W. Griffin - Final Justice

Some Night Command captains took their lumps and performed their duties without complaint, while waiting until they were replaced by some other captain who had annoyed the hierarchy, but many heard the message and retired or resigned.

“Come on,” Hollaran said, not awed by the threat. “Matt took the exam, grabbed the brass ring, and he’s a good cop and you know it.”

“… and would be given his choice of assignment,” Coughlin went on, ignoring him. “And that he should seriously consider a couple of years in uniform.”

“And?”

“He said his three choices were going to be Special Operations, Highway, and Homicide.”

“Somehow, I can’t see Matt on a motorcycle,” Hollaran said.

“And Highway’s under Special Operations, and he’s been in Special Operations too long as it is,” Coughlin said.

“Which leaves Homicide,” Hollaran said.

“Which, since he knows he can’t stay in Special Operations forever, is really what he wants. He’s got the system figured out.”

“And that surprises you? With you and Peter Wohl as his rabbis?”

Coughlin flashed him an annoyed look.

Hollaran suddenly smiled.

“You’re having obscene thoughts again, Frank?” Coughlin asked. “Or something else amuses you?”

“The Black Buddha,” Hollaran said. “Wait till he finds out the empty sergeant’s slot in Homicide will be filled by brandnew Sergeant Payne.”

Coughlin smiled, despite himself.

“They’re pretty close,” Coughlin said. “Which makes their situation even more uncomfortable for both of them.”

“They’ll be able to handle it,” Hollaran said.

At 9:05, Detective Matthew M. Payne-a six foot tall, lithely muscled, 165-pound twenty-six-year-old with neatly cut, dark, thick hair and dark, intelligent eyes-arrived in the parking lot behind the Roundhouse, at the wheel of an unmarked, new Ford Crown Victoria.

He was neatly dressed in a tweed jacket, gray flannel slacks, a white button-down-collar shirt, and striped necktie, and when he finally found a place to park the car and got out of the car, carrying a leather briefcase, he looked more like a stockbroker, or a young lawyer, than what comes to mind when the phrase “police detective” is heard.

There seemed to be proof of this when he entered the building and had to produce his badge and identification card before the police officer guarding access to the lobby would pass him into it.

But as he was walking toward the elevator, he was recognized by a slight, wiry, starting-to-bald thirty-eight-year-old in a well-worn blue blazer. He was not a very imposing-looking man, but Matt-and others-knew him to be one of the best homicide detectives, in the same league as Jason Washington.

“As I live and breathe, the fashion plate of Special Operations, ” Detective Anthony C. Harris greeted him. “What brings you here from the Arsenal down to where the working cops work?”

“Hey, Tony!” Payne said, smiling as they shook hands. He looked quickly at his watch. “Got time for a cup of coffee?”

Harris shook his head.

“Guess who wants me to take a look at the Roy Rogers scene,” Harris said.

“South Broad? That one? I saw Mickey’s piece in the Bulletin.”

Harris nodded.

“I thought they’d have them by now,” Payne said. “Mickey said ‘massive manhunt.’ ”

“It would help if we knew who we’re looking for,” Harris said. “No one’s picked anybody out of the mug books, and there’s no talk on the streets.”

“I thought there were a bunch of witnesses?”

“There were. I have just been looking at police artist sketches. To go by them, twenty-five different people shot Kenny Charlton.”

Payne picked up on the use of Charlton’s first name. “You knew him?”

“One of the good guys, Matt,” Harris said, just a little bitterly. “With a little bit of luck, right after I get a positive ID on these two bastards, they’ll resist arrest.”

I’m a cop, a detective-hell, I think I’m going to be a sergeant-and I don’t know if he means that or not.

Harris, too, was quick to pick up on things on other people’s faces. The subject was changed.

“So what’s new with you, Matt?” he asked.

“A famous movie star is coming to Philadelphia,” Matt said.

“I thought all movie stars were famous,” Harris said. “Which one?”

“They haven’t told me yet,” Matt said. “I’m on my way to the auditorium for the preliminary meeting with Gerry McGuire of Dignitary Protection. And just for the record, there are also infamous movie stars.”

“Score one for the fashion plate,” Harris said. “Don’t let this go to your head, but the Black Buddha and I miss you, Matt, now that we’re back with the police department…”

Both Jason Washington and Tony Harris, over their bitter objections, had been transferred to the Special Operations Division when it was formed, and only recently-after they had trained other Special Operations detectives to Inspector Peter Wohl’s high standards-had been allowed to return.

“Fuck you, Tony!”

“… and we don’t see much of you. Why don’t you-not today, wait till we get the Charlton doers-come by when you have the time and buy us lunch?”

“Yeah. I will.”

“Give my regards to the movie star,” Harris said, touched Payne’s arm, and walked across the lobby to the exit.

Matt walked across the lobby toward the auditorium.

The Dignitary Protection Unit, as the name suggests, is charged with protecting dignitaries visiting Philadelphia. Philadelphia’s own dignitaries-the mayor, for example, and the district attorney-are protected by police officers, but those officers are not under the Dignitary Protection Unit.

Staffing the unit poses a problem. Sometimes there are several-even a dozen-dignitaries requiring protection, and sometimes only one or two, or none at all.

What has evolved is that only a few men-a lieutenant, two sergeants, and half a dozen detectives-are assigned full time to Dignitary Protection.

When needed, additional detectives-who don’t wear uniforms on duty, and thus already have the necessary civilian clothing-are temporarily reassigned from their divisions, then returned to their regular duties after the visiting dignitary has left town.

Over time, most of the detectives placed on temporary duty with Dignitary Protection had come from the Special Operations Division, as had uniformed officers of the Highway Patrol, which was part of Special Operations. Special Operations had citywide authority, for one thing, which meant that its officers knew more about the back alleys and such of the entire city than did their peers who spent their careers in one district. That was useful to Dignitary Protection.

And the department had yet to hear a complaint from any visiting dignitary that en route from Pennsylvania Station or the airport to his hotel his car had been preceded and trailed by nattily uniformed police officers mounted on shiny motorcycles with sirens screaming and blue lights flashing.

But the Roman Emperor spectacle was really a pleasant byproduct of the fact that Highway Patrol officers were the elite of the department. It was hard to get into Highway, hard to stay there if you didn’t measure up, and while there you could count on being where the action-heaviest criminal activity- was.

The dignitary in his limousine, in other words, was protected by four-or eight, or even twelve-of the best-trained, best-equipped streetwise uniforms in the department.

Consequently, Dignitary Protection had gotten in the habit of requesting temporary personnel from Special Operations first, because the commanding officer of Special Operations almost always gave Dignitary Protection whatever it asked for, without question.