Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [75]
And then there was the third incident, just six months ago. Payne had run down--good detective work--a lunatic terrorist they wanted. The FBI had been looking for him without coming close for years. Payne knew the critter was going to be in the parking lot of a diner in Doylestown. He had no authority in Doylestown, and didn't think the Doylestown cops would know how to handle the terrorist, so he'd called an FBI guy he knew--one of the good ones, for a change-- and the FBI guy had gone to Doylestown.
When they'd tried to put the collar on the lunatic, he'd let loose with an automatic carbine, wounding a bystander woman and killing the woman who'd led Payne to the lunatic.
There'd been a hell of an exchange of gunfire, handguns against an automatic carbine. The FBI guy had actually put the critter down, but Payne had been involved up to his eyeballs and hadn't blinked.
If things were perfect, a cop would never have to take his pistol out of his holster, but things aren't perfect, and all cops--including Homicide detectives--admire the cops who do it right when they have to take out their weapons.
And then finally Captain Quaire was aware that at Dave Pekach's wife's party for Payne last night, Payne had sat at a table with Deputy Commissioner Coughlin, District Attorney Eileen McNamara Solomon, Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein, and Inspector Wohl, making it clear he had friends in high places.
"Welcome aboard, Matt," Quaire said.
"Thank you, sir."
"Would you have any objection to being assigned to Lieutenant Washington's squad?"
"No, sir."
"So be it," Quaire said. "You're a bright young man. Do I have to remind you that you're the new kid on the block, and that most of the people here have been in Homicide longer than you've been on the job?"
"I don't mean to sound flippant, sir, but that's not the first time that's been pointed out to me."
"And in a situation like that, what are you going to do?"
"Keep my eyes open and my mouth shut, sir."
"Don't go too far, Matt, with the mouth shut. You're a sergeant, and you'll be expected to act like one."
"Yes, sir. I understand."
What I'm doing here is wasting my time, and his. Before he walked in here this morning, he was coached on what to expect and how to behave by Peter Wohl, who was a very young detective here. Or by Denny Coughlin. Or by the Black Buddha. Maybe even by Matt Lowenstein. Or Tony Harris. Or, more likely, all of the above.
"When is this business with Stan Colt going to happen?" Quaire asked.
"I think he's coming on Friday, sir. I haven't had the time to check with Lieutenant McGuire."
"You better check with him soon, for the obvious reasons. "
"I'll do it right now, sir."
"And let me know."
"Yes, sir."
"Okay, Matt. Go to work," Captain Quaire said. "Glad you're going to be with us."
"Thank you, sir."
[FOUR]
At 9:25 A.M., as Jack Williamson drove his Chrysler 300M northward on I-95 toward Bucks County--coincidentally, just beyond and to the left of the Industrial Correction Center, and just shy of the Philadelphia Police Academy--his cellular telephone buzzed.
Williamson was a tall, rather good-looking, well-dressed twenty-nine-year-old whose business card identified him as Senior Sales Consultant for Overbrook Estates, which offered custom-built executive homes on quarter-acre lots in Overbrook Estates, a new gated community in Beautiful Bucks County starting in the mid-$250Ks.
He cursed--for having forgot to do so earlier--as he reached for the earphone and jammed it in place, and then pushed the button on the microphone, which he was supposed to have clipped to his jacket, but now held somewhat awkwardly in his right hand.
"Jack Williamson," he said.
"This is your mother."
Oh, shit. Now what does she want?
"What can I do for you, Mother? On my way to work, where I'm already twenty-five minutes late?"
"I'm worried about Cheryl."
"Can we talk about this later?"
"She doesn't answer her phone . . ."
Probably