Part 11 (1/2)
”I never thought about it,” Matt said. ”But now that I do . . . Homicide's not dangerous. Being on the street is dangerous. My father was a uniform sergeant in a district. That's dangerous. Cops get hurt answering domestic-disturbance calls. Stopping speeders. Homicide's nothing like that. You've been watching too many Stan Colt movies.”
”I don't really understand.”
”Street cops face the bad guys every day. Last night, a uniform cop answered a robbery-in-progress call at the Roy Rogers restaurant on Broad Street. One of the two bad guys shoved a revolver under his bulletproof vest and killed him. The first homicide guy didn't get to the scene for maybe fifteen minutes. By then, the bad guys were long gone.”
She looked at him but said nothing.
”The trick to this is to saute them slowly in b.u.t.ter with a little Cajun seasoning,” he said. ”You add the booze just before serving, and flame it. And since the rice isn't done, we can put this on hold and have another gla.s.s of wine while we wait for the rice and the bathers to finish with the bathee.”
”What about when they arrest . . . the bad guys? Isn't that dangerous?”
”First you have to find out who the bad guys are. Then make sure you can-to the district attorney's satisfaction- make the case against them. Then, if they're not already in the Roundhouse surrounded by cops, if you have to go out to arrest them, you take enough uniforms with you to make sure n.o.body gets hurt.”
”That's not much like one of Stan's movies, is it?” she asked.
”Not much,” he agreed, as he filled her gla.s.s.
”Then why does Homicide have the prestige? You were as proud as a peac.o.c.k to tell me you were going to Homicide.”
”Homicide detectives are the best detectives in the department, ” he said. ”When you're trying somebody for a capital offense, all the 't's have to be crossed and the 'i's dotted. There's no room for mistakes. People who kill people should pay for it.”
”And Homicide sergeants?”
”Modesty precludes my answering that question.”
”Modest you ain't, Sergeant.”
”Sergeant I ain't, either. I'm just number one on The List. G.o.d only knows when I'll actually get promoted and sent to Homicide.”
”And in the meantime, you'll have to do something beneath your dignity, like protecting Stan from his adoring fans? Or vice versa.”
”Meaning?”
”Now that we're going to be professionally a.s.sociated, I think I should tell you that Stan likes young women. Very young women.”
”That ought to go over big with the monsignor and the cardinal. And I'm not-I am now really sorry to say-going to be involved in that. That's Dignitary Protection, and sometimes, since the subject came up, that can be really dangerous. Dignitaries, celebrities, attract lunatics like a magnet.”
”You're not going to be involved?”
”No. I was just there this morning to see-for my boss- what the triumphal visit will involve. I'm with Special Operations, and we usually provide the bodies needed.”
”I'm sorry, too,” she said.
”We will solve that problem when you come back,” he said. ”I really want to see more of you.”
”So what do you do in Special Operations?” she said, obviously changing the subject.
”Today, for example, I think I proved that a cop who's been spending more money than a cop makes came by it entirely honestly.”
”Internal Affairs?”
”No. This was unofficial, before Internal Affairs got involved. Now there won't be an Internal Affairs investigation. A good thing, because just being involved with Internal Affairs makes people look bad.”
Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick T. Nesbitt IV and a freshly bathed Penelope in her nightgown appeared in the kitchen at this point, and Detective Payne resumed his preparation of Wild Turkey shrimp over wild rice.
At 10:45 Matt said that he would be happy to deliver Terry to the airport to catch the red-eye to the coast.
At 11:17, as he closed the trunk of the Porsche after having taken Terry's luggage from it, and she was standing close enough to him to be kissed, a uniform walked up and said, ”You're going to have to move it, sir. Sorry.”
Matt took out his badge and said, ”Three sixty-nine,” which was police cant for ”I am a police officer.”
The uniform walked away. Matt looked at Terry, saddened by the lost opportunity.
Terry stood on her toes and kissed him chastely on the lips.
”Thanks,” she said, then quickly turned and entered the airport. She turned once and looked back at him, and then he lost sight of her.
He got back in the Porsche, and on the way to Rittenhouse Square decided that, all things considered, today had been a pretty good day.
[THREE].
The Hon. Alvin W. Martin, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, a trim forty-three-year-old in a well-cut Harris plaid suit, smiled at Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani and waved him into his City Hall office.
”Thank you for coming so quickly, Ralph,” he said. ”Have you had your coffee?”
The mayor gestured toward a silver coffee service on a sideboard.
”I could use another cup, thank you,” Mariani said. He was a stocky Italian, balding, natty.
”I was distressed, Ralph,” the mayor said, ”to hear about the trouble at the Roy Rogers.”
”Very sad,” Mariani said. ”I knew Officer Charlton. A fine man.”
”And Mrs. Fernandez, who paid with her life for calling 911.”
”A genuine tragedy, sir,” Mariani said.
”I'm going to the funeral home at three this afternoon,” Martin said. ”I should say 'homes.' Officer Charlton's first, and then Mrs. Fernandez's. I think it would be a good idea if you went with me.”
”Yes, sir. Of course.”
”I feel sure the press will be there,” the mayor said. ”I'd really like to have something to tell them.”
”I'm afraid I don't have much news, Mr. Mayor,” Mariani said. ”We're working on it, of course. And it's just a matter of time until we nail those animals, but so far . . .”
”When you say you're working on it, what exactly does that mean?”
”That we're applying all our resources to the job.”
”Who's in charge of the investigation?”