The Assassin Part 32

"The reservations are for twelve noon. The inspector wants O'Dowd there. Tell him it would be nice if he could get into civilian clothing by then."

"Yes, sir. I have the feeling we're about finished here. There should be time."

In the elevator, Matt said, "Sergeant, Captain Pekach said that you're to go to Bookbinder's, and that if there's time, he'd like you to get out of uniform."

"The inspector probably wants to hear two versions of what we got from your sister," O'Dowd thought out loud, and looked at his watch. "There will be time. I live in Ashton Acres, right by the entrance to Northeast Airport."

The elevator door whooshed open, and they walked to the main door, past the doorman, who made no effort to rush to the door and open it for them.

"See you again," O'Dowd said cheerfully to the doorman, who snorted and pretended to find something on his little desk to be absolutely fascinating.

"I wonder what's wrong with him? Tight shoes?" O'Dowd asked as they were walking to the car.

"Beats me," Matt said. His brilliant repartee earlier with the doorman now seemed nowhere near as witty as it had.

When they were on the Parkway, headed east, O'Dowd said, "Give them a call, tell them where we're going."

Matt picked up the microphone, and then started to open the glove compartment to make sure he was on the right frequency.

"We're on the J-band," O'Dowd said, reading his mind. "And this is the boss's car."

"Highway One-A to Radio," Matt said.

"Highway One-A," the Highway radio dispatcher came back.

"Have you got anything for us?"

"Nothing, Highway One-A."

Matt laid the microphone back on the seat.

"Predictably, I suppose," O'Dowd said, "the only really interesting thing your sister said was when you were on the phone. She said she thinks this guy is as.e.xual. I asked her if she thought that was the cause of his problems, and she said no, she thought it was something else, but that he was as.e.xual, and we should keep that in mind. Do you have any idea what she meant by that?"

"Sergeant, I rarely have any idea what my sister is talking about."

"Have I p.i.s.sed you off somehow, Payne?"

"Of course not."

"What happened to 'Jerry'?"

"It finally dawned on me that I was out of line at 30th Street Station this morning. A rookie detective should not call a sergeant by his first name."

"I'm not at all shy. If you had been out of line, I would have let you know."

"Thank you."

"So what do you think your sister meant when she said we should keep in mind that this guy is as.e.xual?"

"Beats the s.h.i.+t out of me, Jerry."

O'Dowd laughed. "Better," he said. "Better."

FIFTEEN.

Bookbinder's Restaurant provided a private dining room for the luncheon party, and senior members of the landmark restaurant's hierarchy stopped by twice to shake hands and make sure everything was satisfactory.

But, Matt thought, Matt thought, that's as far as manifestations of respect for the upper echelons of the Police Department are going to go. They might grab the tab if Coughlin or Lowenstein came in here alone. But they are not going to pick up the tab for a party as large as this one. For one thing, it would be too much money, and for another, it would set an unfortunate precedent: that's as far as manifestations of respect for the upper echelons of the Police Department are going to go. They might grab the tab if Coughlin or Lowenstein came in here alone. But they are not going to pick up the tab for a party as large as this one. For one thing, it would be too much money, and for another, it would set an unfortunate precedent: Hey, let's get the guys together and go down to Bookbinder's for a free lobster! Hey, let's get the guys together and go down to Bookbinder's for a free lobster!

So what does that mean? That we go Dutch treat, which would make the most sense, or is Peter Wohl going to get stuck with the tab?

Fortunately, that is not my problem. So why am I worrying about it?

He concentrated on his steamed clams, boiled lobster, and on making his two beers last through everything.

It would be inappropriate for Matthew M. Payne, the junior police officer present, to get sloshed during lunch with his betters.

Second junior police officer, junior police officer, he corrected himself: he corrected himself: I am no longer low man on the Special Operations totem pole. Officer Tom O'Mara is. I am no longer low man on the Special Operations totem pole. Officer Tom O'Mara is.

