Final Justice Part 45

"Oh, yeah. I don't think he could have done anything you couldn't," Harris said. "I hadn't heard he'd retired."

Candelle looked at his watch.

"Today," he said. "I was invited to his retirement party. Tonight. I decided Harrisburg was too far to drive for free beer."

"What makes you think he could have helped?"

"He's got a new machine, AFIS. It stands for Automated Fingerprint Identification System."

"And?"

"It's supposed to be able to get points off a week-old print on a dry falling leaf in a high wind."

"You're serious?"

Candelle nodded.

"Harrisburg, here I come," Tony said.

"I told you, Stecker's retiring today."

"Well, there ought to be somebody else out there who knows how to operate this wonder machine."

"Tony, if I thought there was, I'd suggest you go out there."

"Well, won't the FBI have one?" Harris asked. "As a last desperate move, I'm going to send the G.o.dd.a.m.n hat to them."

"They probably have a half-dozen of them. But whether they have anybody who knows how to use one, get all that it is capable of from it, is another question." He paused, then added, "There's a question of experience, even art, in this."

"So we're dead, huh?"

Candelle shrugged.

"It looks that way. I'm sorry. So what are you going to do now?"

"We're down to showing the artist's sketches to everybody again. And we both know that's not going to work. Everybody in the place saw somebody else."

"At the risk of repeating myself, Tony, I'm really sorry I couldn't do more. Maybe the FBI'll be able to."

"You're sure n.o.body in the State Police could do us any good? Who's taking Stecker's place?"

"I met the gentleman," Candelle said. "He left me with the impression he would have trouble finding his posterior with both hands."

"Great!"

Harris drove his Crown Victoria to the rear door of the Roundhouse.

"You're not coming in?" Candelle asked.

"No. I'm going to go somewhere to try to figure out what to tell the Black Buddha," he said.

"I'll do that for you, Tony," Candelle said, "before I go home. I don't want him calling me at the house to have one more shot at it."

" 'Turn over the stone under the stone'?"

"We're out of stones on this hat, Tony," Candelle said. "And I think the Black Buddha's more likely to accept that from me than you."

"Good luck!" Harris said. He held out his hand to Candelle. "Thanks a lot, d.i.c.k. I really appreciate all the effort."

"I'm just sorry it didn't get us anywhere," Candelle said, nodded, closed the car door, and walked toward the Roundhouse entrance.

Tony started to drive out of the parking lot, but at the last moment pulled into a vacant s.p.a.ce, took out his cellular telephone, and punched the key that automatically dialed directory information.

"What city, please?"

"f.u.c.k it," Tony said, and punched the End key.

He backed out of the parking s.p.a.ce, then left the parking lot, wondering what was the best way to get onto Interstate 76 this time of day.

"Jason," he said, aloud, "if you want the last G.o.dd.a.m.n stone under the stone turned over, I'll d.a.m.ned well turn the sonofab.i.t.c.h over."

Ten minutes later, just as he turned onto I-76 West, his cellular buzzed.

"Harris."

"Presumably you are aware of Professor Candelle's-" Lieutenant Jason Was.h.i.+ngton's unmistakable dulcet voice said.

"I was there."

"And what are your plans now?"

"I'm thinking, Jason."

"And may I inquire about what?"

"No. Not now."

"May I dare to hope that when you feel comfortable in telling me, you will call?"

"Don't hold your breath, Jason. This is probably one more blind alley."

"Sometimes at the end of a blind alley, one finds a stone," Was.h.i.+ngton began.

"Thank you for sharing that with me, Lieutenant," Tony interrupted. "I'll write it down so that I won't forget it."

"Good afternoon, Detective Harris," Was.h.i.+ngton said, and the hiss that followed told Harris Was.h.i.+ngton had hung up.

He tossed the cellular onto the seat.

So he's a little p.i.s.sed that I won't tell him.

Better that than to tell him, get his hopes up, and then get kicked in the teeth again when this doesn't work.

[TWO].

