Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [98]
And if she screwed up somehow, in any way, she knew she could kiss any chances of getting into Homicide farewell forever.
Olivia had just turned onto North Broad Street when her cell phone buzzed. She fumbled in her purse for it and finally pushed Answer.
"Lassiter."
"D'Amata. You know who I am?"
"Yeah, sure."
"I want you to start thinking of me as the senior Homicide investigator on this case," D'Amata said. "Not just some ordinary Homicide schmuck."
"Okay. You want to tell me why?"
"Because when I told our beloved leader, Sergeant Payne, that I wanted to go with you to take the Williamson mother's statement, he said sure, but tell her to introduce you as 'the senior Homicide investigator on the case.' "
"He say why?"
"Our orders, Detective Lassiter, are to keep the Williamsons stroked. I think it's a good idea. Our leader is as smart as a whip."
"Okay. Whatever you say. I'm on North Broad, six blocks from City Hall, en route to Mother Williamson's. You need the address?"
"Yeah."
"404 Rockland. It's just south of Roosevelt Boulevard."
"I know where it is. I'll meet you there. On the street. Either I wait or you wait, okay? Payne wants us together."
"See you there."
Olivia pushed the End button and dropped the phone back into her purse.
Sergeant Matthew Payne, she thought, was very likely going to cause some sort of problems for her vis-a-vis making the best of her opportunity to try to get into Homicide.
She had known who Detective Payne was before he walked into Cheryl Williamson's living room. She had seen him on television when there had been the shooting in Doylestown, covered with that poor girl's blood, tears running down his cheeks. It had made her cry.
And, purely as a matter of female curiosity, when she finally got her hands on the new sergeants list, she had looked to see who had scored well.
Detective Payne of Special Operations had scored number one.
The first time she had seen him in the flesh was when he walked into Cheryl Williamson's living room. The first thing she'd thought was that he was even better looking than he'd looked on television, and the second thing was Christ, not now. I have never before been physically attracted to anyone on the job. Not now, please, God, and not a hotshot like this one.
The one thing I could do for sure that would screw up my chances of getting into Homicide would be for me to get involved with their fair-haired boy. And I will not. Not. Not.
TEN
[ONE]
Matt more or less obeyed the speed limits crossing New Jersey. It was a temptation not to, but he was driving the Porsche, and from painful experience he had come to believe that so far as the New Jersey State Police were concerned, ticketing a Porsche often was the high point of their tour, giving them great joy and satisfaction.
As he came out of the Lincoln Tunnel, he looked at his watch. It was half past two, which explained why his stomach was telling him he was hungry. He turned uptown, and ten minutes later turned onto West Forty-second Street toward Times Square. Just before he got there, he saw Times Square Photo.
Now the question was finding someplace to park, someplace where the parking attendants might not find great joy and satisfaction in seeing how deeply they could scratch the glistening silver paint of a Porsche.
He moved through the crowded streets, and a few minutes later found himself entering Times Square again from the north. The only parking places he had found had SORRY, FULL signs in front of them.
He noticed, at first idly and then with great interest, an automobile--a somewhat battered black Ford Crown Victoria--parked on the right curb between Forty-third and Forty-fourth Streets, right beside a sign reading NO PARKING NO STOPPING AT ANY TIME. There were several antennae mounted on it, and it rode on black heavy-duty tires. The fenders were battered, and there were no wheel covers.
If that's not an unmarked