O'Mara, Matt thought, somewhat surprised, Matt thought, somewhat surprised, does not seem at all uncomfortable in the presence of all the white s.h.i.+rts, and heavy-hitter white s.h.i.+rts, at that. You'd think he would be; for the ordinary cop, chief inspectors are sort of a mix between the cardinal of the Spanish Inquisition and G.o.d himself. does not seem at all uncomfortable in the presence of all the white s.h.i.+rts, and heavy-hitter white s.h.i.+rts, at that. You'd think he would be; for the ordinary cop, chief inspectors are sort of a mix between the cardinal of the Spanish Inquisition and G.o.d himself.

But, when you think twice, Tom O'Mara is not an ordinary police officer in the sense that Charley McFadden was-and for that matter, detective or not, still is-an ordinary cop. He belongs to the club. His father is a captain. The reputation is hereditary: Until proven otherwise, the son of a good cop is a good cop.

Some of that, now that I think about it, also applies to me. In a sense, I am a hereditary member of the club. Because of Denny Coughlin, and/or because both my biological father and my Uncle Dutch got killed on duty.

The correct term is "fraternity," an a.s.sociation of brothers, from the Latin word meaning brother, as in Delta Phi Omicron Delta Phi Omicron at the University of Pennsylvania, where, despite your n.o.ble, two years service as Treasurer, you didn't have a f.u.c.king clue what the word at the University of Pennsylvania, where, despite your n.o.ble, two years service as Treasurer, you didn't have a f.u.c.king clue what the word "fraternity" "fraternity" really meant. really meant.

"You look deep in thought, Matty," Chief Coughlin said, breaking abruptly into his mental meandering. "You all right?"

"I don't think I should have had the second dozen steamed clams," Matt replied. "But aside from that, I'm fine."

"You should have three dozen, Payne," Mr. Larkin said. "I'm paying."

"No, you're not!" Staff Inspector Peter Wohl said.

"We'll have none of that!" Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl said.

"Don't be silly, Charley," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, just so we all stay friends," Larkin said, "I'll flip anybody else here with a representation allowance. Loser pays."

"What the h.e.l.l is a 'representation allowance'?" Chief Wohl asked.

"Your tax dollars at work, Augie," Larkin said. "When high-ranking Secret Service people such as myself are forced to go out with the local Keystone Cops, we're supposed to keep them happy by grabbing the tab. They call it a 'representation allowance.' "

"Screw you, Charley," Coughlin said, laughing. " 'Keystone Cops'!"

"Shut up, Denny. Let him pay," Chief Lowenstein said. "But order another round first."

There was laughter.

"Except for him," Peter Wohl said, pointing at Matt. "I want him sober when he translates that psychological profile into English."

"Sir, I can go out to the Schoolhouse right now, if you'd like."

"What I was thinking, Matt," Wohl said seriously, "was that the most efficient way to handle it would be for you to take it to your apartment and translate it there. Then O'Mara could run it by my dad's house, where we can have a look at it. Then Tom can take it out to the Schoolhouse, retype it, and duplicate it. By then Captain Pekach will have been able to set up distribution by Highway."

"Yes, sir," Matt said. "You don't want me to come by Chief Wohl's house?"

"I don't see any reason for you to come out there," Wohl said.

Am I being told I don't belong there, or is he giving me time off?

"Yes, sir," Matt said. "Thank you for lunch, Mr. Larkin."

"Thanks for the ride, Matt," Mr. Larkin said.

The only place there was room in Matt's apartment for a desk was in his bedroom, and even there he had to look long and hard for a desk small enough to fit. He'd finally found an unpainted "student's desk" in Sears Roebuck that fit, but wasn't quite st.u.r.dy enough for the standard IBM electric typewriter he had inherited from his father's office. Every time the carriage slammed back and forth for a new line, the desk s.h.i.+fted with a painful squeak.

Tom O'Mara made himself comfortable on Matt's bed, first by sitting on it, and then, when he became bored with that, by lying down on it and watching television with the sound turned off, so as not to disturb Matt's mental labor.

