Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [96]
"Then just the mother, then."
"Olivia's on her way to the Roundhouse to deliver the pictures to Washington--"
"He's not there," D'Amata interrupted. "He called to say if I needed him, if we needed him, he's going to take another look at the Roy Rogers."
"He's going to meet with O'Hara, Harris, and the black kid witness at five o'clock, to start all over again."
"So he told me."
"Olivia's going from the Roundhouse to see the Williamsons."
"Olivia is, is she?"
"Fuck you, Joe."
"I think that's what they call 'verbal abuse of a subordinate, ' Sergeant. You'll be hearing from the FOP."
"Then fuck you twice, Joe," Matt said.
D'Amata laughed.
"You have the Williamson mother's address?" Matt asked.
"No, but I probably can get it from Detective Lassiter."
"I've got her cell number. You need it?"
"Yeah."
Matt gave it to him, then said, "Tell her that I said I want her to introduce you to the Williamsons as the lead detective on the case. Maybe 'senior homicide investigator' would be better."
There was a pause while D'Amata considered that.
"Lassiter's got them calmed down, and we want to show them how hard we're working, right?"
"Yeah. Make sense to you?"
"Yeah. That Philly Phil asshole business is still dangerous. My wife called and asked me what the hell was wrong with the uniforms, they didn't take the door."
"Well, let's keep the Williamsons stroked."
"Consider it done," D'Amata said. "If anything comes up, I'll call you."
"Same here."
"That digital camera's a long shot, Matt. But let's hope we get lucky."
"Amen, Brother."
[FIVE]
Sergeant Zachary Hobbs, a stocky, ruddy-faced forty-four-year -old, was holding down the desk in Homicide when Detective Lassiter walked through the outer door.
Detective Kenneth J. Summers, who should have been working the desk, was meeting a lengthy call of nature, which he blamed on something he must have eaten at the church supper of St. Paul's Lutheran Church the previous evening.
"Can I help you?" Hobbs asked. He was not immune to Detective Lassiter's looks.
"Lieutenant Washington?"
"I'm sorry, he's not here."
"Captain Quaire?"
"He's not here either. Can I do something for you?"
"Would you give whichever of them comes in first this envelope, please?"
She handed it to him.
"Sure." He weighed it in his hands. "What is it?"
"It's from Sergeant Payne," Olivia said.
Hobbs looked at her, waiting for her to go on. After a moment's hesitation, she did.
"It's photographs of the victim in the Independence Street job."
Sergeant Hobbs immediately tore the envelope open and looked at the eight photographs.
"Where the hell did Payne get these?" Hobbs asked.
"The doer forgot his digital camera at the scene. Sergeant Payne downloaded the images to his laptop, and Special Victims printed them for us."
"Next question: Who are you, Detective? How did you get them?"
"My name is Lassiter," Olivia said. "Northwest. I've been detailed to Homicide. Sergeant Payne told me to bring them here."
"Detailed? By who?"
"Chief Lowenstein," Olivia said.
"Well, so long as you're with us, Detective, you're certainly going to bring a little class to the premises," Hobbs said. "Where's the camera?"
"Detective D'Amata has it," Olivia said.
"Okay. As soon as either the boss or the Black Buddha comes in, I'll see they get these. They may want to talk to you. . . ."
"I'll give you my cell phone number," she said, and did.
"Where will you be?"
"I'm going to take the victim's mother's statement," she said.
"Sergeant Payne told you to?"
"Yes, he did."
He looked at her a moment, then said, "Welcome, welcome. Would you be offended if I said you're the best-looking detective to come in here in my memory?"
"Not at all," Olivia said, and smiled at him. "Thanks."
"My pleasure," Hobbs said. "See you around."
In the best of all possible worlds, Olivia thought, as she left Homicide and the Roundhouse and got in her unmarked car, the encounter between herself and Sergeant Hobbs of Homicide would have been entirely professional and gender-neutral.
But the Philadelphia