Final Justice Part 22

"Good morning, Sergeant, Sergeant," Quaire said, smiling, and then waved his hand toward the door of his office. "Come on in."

Matt Payne followed him into the office.

"One of your major responsibilities, Sergeant," Quaire said, pointing to his coffee machine, "is to make sure that one of your subordinates makes sure that machine is tended and ready for service by the time I walk in here."

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

Quaire poured an Emerald Society cup full, and turned to Payne.

"Help yourself, Matt, and then pull up a chair."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Privately, Henry Quaire was not overjoyed at the a.s.signment of Sergeant Payne to Homicide. For one thing, he'd had nothing to do with it. Almost traditionally, the chief of Homicide had been able to select his men, and there were a number of sergeants-three, in particular, who wanted the a.s.signment-whom Quaire considered to be far better qualified to be a sergeant in Homicide than Sergeant Payne.

But the commissioner had had his off-the-wall idea of giving the top five guys on the sergeant's list their choice of a.s.signment, so Payne's a.s.signment was a done deal, and there was no way he could fight it.

Not that he really wanted to, he decided. For one thing, he was off the hook about picking one of the other sergeants. If he had had to make a choice between them, two of them would not have gotten the a.s.signment, and they-and their rabbis- would have been disappointed, and their rabbis probably p.i.s.sed.

Now they could be p.i.s.sed at the commissioner.

And it wasn't as if Payne was an absolute incompetent getting shoved down his throat. He was, in fact, a pretty good cop, who would probably do a good job in Homicide before moving onward and upward in the police hierarchy. Like his rabbi, Inspector Peter Wohl, he was one of those people who seemed predestined for ever-greater responsibility and the rank that went with it.

Nor was there going to be, so far as Quaire sensed, much-if any-resentment from the Homicide guys about having a brand-new sergeant with just over five years on the job as a Homicide supervisor.

For one thing, Payne was close to the two most respected people in Homicide, Lieutenant Jason Was.h.i.+ngton and Detective Tony Harris. Was.h.i.+ngton had no problem with Payne's a.s.signment, and when Quaire had asked Tony Harris, Harris had been almost enthusiastic.

"I've worked with him, Captain," Harris said. "He's smart as h.e.l.l. And this place can use a little cla.s.s. Unless I'm wrong, he's going to be dynamite on the witness stand."

Smart as h.e.l.l and being dynamite on the witness stand were two desirable characteristics for anybody in Homicide.

And then there was the fact that everybody in Homicide knew that Payne had had two good shootings. The first had been the serial rapist in Northwest Philadelphia who'd tried to run Payne down in his van. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d had already had his next intended victim trussed up like a Christmas turkey in the back of his van when Payne had interrupted his plans with a bullet in his head.

The second was when they were rounding up the doers in the Goldblatt & Sons Furniture job, and Wohl had put Payne and Mickey O'Hara in an alley to keep them out of the line of fire, while Highway and Special Operations uniforms went in the front. One of the doers had appeared in the alley with a .45 semiautomatic. Payne had taken a hit in the leg, but he'd downed the bad guy anyway.

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 h.e.l.l 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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 a.s.signed to Lieutenant Was.h.i.+ngton'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 b.u.t.ton 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, s.h.i.+t. 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 because she knows it's you calling.

". . . and not even the answering machine answers."

"Maybe it's full."

"And she's not at work. I called there, too."

And just possibly, Mother Dear, she told them to tell you she was out.

"Mother, she probably had car trouble or something."

"No. She doesn't answer her cell phone, either. Jack, I'm really worried."

"Mother, what exactly is it you'd like me to do?"

"I want you to go by her apartment and see if she's all right."

"Mother, I'm on my way to work, and I'm already late."

"Jack, she's your sister. Your only sister."

He didn't reply.

"If only your father were still alive . . ." Mrs. Williamson began.

"Okay, okay. Don't start that. I'll go."

"You'll call me?" his mother asked.

Jack detected a triumphal tone in her voice.

Score another one for Momma Dear.

"I'll call."

He looked for, found, and took the next exit ramp-Exit 23-and a block onto Willets Road pulled to the side, clipped the cellular's hands-off microphone to his s.h.i.+rt, then picked the phone up and held down the 5 key, which caused the cellular to automatically dial Cheryl's number.

There was no answer, which meant she wasn't there. He hung up, then held down the 6 key, which caused the cellular to automatically dial Cheryl's cellular number. After five rings, a recorded female voice announced that the party he was attempting to reach was either not available at this time or out of the local calling area.

He cursed again, dropped the phone onto the seat, put the 300M in gear, and headed down Willets, deciding the best way to get to Cheryl's-all the f.u.c.king way across North Philly-was to take Roosevelt Boulevard and then Adams Avenue, into the East Oak Lane section of Philadelphia.

When he got to Cheryl's door, he could hear the chimes inside playing the first few bars of "Be It Ever So Humble," but there was no answer. Which meant that Cheryl was already probably at work.

He decided that when he got back to the car, he would call her at her office, and turned to leave.

Then nature called, and he was a long way from Overbrook Estates.

He felt around the top of the door frame for her spare key, and when he didn't find it, turned over the floor mat in front of the door, and when it wasn't there either, took a last shot and, standing on his toes, ran his hands over the trim above the windows next to Cheryl's door. He knocked a key off, failed to catch it, and it bounced off the floor and went over the edge of the walkway.

"Jesus H. Christ!" he said, and went down the stairs and two minutes later managed to find the key in the gra.s.s.

He unlocked the door and entered the apartment. There were, he remembered, two toilets, one with a bathtub off Cheryl's room, and another, just a water closet and a washbasin, off the kitchen. He went to the latter and relieved himself.

He was on the walkway checking to make sure the door was locked when a female voice asked, "Is everything all right?"

Now what the h.e.l.l?

Jack found himself facing Mrs. Joanne McGrory.

"I'm Cheryl's brother," he said. "Jack Williamson."

And as soon as you satisfy your G.o.dd.a.m.n curiosity and go away, so you can't see what I'm doing, I will put the G.o.dd.a.m.n key back where it belongs.

"I'm Joanne McGrory. Next door."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Jack said.

"I'm pleased that everything is all right," Joanne McGrory said. "After the mirror, I was worried."

"Excuse me?"

"Our mirror came cras.h.i.+ng off the wall, and I thought maybe something happened in there, too."

"Everything's fine in there."

"I called the cops, but they wouldn't go inside."

"You called the cops? Why?"

"Well, if you were in bed in the middle of the night and your mirror came cras.h.i.+ng down off the wall, what would you do?"

"Mrs. McGrory, you're telling me the police were here last night?"

"Yes, they were," Joanne McGrory said. "I called them, thinking that something might have happened to Cheryl."

"And what did they do? Say?"

"They said they couldn't go into her apartment."

Jesus H. Christ, is my imagination running away with me? Is something really wrong here?

Jack Williamson put the key back in the lock and reentered the apartment. He'd already been in Cheryl's kitchen and living room, so he went to her bedroom and opened the door.