Final Justice Part 24

Matt nodded.

D'Amata raised his voice.

"Kramer, put the Hustler Hustler down and take the phone." down and take the phone."

Detective Alonzo Kramer, who appeared to be reading a large ledger at his desk, waved his hand to indicate he understood he was now up on the wheel.

Matt Payne wondered if he really had a copy of Hustler Hustler magazine hidden behind the green ledger. And decided he didn't want to know. magazine hidden behind the green ledger. And decided he didn't want to know.

"What I will do now, Sergeant," Joe D'Amata said, punching numbers on a telephone, "is inform the very clever technicians a.s.signed to the Mobile Crime Lab that their services are going to be required."

Other detectives-who, Matt did not need to be told, were the squad who would work the case-began to gather around D'Amata's desk.

D'Amata put the telephone handset in its cradle.

"With your permission, Sergeant, I will designate Detectives Reeves and Grose to remain behind. Reeves, who went to night school and now reads almost at the sixth-grade level, will research the victim, see what he can find out about her in the files-does she have a rap sheet, outstanding warrants, et cetera, et cetera. Grose, who can't read at all, will seek out a judge to get us a search warrant for the premises."

Detectives Grose and Reeves, having picked up on what was happening, were smiling.

"I'm sure you're aware, Sergeant," D'Amata went on, "that our beloved Lieutenant Was.h.i.+ngton is picky-picky about getting a search warrant before we even start rooting in garbage cans in search of evidence, and photographing the deceased."

"He has made that point, Detective," Matt said.

"Something to do, I believe, with slimeball lawyers getting critters off because the evidence was gained unlawfully. "

"So I was led to believe," Matt said.

"And I think, with your permission, Sergeant, that I will designate Detective Slayberg-that's the fat one in the cheap suit . . ."

"Screw you, Joe," Detective Slayberg said, but he was smiling.

". . . as the recorder. He's very good at describing premises. "

"So I usually get stuck with that, Sergeant," Slayberg said.

"Many years ago," Matt said mock seriously, "when I was a young police officer, I made the mistake of letting my sergeant know I could type with all the fingers on both hands."

The others chuckled.

"Boy," Slayberg said, "with all possible respect, Sergeant, that was a dumb f.u.c.king thing to do."

"So I learned," Matt said.

There were more chuckles.

"So now, these little details out of the way, and with your permission, Sergeant, I think we should proceed to the scene."

"Absolutely."

"With just about everybody working the Roy Rogers job, Matt, we're a little short of wheels. You mind if Slayberg and I ride out there with you? Or did Quaire beat you out of that new car you brought with you?"

"Not yet," Matt said. "But then, I haven't been here very long."

I wonder why Quaire didn't grab the car?

He watched as all the detectives who would be going to the scene went to filing cabinets, unlocked them, and then took from them their personal equipment, which included their weapons, surgical rubber gloves, and leather- or vinyl-covered folders holding legal tablets.

He followed D'Amata out of Homicide, at the last moment picking up his briefcase, with his laptop inside, from atop a filing cabinet near the door.

[TWO].

When Matt got out of the unmarked Ford, he saw that yellow-and-black tape reading POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS had been strung along both sides of the path into the apartment complex to prohibit access to one of the buildings.

Two uniformed white s.h.i.+rts, a captain and a lieutenant, were standing talking to two detectives, one of them a woman, on the concrete path in front of what was obviously the crime scene.

"Captain Alex Smith, the district commander," Joe D'Amata said. "Good guy. I don't make the lieutenant."

"Lew Sawyer," Slayberg furnished. "He's a p.r.i.c.k. The broad is from Special Victims, and she's a real b.i.t.c.h."

"What the f.u.c.k is she doing here?" Slayberg asked. "Special Victims Unit doesn't have anything to do with homicide investigations, even when the victim has been raped."

"Smile nicely at her, Matt," D'Amata said.

Captain Smith saw the three of them coming and smiled.

"h.e.l.lo, Joe," he said, putting out his hand.