Matt arrived at the North Philadelphia Airport at half past two, to find that he was ahead of Lieutenant McGuire, but not of the Eighth District captain, who was supervising more than a dozen of his uniforms in setting up barriers to keep what looked like sixty or seventy-maybe more-of Stan Colt's fans under control.

Matt looked closer and saw that there were two barriers, one for the fans-a surprising number of whom were gray-haired adults-and a second for the press.

He was wondering if he should at least identify himself to the Eighth District captain when Lieutenant McGuire arrived, got out of his car, waved at Matt, and then went to talk to the captain.

Four Highway bikes arrived next, in a roar of engines, under a sergeant. McGuire pointed out where they should park, and when they had, the Highway sergeant took off his helmet and hung it on his handlebar. Matt then recognized him as the sergeant who had been on Knight's Road the night before.

The night before? That seems like two weeks ago.

He walked over to Matt.

"How's the face?" he asked.

"It's sore, and I went to Hahnemann this morning and they gave me shots and now my a.s.s hurts."

The sergeant chuckled.

"You did get to see Detective Coleman at Northeast, right?"

"Just came from there. I appreciate the help last night. All of it."

"I know guys on the job wouldn't have done what you did," the sergeant said. "They'd say, f.u.c.k it, I've had a couple of drinks, why take the chance of getting my a.s.s in a crack?"

"I wasn't being n.o.ble. I just did it."

"You were being a good cop," the sergeant said. "Good cops take care of each other."

Detective Charley McFadden walked up to them.

"What happened to your face?" he asked.

"Where's Man Mountain Martinez?" Matt asked, ignoring the question.

"He took a dive onto a concrete driveway running down the guy in the hot Grand Am who smacked the van on Knight's Road," the Highway sergeant offered, helpfully.

"That was you?" Charley asked.

"Where's Martinez?" Matt asked again.

"He'll be here in a minute."

"What have Mutt and Jeff got to do with this nonsense?" the Highway sergeant asked.

"Sergeant," Charley said, "that's what I've been trying to get Sergeant Payne to explain."

A white Lincoln stretch limousine rolled up. McGuire signaled to the driver to put it behind the Highway bikes.

"Our hero's chariot, I guess," the Highway sergeant said.

"That's a Cla.s.sic Livery limo," Matt said. "I wonder if we should tell our hero he's being ferried around by the mob?"

The Highway sergeant and McFadden, who knew that Cla.s.sic Livery was one of Philadelphia mob boss Vincenzo Savarese's legitimate businesses, chuckled.

A black Cadillac, a black Crown Victoria, and a black Buick Park Avenue rolled onto the tarmac.

"The mayor and the commissioner," the Highway sergeant said. "I think that's one of the cardinal's cars, but there's no one in it."

That mystery was immediately explained when both the Hon. Alvin W. Martin, mayor of the City of Philadelphia, and Monsignor Schneider climbed out of the Cadillac. Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani got quickly out of the pa.s.senger's front seat of the Crown Victoria and walked up to them.

"I guess I better start looking busy," the Highway sergeant said, and started to walk back to the Highway bikes. As he pa.s.sed the mayor and party, he saluted. Commissioner Mariani waved him over.

A moment later, the Highway sergeant pointed to Matt, and a moment after that, started to walk quickly-almost trot-back to where Matt and McFadden were standing.

"The commissioner wants to see you," the Highway sergeant said.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t," Matt muttered, and walked over.

"Good morning, Mr. Mayor, Commissioner, Monsignor," Matt said.

"My goodness," Monsignor Schneider said, "what happened to your face?"

"I lost my footing chasing a fellow last night, Monsignor."

"How was that, Sergeant?" the mayor asked.

"I was chasing a car thief, sir."

"The one on Knight's Road?" Commissioner Mariani asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Sergeant," the commissioner said. "But it was a little more than that, wasn't it? The fellow ran a light, slammed into a family in a van, and sent them all to the hospital? And then left the scene?"

"Yes, sir."

"I saw that in the paper," the mayor said.

"Did you catch him?" Monsignor Schneider asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You really do get around, don't you, Sergeant?" the monsignor said, admiringly.