Final Justice Part 35

d.a.m.n it, a hot roast beef sandwich sounds good. But I'll sound like his echo.

To h.e.l.l with it.

"The same, hold the fries," Olivia said.

"Coming right up," the bartender said, and walked down the bar to a computer.

Matt picked up his gla.s.s and raised it to Olivia.

"Mud in your eye, Mother."

"What's with 'Mother'?" Olivia asked.

"Even the Casanova of Center City does not make a pa.s.s at a mother," Matt replied.

"Oh, Jesus!" Olivia said.

"I'm just ensuring that I will not get carried away," Matt said.

"I won't let that happen," Olivia said.

"Good. I invariably falter in the face of temptation."

"You're out of your mind, you know that?"

"You sound just like my sister, Mother."

She shook her head, but she smiled.

"This is nice booze," she said. "I'm afraid to ask what it costs."

"Fear not, Mother, that was my round. But actually it's not very expensive. Not like twelve-year-old or single malts. I found it in Scotland. It was the bar whiskey."

"In Scotland?"

"My father and I, and my father's buddy and his-son-my-buddy, were shooting driven birds over there."

What the h.e.l.l does that mean?

"I don't know what that means," Olivia confessed.

"They raise pheasants," Matt explained, "and charge people to shoot them. They call it a 'drive.' The shooters form a line, and then the beaters drive the birds-hence 'driven birds'-toward the line of shooters. Great shooting."

"It sounds barbaric," Olivia said.

"You're a vegetarian?"

"No."

"Where do you think your roast beef came from? A steer that died of old age?"

Olivia didn't reply.

"The pheasants are raised to be eaten, just like chickens and turkey. I suppose you could argue that wringing their necks would be kinder than shooting them, but I don't see the difference. And three hours after they're shot, they're cleaned, plucked, packed in ice, and on the way to a gourmet restaurant. "

"And you get your kicks by slaughtering the pheasants, right? You get a real kick out of killing things, right?"

"You got it, Mother," Matt said. "Once you understand that, everything falls in place."

She could tell by both the bitter tone of his voice and his eyes that she had really angered him.

He shook his head in disgust, turned away, and picked up his gla.s.s.

What made him so angry?

Oh, G.o.d! When Mickey O'Hara called him Wyatt Earp, he blew up. And then O'Hara told me about the bad guy Matt "put down"-by which he meant killed. I didn't mean to suggest he liked killing people! But I guess it sounded like I did.

So what do I do now, apologize?

The waiter slid plates holding hot roast beef sandwiches across the bar to them.

"I think you probably have just saved my life," Matt said, sniffing appreciatively and picking up a French fry. "But just to make sure, you'd better give me another of these."

Olivia saw that he had drained his gla.s.s.

The bartender chuckled and looked at Olivia.

"Why not?" she said.

Matt looked at her in surprise.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Sorry for what, Mother?"

"I was out of line," she said.

Matt met her eyes. It made her uncomfortable, but she couldn't look away.

After a long moment, he said, "I guess that makes us even."

And then he looked away, and unwrapped his knife and fork from its napkin wrap and attacked the sandwich.

Olivia took a healthy swallow of her drink, and when the bartender delivered the second round, emptied what was left of hers into the new gla.s.s.

She was astonished at the speed with which Matt emptied his plate of the roast beef, the potatoes, and the beans. She had taken only her third bite when she saw him lay his knife and fork on the empty plate and slide it across the bar toward the bartender.

"Very nice," Matt said.

"Glad you liked it."

"Did you know Cheryl Williamson?" Matt asked the bartender.

"I guess you heard?" the bartender replied.

Matt nodded.

"G.o.dd.a.m.ned cops," the bartender said. "I guess you heard what those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds did? Or didn't do. Pardon the French."

"What did you say your name was?" Matt asked.

"Charley," the bartender said.

"Mother, show Charley your badge," Matt said.

She looked at him in surprise.

"Detective La.s.siter, show Charley your badge," Matt ordered.

Olivia pulled her oversweater far enough to one side so the bartender could see her badge, which she had pinned to the waistband of her skirt.

"Sorry, I didn't know . . . " Charley the bartender said, uncomfortably.

"No problem," Matt said. "The reason we don't wear uniforms is so people can't spot us as cops right off. By the way, I'm Sergeant Payne. My friends call me 'Matt.' "

He extended his hand across the bar until Charley the bartender took it.

"Tell me, Charley," Matt said, as he slipped back onto his stool. "Have you made up your mind for all eternity, or would you be interested in the facts about what those G.o.dd.a.m.ned b.a.s.t.a.r.d cops did or didn't do?"

"Hey, Sergeant, I said I was sorry. . . ."

"If we're going to be friends, call me Matt," Matt said. "And that wasn't the question, Charley. Are you interested in the facts, or have you made up your mind, and don't want the facts to get in the way?"

"Okay. Let's have the facts," Charley said.

"Mother, give Charley the facts," Matt said.

"Is that your name?" Charley blurted.

"I call her that to remind myself not to make a pa.s.s at her," Matt said.

"Really?"

"Really," Matt said. "Tell Charley what really happened, Mother."

"Okay. From the top . . . " Olivia began.

". . . so at the end, what you have are two decent young cops who feel guilty as h.e.l.l for not breaking into her apartment," Olivia finished. "Even though they did exactly what they were supposed to do."

"Jesus," Charley the bartender said, and turned away, to return in a moment with the bottle of Famous Grouse.

"On me," he said, as he started pouring. "Not on the house, on me. I feel bad about what I said before."

"That's absolutely unnecessary and we shouldn't," Matt said. "But we will."

"Are they going to catch this guy?" Charley asked.

"We're going to get him," Matt said. "The question is when. The sooner they get him, the sooner they'll be able to be sure he won't be able to do something like this to somebody else."

"Maybe I get this from the movies," Charley said, "but those Homicide detectives seem to know what they're doing."

"I know two that don't," Matt said. Charley looked at him in surprise. "These two," Matt finished.

"You're Homicide?"

Matt nodded.

"And that's what we're doing here. Trying to run this guy down. We understand Cheryl used to come in here."

"Who told you that?" Charley asked.

"Her mother," Olivia said. "And she gave me a list of people Cheryl hung out with." She handed him the list. "Do you know any of these people?"

"Most of them," Charley reported after a minute.

"Any of them in here right now?"

Charley looked down the bar, then looked through the doors of two adjacent rooms and came back to report that none of them were.

"Well, we'll run them down," Matt said.

"It would help if you could tell us anything about Cheryl," Olivia said. "What kind of a girl was she?"

"Let me say something unpleasant," Matt said. "It's okay to say unkind things about the dead if the purpose is to find out who killed them."

Charley considered that a moment.

"I take the point," he said. "Okay, so far as I know, she was really a nice girl. If she were a bimbo, I'd say so, okay? You want my gut feeling?"

"Please," Olivia said.

"I think she came in here hoping that Mr. Right, the guy on the white horse, you know what I mean, would walk in and make eyes at her. And I don't think he ever did. She was good-looking. Guys. .h.i.t on her. But she wasn't looking for a one-night stand, and I never saw her leave here with a guy. Sometimes, when she was in here with her girlfriends, a couple of them would leave together with a couple of guys. Never alone. You know what I mean?"

"I get the picture," Matt said.

Matt's cell phone went off.

"Payne."