoulder, Matt saw that the two empty chairs at Terry Davis’s table were now occupied by Sergeant Al Nevins and another man-presumably from GAM-and that everyone was smiling at one another.