Part 74 (2/2)
”Yeah. Let me think about that,” Coughlin said. ”But let's suppose we get lucky again, and Deitrich can tie Calhoun to the safe-deposit box, and and there's something in it. Same scenario, in spades. Calhoun will know we have him, and then spending two hours, handcuffed, in the back of McFadden's car on the way to Philadelphia, while those two inform him of all the nice things that are going to happen to him in the slam, and Calhoun will beg Jason for a chance to tell him everything he knows.” there's something in it. Same scenario, in spades. Calhoun will know we have him, and then spending two hours, handcuffed, in the back of McFadden's car on the way to Philadelphia, while those two inform him of all the nice things that are going to happen to him in the slam, and Calhoun will beg Jason for a chance to tell him everything he knows.”
”That makes sense, Chief,” Wohl said.
”So why will Matt stay in Harrisburg? To tie up loose ends? It's none of their business?”
”When all else fails, tell as little of the truth as possible,” Wohl said. ”Matt is working on another case. Not specified. None of their business.”
”I'm a little afraid of that,” Coughlin said. ”You ever hear 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing'?”
”You mean, tell them everything?”
Coughlin nodded.
”Yeah. I think that would be safer in the long run. And have them bring Matt up-to-date on what's happened here.”
”Including the rape? The connection to Savarese?”
”I don't like that, frankly. But I'm at the stage where I don't know who knows what. That's a bad situation, Peter. I can't see where these three knowing everything is going to cause any trouble, and I can see something going wrong if they don't. You agree?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Because you agree, or because you're afraid to disagree?”
”A little of both,” Wohl said.
”Okay. Decision's made. Get them in here, tell them everything, and send them to Harrisburg.”
Wohl reached for one of the telephones on his desk, punched a b.u.t.ton, and told Officer Tiny Lewis, who answered the Investigations Section telephone, to send Detectives McFadden and Martinez to his office right away.
It was five minutes to seven when Detective Charles McFadden pulled his unmarked Plymouth up in front of the Penn-Harris Hotel.
He looked at Detective Jesus Martinez.
”I think we just broke the Philadelphia-Harrisburg speed record,” he said.
”Oh, s.h.i.+t!” Detective Martinez replied.
”I mean it, Jesus,” Charley said. ”I mean, think about it. Who else has a chance to come all the way all the way from Philly out here to the sticks like we did and f.u.c.k the speed limit?” from Philly out here to the sticks like we did and f.u.c.k the speed limit?”
”Grow up, for Christ's sake, Charley. You almost got us killed, the way you was driving!”
Martinez got out of the car and walked toward the revolving door.
They had been stopped twice for speeding on their way to Harrisburg. The first time, on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Detective McFadden had been at the wheel. In the rather pleasant conversation he had had with the state trooper, the state trooper told him, before waving a friendly farewell, that he had clocked him at eighty-seven miles per hour.
The second time, shortly after they had turned off the turnpike onto 222 and made a p.i.s.s stop at a diner, Detective Martinez had been at the wheel. In the rather unpleasant conversation he had had with the local cop, Detective Martinez had been told that he had been clocked at sixty-four miles per hour in a fifty-five-mile per hour zone, and that the local cop personally didn't give a d.a.m.n for professional courtesy, and that unless he could come up with a better reason for Martinez having exceeded the posted limit than having to get to Harrisburg in a hurry, he was going to write him a ticket.
Charley asked the local cop if he could talk to him a minute, took him behind the car, and managed to talk him out of writing Jesus a ticket, but only on condition that he get back behind the wheel.
Detective Jesus Martinez had thereafter been in a rather nasty mood.
A doorman came out and told Charley he couldn't leave the car where he'd stopped, and directed him to a parking garage.
Jesus was waiting, impatiently, slumped in an armchair, when, maybe five minutes later, Charley finally walked into the hotel lobby.
He got to his feet when he saw Charley, and motioned toward the bank of elevators.
”Where the h.e.l.l have you been?” he demanded when Charley had joined him there.
”I stopped to get laid, okay? Where the f.u.c.k do you think?”
”He's 'not taking calls.' Can you believe that s.h.i.+t?”
”I don't know what you're talking about.”
”I tried to call him,” Martinez said, and then, in falsetto, quoted the hotel operator: ” 'I'm sorry, Mister Payne is not taking calls until seven forty-five. May I ask you to call back then?' ”
Charley was amused-by Jesus's indignation, his accurate mimicry of the telephone operator's voice, and by Matt ”not taking calls.”
He smiled, which was the wrong thing to do.
”Who the f.u.c.k does he think he is?” Jesus demanded indignantly.
”What's the big deal, Jesus? He wants his sleep.”
”f.u.c.k him and his sleep.”
They rode the sixth floor and got off.
McFadden consulted a well-battered pocket notebook and came up with the room number Inspector Wohl had given him.
”Six twelve,” he said. ”To the right.”
There was a room-service cart with breakfast remnants in the corridor outside Suite 612.
”What the f.u.c.k is that?” Jesus asked. ”He's too good to eat breakfast in the f.u.c.king dining room, right?”
”If it feels good, Jesus, do it,” Charley said. ”He can afford it, okay?”
”Knowing your buddy, he's probably figured some scam to get the department to pay for it.”
There was a bra.s.s knocker on the door. Jesus thumped it, several times, and much harder than Charley thought was necessary to attract the attention of someone inside.
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