Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [140]
"We haven't a clue. If we ever find him--that's what Lassiter is doing on the phone; other detectives are looking down other streets--we can probably get a conviction. But first we have to find him."
Colt's face was serious as he absorbed this.
"I have to check in with my boss," Matt said, pointing at Quaire's glass-walled office. "I'll be right back."
"I'll talk to her," Colt said. "Take your time."
And then he saw something on Matt's face.
"Do I detect that your interest in the lady detective is not entirely professional?"
"I'll be right back," Matt said, and walked to Captain Quaire's office and knocked on the door.
Quaire waved him in.
"I've got Stan Colt out there, sir."
"I can see. Now, can you get him out of here?"
"I'll try. . . ."
"Tony went to Harrisburg," Washington explained, "and talked Lieutenant Stecker, their print expert, into going late to his retirement party. He and Tony are still at the State Police lab running the print through the AFIS. Presuming the doer's prints are on file, and we get a match from the machine, Tony will contact us."
"So get Mr. Colt out of here, and the sooner the better," Captain Quaire ordered. "If there's a match, everybody and his brother will be in here, and he shouldn't."
"He seems to be stricken with Detective Lassiter," Washington said. "May I suggest you take both of them someplace while she at great length explains how we are working the Williamson job?"
"Can I send her in here so you can tell her that?"
"Make it quick," Quaire said.
"Yes, sir."
Matt walked to Olivia and told her the boss wanted to see her.
When she was out of earshot, Colt asked, "What was that all about?"
"I just got permission from the captain for her to tell you what's going on with the Williamson job."
"That's the guy who . . . ?" Colt asked, moving his hand in a pumping motion.
"Cheryl Ann Williamson is the victim," Matt said. "But yeah."
Olivia came out of Quaire's office looking more than a little unhappy.
"Where are we going to do this?"
"Could we do it over dinner?" Stan Colt asked in his most charming manner.
"You mean in a restaurant?"
"I was thinking of my place," Colt said. "At the Ritz-Carlton. We could be alone, and get room service."
"You were planning to come along, Sergeant?" Olivia asked.
"Absolutely," Matt said.
"I haven't had my dinner," Olivia said.
"Then it's settled," Stan Colt said. He punched Matt affectionately on the shoulder. "I really appreciate this, Matt."
FOURTEEN
[ONE]
It was either a light rain or a heavy drizzle, and Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin, holding an umbrella over his head with his right hand, stood at the gas charcoal grill in the backyard of 8231 Jeanes Street in Northwest Philadelphia wondering if he could trust the brand-new, state-of-the-art $129.95 electronic thermometer stuck in one of the two rolled-and-tied tenderloins of beef on the grill.
It indicated that the interior temperature of the meat was 145 degrees Fahrenheit, which in turn meant, according to the instruction manual, that when permitted to rest for five minutes, the meat should be just a little more done than rare.
Denny Coughlin didn't think so. It didn't look nearly that done to him.
"To hell with it," Coughlin muttered, and reached for the very long-handled, stainless-steel knife, part of a $79.95 Master Griller's Kit--knife, fork, and grill-scraper--that had been another gift from Coughlin to Chief Inspector (Retired) August and Mrs. Olga Wohl, at whose grill he was standing.
When he tried to cut the loin that was not electronically connected to the Interior Temperature Gauge, the perfectly tied-and-rolled meat rolled across the grill but remained uncut.
"Shit," Chief Inspector Coughlin muttered, laid the umbrella upside down on the grass, picked up the extra-long-handled fork from the Master Griller's Kit, impaled the tenderloin with the sensor in it, sliced it halfway through, and examined it carefully.
"I'll be damned," he said.
The thermometer was telling the truth.
He looked up in annoyance at the sky. It had suddenly