Final Justice Part 32

The sales slips had been stored in the manner in which they had come out of the sales registry machines-that is to say, fan-folded. Each stack contained 250 sales slips. They had been placed in the storage boxes eight stacks high, six stacks to a box.

By the time Matt found what he was looking for, his feet hurt from standing, his stomach was in audible protest for being unfed, and his eyes watered.

And what he found wasn't much.

A Kodak Digital Science DC 410, Serial Number EKK84240087, had been sold for cash three and a half months previously to Mr. H. Ford, 400 Lincoln Lane, Detroit, Michigan. Mr. Ford's signature, at the bottom, acknowledging receipt of the camera in good working condition, was barely legible.

He then had a very hard time making the previously charming English-speaking proprietor understand that he would like, at the very least, a photocopy of the sales slip and would really like to have the sales slip itself.

Then he had an inspiration.

"What I really would like to have are several digital images of you. First in the act of separating that sales slip from the fanfold," Matt said. "And then another of you initialing the sales slip."

"And you have a camera?"

"No. But I thought if I bought one . . ."

"How interesting! I just happen to have a splendid, latest-model, state-of-the-art Kodak-a DC910 with fast-charge lithium batteries-that I could let you have at a substantial discount."

"The pictures, you understand, would be useless to me unless I had the actual sales slip itself?"

"You do have a credit card?"

"Of course."

"Of course you do. And nothing would give me greater pleasure than to cooperate with the police in this investigation. "

A total of $967.50 and fifteen minutes later, Matt put a Ziploc bag in his briefcase. It held the original sales slip and a flash memory card holding images of the proprietor tearing the sales slip free from the others in the fanfold stack; initialing the sales slip; of himself initialing the sales slip; of himself and the proprietor each holding a corner of the sales slip; and a final shot of himself putting the sales slip in the Ziploc bag.

Counsel for the defense, he thought, would, considering the pictures, have a hard time raising doubt in the minds of a jury that he had acquired the real sales slip.

And he could give the Kodak DC910, with fast-charge lithium batteries, to his mother. She had expressed admiration for the camera he had given Amy, and it seemed only just that his mother get one that cost twice as much as Amy's.

Now all he had to do was find Mr. H. Ford, of 400 Lincoln Lane, Detroit, Michigan.

He walked back down through Times Square to the parking lot, and got into the Porsche. On his cellular telephone, he established contact with a Detroit directory a.s.sistance operator, who regretted to inform him they had no listing for a Mr. H. Ford at 400 Lincoln Lane in Detroit.

Matt had been prepared to be disappointed.

"Have you got a special listing for the Homicide Bureau, maybe Homicide Unit, something like that, of the Detroit police department?"

"Just the basic police department number."

"Give me that, please."

"Homicide, Sergeant Whaley."

"Sergeant, my name is Payne. I'm a sergeant in Homicide in Philadelphia."

"What can we do for Philadelphia?"

"I'm working a job where the doer left his camera at the scene. I traced it to the store where it was sold. According to their records, it was sold to a Mr. H. Ford of Lincoln Road in Detroit."

"And you're beginning to suspect there is maybe something a little fishy about the name and address, right?"

"To tell you the truth, yes, I am."

"Okay. So?"

"Maybe he once went to Detroit," Matt said. "Have you got any open cases of murder, or rape, or murder/rape where the doer tied the victim to a bed and then cut the victim's clothes off with a large knife?"

"Nice fellow, huh? That all you got?"

"This happened last night."

"You do know about the NCIC in Philadelphia?"

"We have inside plumbing and everything," Matt said. "And I don't mean to in any way undermine your faith in the FBI, but sometimes we suspect they don't give us everything out of their databases, including stuff we've put in."

"I can't think of any job like that offhand," Sergeant Whaley said. "But I'll ask around. You said your name was Payne?"

Matt spelled it for him and gave him Jason Was.h.i.+ngton's unlisted private number in the Roundhouse.

"I'll ask around, and if I turn up anything, I'll give you a call."

"Thank you very much," Matt said.

He pushed the End b.u.t.ton, put the key in the ignition, and started to drive out of the parking lot.

The attendant jumped in front of the car, waving his arms.

It was necessary for Matt to dig out the credit card again, and sign a sales slip for $35.00 worth of parking before he could put the Porsche in gear and head downtown toward the Lincoln Tunnel.

He looked at his watch; it was quarter past five.

When he came out of the New Jersey exit of the Lincoln Tunnel, it looked very familiar and he wondered why. He rarely went to New York City, and when he did, he almost never drove, preferring the Metroliner, a really comfortable train on which one did not have to keep one eye open for the New Jersey State Police for being in violation of speeding and/or drinking laws.

It was a moment before he understood.

