Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [206]
"You said 'shots fired,' Sergeant?"
"Oh, yes. Lots of shots fired."
"What is your location, Sergeant?"
"I'm going to need two ambulances--no, three. And the fire department. There's spilled gas."
"What is your location, Sergeant?"
"I'm in the parking lot next to La Famiglia Restaurant on South Front Street."
"Are you injured?"
"No, I'm fine, thank you."
"Are you in uniform, Sergeant?"
"Oh, no, I'm not in uniform," Matt chuckled.
Mrs. Carracelli made several quick decisions. First, that the call was legitimate, not someone's idea of a joke. That there was something wrong with the sergeant. His voice was strange, and he sounded a little disoriented. He might be injured, or even wounded.
She muted the telephone line and pushed the appropriate switches.
Every police radio in Philadelphia heard three shrill beeps, and then the call:
"Assist the Officer, South Front Street, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. Assist the Officer, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. All officers use caution, plainclothes police on the scene."
The three shrill beeps and the call were also heard in the Buick Rendezvous, which was carrying Mr. and Mrs. Casimir Bolinski up Market Street toward the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.
"Shit," Mr. Michael J. O'Hara said, as he put the Rendezvous into a screeching U-turn. "That's where Matty is!" As they followed the black Suburban up Market Street in their unmarked Crown Victoria, Lieutenant Gerry McGuire and Sergeant Al Nevins heard the same call.
McGuire found the microphone.
"Dan Seven-four and Dan Seven-five, stay with the assignment," he said into it, and then he tossed the microphone to Nevins as he desperately looked for a hole in the oncoming traffic on Market Street in which he could make a U-turn.
"Radio," Sergeant Nevins said to the microphone, "Dan Seven-one in on the Assist Officer on Front Street. Be advised there is probably an officer in plainclothes on the scene."
Mrs. Carracelli opened the telephone line.
"Sergeant, identify your unit and give conditions."
"My name is Payne. Homicide," Matt said. "There was an armed robbery, two black males, one pistol, one shotgun."
"Are there any injuries?" Mrs. Carracelli asked, trying to keep her voice calm.
"One of the doers looks dead; the other's alive. He'll need Fire Rescue. At least one of the victims is going to need an ambulance. Maybe three victims. And I'm going to need the fire department. There's gas on the ground."
"Are you injured?"
"No, I'm fine. They missed me."
"Help is on the way."
"I can hear the sirens. Tell them I'm deep inside the parking lot."
"Help is on the way," Mrs. Carracelli said, and muted the telephone line again.
Three more shrill beeps went out over Police Radio.
"All units responding to the Assist Officer on the unit block of South Front Street, be advised shots have been fired at police and there are plainclothes police officers on the scene. One is inside the parking lot. All units be advised, the unit block of South Front Street, shots have been fired at police and there are plainclothes officers on the scene. One is inside the parking lot. Suspects in the shooting are two black males. Both have been shot and are still at the location."
Matt looked down at Terry.
She looked up at him with horror in her eyes.
"Help is on the way," he said. "You can hear it. . . ."
"What about the . . . man who's screaming? Can't you do something for him?"
"I'd like to put another round in the sonofabitch, is what I'd like to do."
"My God, I can't believe you said that. You really are a cold-blooded sonofabitch, aren't you?"
Matt decided there was no point in arguing with her.
"There will be help in a minute," he said, and started walking back toward where he'd put the two men down.
Halfway there, he pulled his bow tie loose and opened his collar.
He was sweat-soaked.
He looked at the cellular and punched