"Good morning, sir. I know you know Harry, but . . . Sergeant Payne?"

"Yeah, sure, how are you, Harry?" He shook Slayberg's hand. "I know who you are, Sergeant, but I don't think we've ever actually met."

"I don't think so, sir," Matt said, reaching for Smith's outstretched hand.

"This is Lieutenant Sawyer," Smith said. "And Detectives Domenico and Ellis, of Special Victims."

"I think I used to see you around the a.r.s.enal, didn't I?" Detective Domenico asked.

There was something about her smile Matt didn't like, and he remembered what Slayberg had said.

"I used to be out there with Special Operations," Matt said.

Everybody nodded at each other, but no hands were shaken.

"What have we got, Captain?" Joe asked.

"A dead girl, the doer is probably a sicko, and maybe a problem."

"What kind of a problem?"

"There was a 'Disturbance, House' call here last night. Two cars responded. The lady next door said her mirror fell off the wall. She said the trouble came from the Williamson apartment, and wanted them to check it out. There was no response when the officers rang the bell, no lights, no sounds, and no signs of a break-in. So they couldn't take the door."

"Uh-oh," D'Amata said. "I think I know what's coming."

Captain Smith nodded.

"So they left," he said. "And then the brother let himself in this morning, found his sister, and the lady next door told him what had happened last night. Actually, early this morning. And the brother is pretty upset with the police department for not taking the door the first time we were here."

"Ouch," D'Amata said.

Slayberg's cellular buzzed.

He said his name, listened, then said, "Thanks. We just got here. Wait." He turned to Matt.

"Sergeant, the search warrant is on the way. Grose will bring it. Reeves said there's nothing but a couple of driving violations on either the victim or her brother, and wants to know what you want him to do."

"Tell Grose to tell Reeves to come out with him and the warrant," Matt said, forgetting that he had promised himself to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut.

He stole a quick glance at D'Amata, and saw nothing on his face to suggest he thought Matt had ordered the wrong thing. And he remembered what Quaire had said about his being expected to act like a sergeant.

"Why don't we go have a quick look?" Matt said to D'Amata and Slayberg. "The search warrant's on the way."

He started to walk toward the stairs, and became aware that everybody started to follow him.

I'm not about to tell the district captain he can't have a look at the scene, but that doesn't apply to the lieutenant and certainly not to the smiling lady from Special Victims.

"It's your job, Sergeant, but I would like a look."

"After you, sir," he said, waving Captain Smith ahead of him.

"Lieutenant, would you mind waiting until the Crime Lab people do their thing?" Matt asked.

"I just wanted a quick look, but you're right," Lieutenant Sawyer said.

"You understand," Matt said to Detective Domenico.

The ice in your eyes, Detective Domenico, Sergeant Payne thought, Sergeant Payne thought, would freeze the b.a.l.l.s off a bra.s.s monkey. What's your problem? You're not even supposed to be here. This isn't a rape, a child molestation, it's a homicide. would freeze the b.a.l.l.s off a bra.s.s monkey. What's your problem? You're not even supposed to be here. This isn't a rape, a child molestation, it's a homicide.

The uniform in front of Cheryl Williamson's door stepped aside when he saw Captain Smith and the others.

Once they got inside, Captain Smith touched Matt's arm.

"I know s.e.x Crimes," he said, using the old name for the Special Victims Unit, "doesn't have anything to do with a homicide investigation, even when a s.e.xual a.s.sault is involved. They just happened to be in my office talking to me about an unsolved rape when this job came out."

"Yes, sir," Matt said. And then he saw in Joe D'Amata's eyes that he found this interesting. After a moment, so did Matt.

An unsolved rape and they just happened to be here at a homicide rape scene? Is there something else we're not being told? I think I'll have to send a team over to the Special Victims Unit to see what their files may have.

Without a word Joe D'Amata opened his leather-bound notepad, turned to the last page of the tablet, and scrawled a note for himself: s.e.x Crimes, unsolved rape in area, Lt. Sawyer, Det. Domenico, Ellis. s.e.x Crimes, unsolved rape in area, Lt. Sawyer, Det. Domenico, Ellis.