It took him the better part of an hour to translate first Amy's really incredibly bad handwriting, and then to reorganize what she had written, and then finally to incorporate what Wohl and Larkin had brought up in their meeting. Finally, he was satisfied that he had come up with what Wohl and Larkin wanted. He typed one more copy, pulled it from the typewriter, and handed it to O'Mara.

This individual is almost certainly: Mentally unbalanced, believing that he has a special relations.h.i.+p with G.o.d. He may believe that G.o.d speaks to him directly.

IMPORTANTLY: He would not make a public announcement of this relations.h.i.+p.

Highly intelligent.

Well educated, most likely a college graduate, but almost certainly has some college education.

Well spoken, possessed of a good vocabulary.

An expert typist, with access to a current model IBM typewriter (one with a "type ball").

This individual is probably: A male Caucasian.

Twenty-five to forty years old.

As.e.xual (that is, he's unmarried, and has no wife, or h.o.m.o- or hetero- s.e.xual partner or s.e.x life).

"A loner" (that is, has very few, or no friends).

Living alone.

Neat and orderly, possibly to an excessive degree, and dresses conservatively.

Of ordinary, or slightly less than ordinary, physical appearance. A chess player, not a football player.

Self-a.s.sured, possibly to an excessive degree. (That is, tends to become annoyed, even angry, with anyone who disagrees with him.) An Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Methodist, (less likely, a Roman Catholic) but not an active member of any church group.

Works in an office.

A nondrinker.

Either a nonsmoker or a chain cigarette smoker.

This individual is possibly: An engineer, either civil or electronic, or an accountant, or someone who works with figures.

A veteran, possibly discharged for medical (including psychological) reasons. Possibly a former junior officer.

Someone who has come to the attention of the authorities as the result of a complaint he has made when he has felt he has been wronged. (For example, complaining about neighbor's loud party, or loud radio, damage to his lawn, et cetera, by neighborhood children.) As O'Mara read it, Matt glanced up at the silent TV mounted on a hospital-room shelf over the door. O'Mara had been watching an old cops-and-robbers movie.

I wonder how he can tell the good guys from the bad guys? They all look like 1930s-era gangsters.

"Your sister was able to come up with all this just from that nutty note that screwball wrote?" O'Mara asked, visibly awed.

"My sister is a genius. It runs in the family."

"s.h.i.+t!" O'Mara said.

After a pause, Matt thought, Matt thought, while he decided I was not serious. while he decided I was not serious.

"Well, I'd better run this out to the bra.s.s," O'Mara said, and finally pushed himself upright and got off the bed.

At the head of the stairs, O'Mara stopped. "How do I get out?" Matt recalled that O'Mara had parked Wohl's car in front of the building. Despite the NO PARKING signs, no white hat was going to ticket what was obviously the unmarked car of a senior white s.h.i.+rt. He had unlocked the plate-gla.s.s door to the lobby with his key, and then locked it again after them. It would now be necessary to repeat the process to let O'Mara out.

"I'll let you out," Matt said, and went down the stairs ahead of him.

Matt went into the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and went into the living room, slumped in his chair and picked up a copy of Playboy Playboy. He looked at his answering machine. The red, You Have Messages You Have Messages light was flas.h.i.+ng. light was flas.h.i.+ng.

I really don't want to hear my messages. But on the other hand, Wohl may be wondering what the h.e.l.l took me so long.

He reached over and pushed the PLAY b.u.t.ton.

There were six calls, five of them from people- People, h.e.l.l, Evelyn is at it again!

-who had not chosen to leave a message, and one from Jack Matthews, who wanted him to call the first chance he got.

And I know what you want, Jack Matthews. The FBI wants to know what the h.e.l.l the Keystone Cops are doing with the Secret Service big shot from Was.h.i.+ngton. f.u.c.k you!

As the tape was rewinding, the doorbell, the one from the third floor, at the foot of his stairs, buzzed.