Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [10]
Five minutes and 250 words later, Mickey gave the computer screen a quick read, cursed the goddamn sci-fi movie typeface, then inserted a missing comma and pushed the Send key.
Then he turned to the printer, picked the photographs from the tray, put the ones intended for the cops into a large manila envelope, and, carrying the ones from which he had deleted the blood, walked out of his office and across the city room to the city editor.
"These the pics?" the city editor asked.
"I thought you should see them in color," Mickey said. "I appended them to my piece, but they'll look black-and-white on the El Cheapo network."
The city editor examined the photographs.
"No blood," he said. It was both a question and a statement.
"You noticed, did you, you perceptible sonofabitch?"
"Nice work, Mickey," the city editor said.
Mickey O'Hara held up his hands in a what are you going to do? gesture, then walked out of the city room.
He got in his car, which was parked in a slot marked with a RESERVED FOR MR. O'HARA sign, and drove to the Roundhouse, where he parked in a slot marked with a RESERVED FOR INSPECTORS sign, and then entered the building.
The uniforms behind the plate-glass window pushed the solenoid that opened the door to the lobby.
One of the uniforms, a corporal, called: "I thought you'd be out at the Roy Rogers, Mickey."
Mickey waved the manila envelope in his hand.
"Been there, done that," he said, and walked across the lobby to the elevator. He rode it to the first floor, and then walked down the corridor until he came to a door marked HOMICIDE.
He pushed it open, then made his way past a locked barrier by putting his hand behind it and pushing the hidden solenoid switch.
There was only one detective in the room, a younger man who looked like he needed both a new razor and a month's good meals.
"Got you minding the store, have they, Fenson?"
"What can I do for you, O'Hara?" the detective asked.
"Washington's the lieutenant?"
"This week at least," Fenson said.
Lieutenant Jason Washington had taken the examination for promotion to captain. It was universally expected that he would pass.
"I hear the results of the sergeant's exam will be out tomorrow," he said. "The lieutenant's and captain's should be right after that."
"Can you imagine him in a uniform, addressing some uniform roll call in a district?" Fenson asked.
"No, I can't," O'Hara admitted. "Is Washington here?"
"He's out at the Roy Rogers scene. What can I do for you?"
"It's a question of what I can do for you," O'Hara said. "Can you get Washington on the horn and tell him I've got a picture of the doers? A lousy picture, I admit, but a picture. "
He laid it on the detective's desk.
"You're sure this is them? And you're right, it's a lousy picture."
"I'm sure," O'Hara said. "I took it."
"Washington called a couple of minutes ago and said he was coming in," the detective said.
Mickey O'Hara used the gentlemen's rest facility, then sipped on a paper cup of tepid coffee.
Eight minutes after that, an enormous--six feet three, 225 pounds--superbly tailored, very black man came into Homicide. Known behind his back as "The Black Buddha," Lieutenant Jason Washington regarded himself--and was generally regarded by others--as the best homicide detective in Philadelphia, and possibly the best homicide detective between Bangor, Maine, and Key West, Florida.
"Michael, my friend, how are you?" he greeted O'Hara with obvious sincerity, plus a warm smile and a friendly pat on the shoulder.
"Hey, Jason," O'Hara said. "I have a lousy picture of the doers."
He pointed to the photograph lying on the detective's desk. Washington picked it up, examined it carefully, then looked at O'Hara.
"I concur in your judgment of the quality," he said. "And the source, Mickey?"
"I went in on the robbery-in-progress call," O'Hara said. "When I got there, these two were leaving. I took that picture. "
"And you believe these were the doers?"
"Yeah, that's them," O'Hara said. "They match the description I got from one of the