There was another female detective in the apartment, sitting on the couch beside a well-dressed, somewhat distraught-looking man.

She stood up when she saw them.

Sergeant Payne had an unprofessional thought: Now, that's a very interesting member of the opposite s.e.x. Now, that's a very interesting member of the opposite s.e.x.

"Captain, I'd rather not have anybody in there until we get the search warrant and the Crime Lab," the very interesting member of the opposite s.e.x said.

"The warrant's on the way," Matt said. "And we're just going to stand in the door for a quick look."

"Take a good long look," the man on the couch said, as he stood up. "If you cops did what you're supposed to do, my sister would probably still be alive."

"I'm very sorry for your loss, sir," D'Amata said.

"You're sorry? That does Cheryl a lot of f.u.c.king good."

"Who are you?" Detective Olivia La.s.siter asked, almost a challenge.

"Joe D'Amata, Homicide," D'Amata said. "I've got the job. This is Harry Slayberg, and Sergeant Payne."

D'Amata and Slayberg nodded at Detective La.s.siter as they walked around Matt to the bedroom door.

"Who are you?" Matt asked.

"La.s.siter, Northwest Detectives," she said.

D'Amata and Slayberg stood in the doorway of Cheryl Williamson's bedroom and looked around-without entering-for about sixty seconds. Then they stepped away from the bedroom door and started looking around the living room. Captain Smith went to the bedroom door.

"Jesus," he said, softly.

Matt saw that D'Amata and Slayberg had rubber gloves on their hands, wondered why he hadn't seen them put them on, and pulled a pair of his own from his pocket.

He was about to walk to the door when the apartment door opened again and two men entered. Payne knew one of them, a balding, rumpled man in a well-worn suit, Dr. Howard Mitch.e.l.l of the medical examiner's office. He had with him a photographer, a young man Matt could not remember ever having seen before.

Matt found it interesting that Dr. Mitch.e.l.l had come to the scene personally. Usually technicians from the M.E.'s office worked a death scene, and the M.E. did not; he either supervised the autopsy or did it himself.

Probably, Matt decided, Mitch.e.l.l's appearance had something to do with a Special Operations job he'd heard about, one that had almost been a.s.signed to him, although in the end it had been a.s.signed to Detectives Jesus Martinez and Charles T. McFadden.

It had begun when a highly indignant citizen, the nephew of a woman who'd fallen down her cellar stairs and broken her neck, had gone to his district and told the desk sergeant to report that he'd just gotten Aunt Myrtle's last Visa bill. Aunt Myrtle didn't drink, couldn't drive, and there was no way she could have charged $355 worth of booze at Mickey's Liquor Store in Camden, New Jersey, on the day of her death.

The report had worked its way through the bureaucracy to the Roundhouse, where it had been discussed by Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Chief Inspector of Detectives Lowenstein.

They agreed there was something about it that made it seem more than a simple case of credit-card fraud. And since it crossed state lines, it became a federal offense, which meant it was in the province of the FBI. Although both Coughlin and Lowenstein held the FBI in the highest possible respect, they also suspected that a credit card fraud involving only $355 would not get the FBI's full attention.

"Give it to Peter Wohl," Lowenstein said. "Not this job. Get him to see if there have been other reports of other things missing from other recently deceased citizens."

Coughlin had-unnecessarily-told Peter Wohl that if somebody at funeral homes, cops at the scene, or maybe even from the M.E.'s office were taking things they shouldn't, he would rather learn this from Special Operations than from the FBI.

Charley McFadden and Hay-zus Martinez had been given the job because they had less on their plates when the job came in than Matt did. It hadn't taken McFadden and Martinez long to discover-Matt couldn't remember ever before having seen Charley so personally indignant-that a lot of stuff had disappeared over the past six months, and that it was pretty clear it had disappeared into the pockets of some of the M.E.'s technicians. They had apparently decided that since the deceased had no further need for rings, watches, other jewelry and cash, they might as well put the same to good use-their own.