Part 8 (1/2)

”Yes, sir,” Harris said, and led them through the restaurant to the kitchen doors.

”We have a bunch of prints from both sides of the doors,” Harris said. ”All the employees had been fingerprinted, so we're running the ones we lifted against those.”

He pushed the door open.

”My eyewitness was behind the door, with his back against the wall,” Harris said. ”He saw the fat doer grab the telephone, listen a moment-presumably long enough to hear she was talking to Police Radio-rip the phone from the wall, call her an obscene name, hold his revolver at arm's length, and shoot her. She slid down the wall, and then fell forward.”

He pointed to the chalked outline of a body on the floor, and to blood smeared on the wall.

”Then the fat doer herded everybody but my eyewitness, who he didn't see, into the cooler, and jammed a sharpening steel into the padlock loops.”

He pointed to the cooler door, then went on. ”Then he went back into the restaurant, not seeing my eyewitness, and started to take wallets, et cetera, from the citizens. Doer Number One, meanwhile, is taking money from the cash register.

”Right about then, Kenny Charlton came through the door. Doer Number One is crouched behind the cas.h.i.+er's counter. Kenny saw him, the doer jumps up, wraps his arm around Kenny, wrestles with him. The fat doer then runs up, sticks his gun under Kenny's bulletproof vest, and fires. Kenny goes down. Doer Number One steps over Kenny's body, takes two shots at it, and then follows Doer Number Two out the door and down Snyder. Mickey O'Hara got their picture, but it's a lousy picture. No fault of Mickey's.”

”Why did the fat doer stick his gun under Charlton's vest?” Matt asked. ”Why not just shoot him in the head? Or the lower back, below the vest?”

Coughlin gave him a look Matt could not interpret, and finally decided it was exasperation at his having asked a question that obviously could not be answered.

Tony Harris held up both hands in a helpless gesture.

The restaurant manager walked up to them with three mugs of coffee on a tray.

”I thought you and the other detectives might like . . .”

”That's very nice of you,” Coughlin said.

”Mr. Benetti, this is Commissioner Coughlin,” Harris said.

”Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. . . .”

”I like to think I'm still a detective,” Coughlin said. ”No offense taken.”

”I . . . uh . . . don't know how to say this,” Benetti said. ”But I'm glad to see you here, Commissioner. I would hate to have what those animals did to Mrs. Fernandez and Officer Charlton . . . wind up as an unsolved crime.”

”We're going to try very hard, Mr. Benetti, to make sure that doesn't happen,” Coughlin said.

Benetti looked at Coughlin, then put out his hand.

”Thank you,” he said, and walked away.

Coughlin looked over his shoulder, then pointed to one of the banquettes. He slid in one side, and Tony Harris and Matt into the other.

”Still no idea who these animals are?” Coughlin asked.

Harris shook his head, ”no.”

”The police artist's stuff is just about useless,” Harris said. ”Everybody saw somebody else. We're going to have to have a tip, or make them with a fingerprint.”

Coughlin shook his head.

”One question, Tony. I want the answer off the top of your head. How would you feel about having Sergeant Payne in Homicide?”

Harris chuckled, then smiled.

”I heard The List was out,” he said. ”Good for you, Matt!”

”That doesn't answer my question, Tony,” Coughlin said.

”Welcome, welcome!” Tony said.

”I should have known better than to try that,” Coughlin said. ”In law school, they teach you never to ask a question to somebody on the stand unless you know what the answer's going to be.”

”Commissioner, you asked,” Harris said. ”What's wrong with Matt coming to Homicide?”

”He's too young, for one thing. He hasn't been on the job long enough, for another. I can go on.”

”He's also smart,” Harris said. ”And he's a stone-under-the -stone turner. I I didn't wonder why this b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't shoot Kenny in the head, or lower back. Matt already thinks like the Black Buddha. The other stuff, we can teach him.” didn't wonder why this b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't shoot Kenny in the head, or lower back. Matt already thinks like the Black Buddha. The other stuff, we can teach him.”

Coughlin snorted.

”And he's going to make a good witness on the stand,” Harris said. ”Think about that.”

”I'll be d.a.m.ned,” Coughlin said. ”For a moment, I thought- I guess, to be honest, hoped-you were pulling my leg. But you're serious, aren't you?”

Tony Harris nodded his head. ”I thought you'd be all for him coming to Homicide,” he said.

Coughlin looked between the two of them but didn't respond directly.

After a moment, he asked, ”Are you about finished here, Tony?”

”Just about.”

”I need a ride to the Roundhouse.”

”My pleasure.”

”Matt's going to Easton on a job I gave Peter Wohl and Peter gave to Matt,” Coughlin said. ”And he'd better get going.”

”What job's that?” Harris asked.

”One of those I'd rather not talk about,” Coughlin said, looking at Matt. ”But the sooner you know know something, Matt, the better.” something, Matt, the better.”

”Yes, sir. I understand.”

”You sore at me, Matt?” Coughlin said.

”I could never be sore at you,” Matt said.

Coughlin met his eyes and then nodded.