Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [131]
"You're not coming in?" Candelle asked.
"No. I'm going to go somewhere to try to figure out what to tell the Black Buddha," he said.
"I'll do that for you, Tony," Candelle said, "before I go home. I don't want him calling me at the house to have one more shot at it."
" 'Turn over the stone under the stone'?"
"We're out of stones on this hat, Tony," Candelle said. "And I think the Black Buddha's more likely to accept that from me than you."
"Good luck!" Harris said. He held out his hand to Candelle. "Thanks a lot, Dick. I really appreciate all the effort."
"I'm just sorry it didn't get us anywhere," Candelle said, nodded, closed the car door, and walked toward the Roundhouse entrance.
Tony started to drive out of the parking lot, but at the last moment pulled into a vacant space, took out his cellular telephone, and punched the key that automatically dialed directory information.
"What city, please?"
"Fuck it," Tony said, and punched the End key.
He backed out of the parking space, then left the parking lot, wondering what was the best way to get onto Interstate 76 this time of day.
"Jason," he said, aloud, "if you want the last goddamn stone under the stone turned over, I'll damned well turn the sonofabitch over."
Ten minutes later, just as he turned onto I-76 West, his cellular buzzed.
"Harris."
"Presumably you are aware of Professor Candelle's--" Lieutenant Jason Washington's unmistakable dulcet voice said.
"I was there."
"And what are your plans now?"
"I'm thinking, Jason."
"And may I inquire about what?"
"No. Not now."
"May I dare to hope that when you feel comfortable in telling me, you will call?"
"Don't hold your breath, Jason. This is probably one more blind alley."
"Sometimes at the end of a blind alley, one finds a stone," Washington began.
"Thank you for sharing that with me, Lieutenant," Tony interrupted. "I'll write it down so that I won't forget it."
"Good afternoon, Detective Harris," Washington said, and the hiss that followed told Harris Washington had hung up.
He tossed the cellular onto the seat.
So he's a little pissed that I won't tell him.
Better that than to tell him, get his hopes up, and then get kicked in the teeth again when this doesn't work.
[TWO]
Matt arrived at the North Philadelphia Airport at half past two, to find that he was ahead of Lieutenant McGuire, but not of the Eighth District captain, who was supervising more than a dozen of his uniforms in setting up barriers to keep what looked like sixty or seventy--maybe more--of Stan Colt's fans under control.
Matt looked closer and saw that there were two barriers, one for the fans--a surprising number of whom were gray-haired adults--and a second for the press.
He was wondering if he should at least identify himself to the Eighth District captain when Lieutenant McGuire arrived, got out of his car, waved at Matt, and then went to talk to the captain.
Four Highway bikes arrived next, in a roar of engines, under a sergeant. McGuire pointed out where they should park, and when they had, the Highway sergeant took off his helmet and hung it on his handlebar. Matt then recognized him as the sergeant who had been on Knight's Road the night before.
The night before? That seems like two weeks ago.
He walked over to Matt.
"How's the face?" he asked.
"It's sore, and I went to Hahnemann this morning and they gave me shots and now my ass hurts."
The sergeant chuckled.
"You did get to see Detective Coleman at Northeast, right?"
"Just came from there. I appreciate the help last night. All of it."
"I know guys on the job wouldn't have done what you did," the sergeant said. "They'd say, Fuck it, I've had a couple of drinks, why take the chance of getting my ass in a crack?"
"I wasn't being noble. I just did it."
"You were being a good cop," the sergeant said. "Good cops take care of each other."
Detective Charley McFadden walked up to them.
"What happened to your face?" he asked.
"Where's Man Mountain Martinez?" Matt asked, ignoring the question.
"He took a dive