Bringing Adam Home - Les Standiford [92]
“Since when did you start issuing parking tickets to police officers?” Webb inquired.
Matthews was genuinely perplexed. “I don’t know what you mean, sir. I wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Then why did you write Captain Henry Dworkin, who happens to be commander of the detective bureau, two parking tickets yesterday? One for double-parking and another for obstructing traffic?”
Matthews stared at the tickets Captain Webb had produced, a feeling of dread washing over him. “Uh . . . I had no idea he was a police officer, sir.”
His supervisor stared at him. “Well, you made one hell of a mistake, Matthews.”
“Yes sir,” Matthews said.
“And you need to take care of these tickets,” his supervisor added.
Matthews nodded. “I’ll do that, sir.”
“Good,” his supervisor said, giving him a weary look. “Go to it. And try to keep your head out of your ass from now on, will you?”
By the time he made his way down the hallway from the squad room, Matthews’s shock had abated, and resentment had begun to take its place. Why hadn’t Dworkin just said he was a cop in the first place? Why be such a dick about it?
Anyway, he thought, his supervisor had told him to take care of the matter, and so he would. He’d go right to Captain Dworkin’s office and do whatever it took.
At his knock on Dworkin’s door, a voice issued, inviting him in. Matthews entered to find the guy he’d given the tickets sitting behind a desk. “What are you doing here?” Dworkin said, the instant he saw who it was.
“I just wanted to talk to you about those tickets—,” Matthews began.
Dworkin stared as if a leper was about to climb into his lap. “Get the fuck out of my office and don’t you ever come back,” he said.
“Yes sir,” Matthews said, and turned on his heel.
As he was making his way down the hallway in the aftermath, he heard a voice calling after him. “Hey, Matthews.”
What now? he thought, as he turned to see Detective Walter Philbin stepping out of a doorway, beckoning toward him. Philbin was a lieutenant of detectives, a tall, muscular guy with plenty of swagger and the look of a ladies’ man. He was a big drinker and a high-stakes gambler, but he had connections inside the department and on the streets as well. His was a legendary presence in the department’s detective bureau.
“I just wanted to say you got some balls, kid. Telling Dworkin he doesn’t know who he’s fucking with. That’s classic.” Philbin laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
Matthews stared back in some concern. “How’d you hear about that?” He glanced down the hall toward the office he’d just left. “Did Dworkin tell you?”
“Hell, no,” Philbin said, waving his hand. “The guy’s a total asshole. Nobody talks to him. Alfie told me what happened. He said he never saw anything like it.”
Philbin was about to duck back into his office, then stopped. “By the way, go see Esther down in the traffic division. She’ll tell you how to make those tickets go away.”
It might have been the end of the matter, and just one more story about Joe Matthews and how his penchant for doing the right thing seemed always to land him in trouble, except for one thing. It was not long after that encounter that Chief Pomerance asked Walter Philbin to put together a task force that would do whatever was necessary to bring down the crime rate on Miami Beach.
Pomerance and Philbin were in agreement as to the kind of officers needed for such an assignment. There’d be some ticklish situations dealing with hardened criminals who’d prefer to take their chances on justice in a shootout as opposed to a courtroom, and you’d need to be able to trust your partners to stand up, during and after tough situations like those.
Accordingly, Philbin primarily chose men whom he’d known for years. Experienced and able cops, those savvy enough to understand when justice had to be dispensed with on the spot, and how to keep their mouths shut afterward. Given his dictum that you couldn’t trust a man you couldn’t drink with, Philbin would probably have added incipient alcoholism to his list of qualifications