He saw it at least once a week, on television. The opening shot on The Sopranos The Sopranos was from the inside of New Jersey mob boss Tony Soprano's GMC Suburban as he came out of the tunnel. was from the inside of New Jersey mob boss Tony Soprano's GMC Suburban as he came out of the tunnel.

Another segment of the TV show came to his mind. A New Jersey detective on the pad from the mob got caught at it, and jumped off a bridge.

That made him think of Captain Patrick Ca.s.sidy, whose sudden affluence-including his new Suburban-he had found to be completely legitimate.

If it had gone the other way, would Ca.s.sidy have taken a dive off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge? And would I have been at least tangentially responsible?

His reverie was interrupted by the tinkling of his cell phone.

"Payne."

"Where are you, Matthew?" Lieutenant Jason Was.h.i.+ngton's deep, rich voice demanded.

"I just came out of the Lincoln Tunnel on my way back."

"And what developed in New York?"

"The camera was sold to an H. Ford of Lincoln Road in Detroit," Matt said.

"Well, one never knows. There is a credible legend that Jack the Ripper was the King's brother."

"So I have heard. I've got the original sales slip, with a signature on it, in a Ziploc."

"How did you get that?"

"I explained how important it was to the proprietor, and then bought a nine-hundred-dollar camera, after which he gave it to me."

"There's a slim chance, if he signed it, we might get a print."

"Yeah."

s.h.i.+t, I didn't even think about that. Oh, Jesus! If there are prints on there, they'll be the proprietor's and mine. There's no excuse for such stupidity.

"You're going to have to come to the office anyway, to get a property receipt for the sales slip, so I'll leave the keys to your car in the FOP mug on my desk," Was.h.i.+ngton said.

"You mean I'm getting it back?"

"You had doubts? I'm your lieutenant, Matthew. You can trust me," Was.h.i.+ngton said, and added, "I'm driving Martha's car, less because of spousal generosity than because she wanted to ensure my presence at a cultural event at the Fine Arts at seven-thirty."

"Have fun."

"If fortune smiles upon me, I may even be afforded the privilege of physical proximity to our beloved mayor."

Matt chuckled.

"I am at the moment en route to meet with Tony, Mickey, and the witness from the Roy Rogers," Was.h.i.+ngton went on. "If there are developments, call me between now and seven-thirty. "

"Yes, sir."

"Otherwise, after ten, call me to report your progress or lack thereof. But do not call me while I am at the Fine Arts unless what you have to say is really important."

"Yes, sir."

"And drive carefully, always adhering to the posted speed limits of the Garden State, Matthew."

"Yes, sir."

The line went dead.

[TWO].

Detective Tony Harris, Amal al Zaid, and Michael J. O'Hara were sitting in the rearmost banquette of the Roy Rogers restaurant at Broad and Snyder Streets when Amal saw an automobile pull to the curb outside.

"Get those wheels," he blurted in something close to awe. "That's an SL600!"

"What's an SL600?" Tony Harris asked, looking. "You mean the Mercedes?"

"V-12 engine," Amal al Zaid said. "Six liters!"

A large black man in a dinner jacket got out of the Mercedes SL600.

"V-12?" Tony asked. "No s.h.i.+t? What's one of those worth?"

"V-12," Amal al Zaid confirmed. "That's worth at least a hundred thousand hundred thousand bucks!" bucks!"

"Jesus," Tony said.

"More like a hundred and a quarter, kid," Mickey O'Hara said. "Well, I guess that's his coming-out present to himself."

"Excuse me?" Amal al Zaid asked.

"What did he get, Tony? Ten to fifteen?" Mickey asked.

Tony Harris shrugged.

"Or was it fifteen to twenty?" Mickey mused. "Well, whatever, he's out, obviously. Who said 'crime doesn't pay'?"

Tony Harris raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

Amal al Zaid nearly turned around on the banquette to follow the guy in the tuxedo who had gotten out of the Mercedes-Benz SL600.

"It looks like he's coming in here!" Amal al Zaid said.

"Why would a heavy hitter hood like that come in a dump like this?" O'Hara asked rhetorically.

Lieutenant Jason Was.h.i.+ngton walked through the restaurant, slid onto the banquette seat beside O'Hara, quickly shook hands with O'Hara and Harris, and then smiled cordially at Amal al Zaid.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "I really appreciate your time."

Amal al Zaid said nothing.

"I'm Lieutenant Was.h.i.+ngton," Jason said, oozing charm.

He had told Tony Harris to ask the witness to meet them in the Roy Rogers in the belief he would be more comfortable there than he would have been, for example, in the Homicide unit in the Roundhouse.

Amal al Zaid said nothing.

"Actually, I'm Detective Harris's-Tony's-supervisor."