Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [31]
"That doesn't answer my question, Tony," Coughlin said.
"Welcome, welcome!" Tony said.
"I should have known better than to try that," Coughlin said. "In law school, they teach you never to ask a question to somebody on the stand unless you know what the answer's going to be."
"Commissioner, you asked," Harris said. "What's wrong with Matt coming to Homicide?"
"He's too young, for one thing. He hasn't been on the job long enough, for another. I can go on."
"He's also smart," Harris said. "And he's a stone-under-the -stone turner. I didn't wonder why this bastard didn't shoot Kenny in the head, or lower back. Matt already thinks like the Black Buddha. The other stuff, we can teach him."
Coughlin snorted.
"And he's going to make a good witness on the stand," Harris said. "Think about that."
"I'll be damned," Coughlin said. "For a moment, I thought-- I guess, to be honest, hoped--you were pulling my leg. But you're serious, aren't you?"
Tony Harris nodded his head. "I thought you'd be all for him coming to Homicide," he said.
Coughlin looked between the two of them but didn't respond directly.
After a moment, he asked, "Are you about finished here, Tony?"
"Just about."
"I need a ride to the Roundhouse."
"My pleasure."
"Matt's going to Easton on a job I gave Peter Wohl and Peter gave to Matt," Coughlin said. "And he'd better get going."
"What job's that?" Harris asked.
"One of those I'd rather not talk about," Coughlin said, looking at Matt. "But the sooner you know something, Matt, the better."
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"You sore at me, Matt?" Coughlin said.
"I could never be sore at you," Matt said.
Coughlin met his eyes and then nodded.
Then he pushed himself out of the banquette.
[FOUR]
Matt started to head for the Schuylkill Expressway as the fastest way out of town. When he turned onto South Street, he punched the autodial button on his cellular, which caused Inspector Wohl to answer his cellular on the second ring.
"Matt, boss. Commissioner Coughlin's on his way back to the Roundhouse, and I'm on my way to Easton. Okay?"
"From the cheerful sound of your voice, I guess you again refused to listen to his sage advice?"
"He didn't offer any," Matt said. "He tried to sandbag me with Tony Harris."
"And?"
"Tony said I already think like the Black Buddha, they can teach me what I have to know, and 'welcome'--no, 'welcome, welcome'--to Homicide."
There was a moment's silence.
"He also told me he gave you the Cassidy job," Matt said.
Again there was a perceptible pause.
"If you come up with something unpleasant, give me a call," Wohl said. "Otherwise fill me in in the morning."
"Yes, sir," Matt said.
Wohl broke the connection without saying anything else.
At the next intersection--South and Twentieth Streets-- Matt changed his mind about the Schuylkill Expressway and instead drove back to Rittenhouse Square, where he drove into the underground garage, parked the unmarked Ford, and got in the Porsche.
It had occurred to him that he hadn't driven the Porsche much lately, and it needed a run. What he liked best about the Porsche--something he somewhat snobbishly thought most people didn't understand--was not how easily you could get it up to well over 100, 120 miles per hour--a great many cars would do that--but how beautifully it handled on narrow, winding roads, making 60 or 70 where lesser cars would lose control at 50 or less. Such as the twenty miles or so of Route 611 between Kintnersville and Easton, where the road ran alongside the old Delaware Canal.
With the winding road, and a lot else on his mind--
God, that was an unexpected compliment from Tony Harris, me thinking like Jason . . .
And it couldn't have been timed better. Uncle Denny had egg all over his face. . . .
I wonder when the promotion will actually happen?
What am I going to do if Captain Cassidy's brother's will hasn't been filed in the courthouse? Some people don't even have wills. What do they call that, intestate, something like that?
With a little luck,