Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [94]
"Fine," Matt said.
"Welcome to Homicide, Detective Lassiter," Washington said. "And I wouldn't worry too much about Sergeant Payne. His Lothario reputation is really far darker than the facts justify."
He walked away from the table.
After a moment, Olivia asked, "Special Victims?"
"I'm thinking," Matt said. "Sometimes that takes a little time."
"And I'd like to see those pictures."
He didn't reply.
"I'll be right back," he said.
She watched as he walked to a pay telephone booth in the front of the diner and looked in the yellow pages telephone book. He punched at the keys of his cellular for a moment, then returned to the table.
"What?" Olivia asked.
"Watch," he said, and pushed the Call button on his cellular phone.
"Center City Photo? I need to talk to someone about Kodak digital cameras."
Getting the correct number at Kodak from Center City Photo was like pulling teeth. The Eastman Kodak Company in Rochester, New York--once Matt had identified himself as Sergeant Payne of the Philadelphia police department Homicide Unit--was very cooperative. It would take them a little time to run the serial number down--was there a number where he could be reached?
Their call came as Olivia was pulling up before the Special Victims building at the Frankford Arsenal.
Their records indicated that a digital camera with that serial number had been shipped, as part of an order for a dozen identical cameras, five months before, to Times Square Photo & Electronics, 17 West Forty-second Street, New York City.
"That camera comes with an overnight FedEx replacement, right?"
"That's right, Sergeant, it does. And I checked to see if that program had been activated for that camera. It hadn't."
Oh, shit. But what did I expect? That this critter was going to leave a trail for me?
"But that sometimes happens," the lady from Kodak went on. "People sometimes don't activate the program until they have problems with the camera."
Am I going to get lucky?
"You don't have a phone number of Times Square Photo, by any chance, do you?"
She gave it to him.
"Thank you very much," Sergeant Payne said. "I really appreciate your cooperation."
The two people at Times Square Photo with whom Sergeant Payne spoke on his cellular were not nearly so cooperative. The first person, a male, spoke only a few words of English, and the second, a female he finally managed to get on the line, had only a few more words of English than did her male colleague.
These were sufficient, however, to make Sergeant Payne understand that she couldn't do nothing like consult her records of sale for just anybody, that she was trying to run a business, for Christ's sake, and at that moment she had customers she had to take care of. For Christ's sake.
"Did you understand me when I said this is Sergeant Payne of the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department? "
"No shit? Good for you. Good luck. Have a nice day."
And at that point she hung up.
"Sonofabitch!" Matt said, then, to Olivia, "Sorry."
"I have heard the expression before," Detective Lassiter said.
Matt held the key that automatically dialed the office of Amelia S. Payne, M.D. He was informed that Dr. Payne was with a patient.
"This is Sergeant Payne. This is official police business. Get her on the phone, please."
Dr. Payne came on the line thirty seconds later.
"Matt, this had better really be police business."
"It is. I'm working a murder."
"Not the one where the cops stood around outside her apartment shooting the breeze while the girl was murdered and raped?"
"I didn't know you listened to Philadelphia Phil, Amy."
"My secretary does. And it's Phil's Philly."
"That's not exactly the way it happened, Amy."
"Of course not," she said, sarcastically.
"Are you scrapping