Final Justice Part 46

"What's with the hand?" the commissioner asked.

"I bruised it on the driveway, sir."

"And still managed to catch this fellow?" the monsignor asked.

"Yes, sir."

"What did you do, walk up on it, Sergeant?" Mariani asked.

"Yes, sir. I was taking . . . a detective-we were working on the Williamson job-home. And it happened right in front of us."

"And how is that going?" Schneider asked. "The Williamson 'job,' I think you said?"

"Well, sir, we have a pretty good psychological profile of the doer that should help us find him, and we have some pretty good evidence to put him away once we do-"

"For example?" the monsignor interrupted.

"With all respect, Monsignor, I'm not supposed to talk about details of an ongoing investigation."

"And that's a good rule, and I'm pleased to see you're paying attention to it," Commissioner Mariani said. "But I'd like to know, and I think the mayor would, and neither the mayor nor me is about to ask Monsignor Schneider to give us a moment alone. I'm sure he understands why."

"My lips are sealed, Sergeant," the monsignor said.

"Yes, sir," Matt said. "There was sperm at the scene, sir. They are already doing the DNA. Once we catch this fellow, get another DNA sample from him, and match it, it'll prove conclusively that he was at the scene."

"The certainty of a DNA match is on the order of several million to one, Monsignor," Commissioner Mariani p.r.o.nounced.

"Absolutely fascinating," the monsignor said. "I was just telling the commissioner and the mayor, Sergeant, that when I last spoke with Stan, he made it pretty clear that while he's here-and we don't have him occupied-he'd like to spend some time watching the police-specifically you, Sergeant- at work. I confess I hadn't thought about what you just said about your having to be closemouthed about details of an ongoing investigation."

"I don't think that would be any problem with Mr. Colt," the mayor said. "Do you, Commissioner?"

"The problem, Mr. Mayor," Mariani replied, "would be making sure that Mr. Colt understood that whatever he saw, or heard, when he was with Sergeant Payne couldn't go any further."

"I don't think that would be a problem at all," Monsignor Schneider said. "I'm sure Stan would understand. After all, he's played a detective on the screen so often."

The commissioner smiled. A little wanly, Matt thought.

A Traffic Unit sergeant walked up to them, saluted, and said, "Commissioner, Mr. Colt's airplane's about to land."

[THREE].

Lieutenant Ross J. Mueller of the Forensic Laboratory of the Pennsylvania State Police in Harrisburg rose to his feet and extended his hand when Tony Harris was shown into his office.

"What can we do for you, Detective?" he asked, smiling cordially.

Mueller was a very large, muscular man who wore a tight-fitting uniform and his hair in a crew cut. Tony remembered what d.i.c.k Candelle had said about him probably having trouble finding his a.s.s with both hands.

"Thank you for seeing me, sir," Tony said, "but I really hoped I could see Lieutenant Stecker."

Mueller looked at his watch.

"At the end of this tour-in other words, in an hour and five minutes-Lieutenant Stecker will hang up his uniform hat for the last time, and enter a well-deserved retirement. I'm taking his place. Now, how can Headquarters help Philadelphia?"

"Sir, I'm working a homicide. . . ."

"In what capacity?"

"Sir?"

"As the lead detective? One of the investigators? In what capacity?"

"I'm the lead detective on the job, sir."

"And you're here officially?"

"Yes, sir, I'm here officially."

"I thought perhaps that was the case. I don't recall hearing that you were coming."

"Sir, I just got in the car and came out here."

"You didn't check with your supervisor so that he could make an appointment for you?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"And who is your supervisor?"

"Lieutenant Jason Was.h.i.+ngton, sir."

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Lieutenant Mueller said, writing Was.h.i.+ngton's name on a lined pad.

If you don't know who Jason Was.h.i.+ngton is, Herr Storm Trooper, you really can't find your a.s.s with both hands.

"Could you give me his phone number, please?" Lieutenant Mueller asked.

Tony gave him, from memory, the number of the commanding officer of the K-9 Unit of the Philadelphia police department. It was in his memory because he had noticed that it was identical, except for the last two digits, which were reversed, to that of the Homicide Unit.

He had made the quick judgment that despite his implied offer to help, Lieutenant Mueller was going to be part of the problem, not a solution.

"I'm going to call your Lieutenant and introduce myself," Lieutenant Mueller said, "and suggest the next time he thinks we can help Philadelphia, he call and set up an appointment."

"Yes, sir. Sir, I wasn't aware that was necessary, and I don't think Lieutenant Was.h.i.+ngton is, either."

"Probably not," Mueller said, smiling. "But you've heard, I'm sure, Detective . . . Harris, was it?"

"Yes, sir."

"That a new broom sweeps clean."

"Yes, sir, I've heard that."

"I'm the new broom around here."

"Yes, sir."

"But you're here. So how may we be of a.s.sistance?"

"Sir, as I said, I'm working a homicide. We have a visor hat . . . like a baseball cap, without a crown, that the doer left at the scene. Our lab, specifically Mr. Richard Candelle, has been able to lift only a partial that's probably an index finger."

"Candelle, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"I believe I have met your Mr. Candelle. African-American, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir. He is."

"Go on, Detective Harris."

"I was hoping that you could have a look at it, and see if you couldn't find more than we have."

"We have, as you might not be aware, an Automated Fingerprint Identification System."

"Yes, sir. I've heard that."

"It's state-of-the-art technology. In the hands of an expert- I've been certified in its use myself-it sometimes can do remarkable things."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, we'll have a look at it for you, Detective. And get word back to you within, possibly, seventy-two hours."

"Sir, I'd sort of hoped to stick around until you . . ."

"Take a hotel room, you mean? Well, if that's all right with your supervisor, it's fine with me. As I say, we're talking about three days, if things go well."

"I meant today, sir."

"That's out of the question, I'm afraid. You just leave the evidence item with me, and we'll get to it as soon as possible."

"The thing is, Lieutenant, my supervisor, Lieutenant Was.h.i.+ngton-you're sure you don't know him?"

"Quite sure. I'd remember a name like that."

"Well, sir, Lieutenant Was.h.i.+ngton wants to s.h.i.+p the hat- the evidence item evidence item-to the FBI lab first thing in the morning."

"Well, that solves our problem then, doesn't it? The FBI really knows how to handle this sort of thing."

"Thank you for seeing me, sir. And I'm sorry I didn't have an appointment."

"Just don't do it again in the future, Detective."

"No, sir, I won't."

[FOUR].

The airplane, a Cessna Citation, came in from over Bucks County, touched down smoothly, and began to taxi to the terminal.

Nesfoods International had a Citation either identical to this one or very nearly identical to it. Matt's father had told him he had to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to convince the Internal Revenue Service that when the Nesbitts (father and/or son) and their families rode it to Kentucky or Florida the purpose was business, not to watch the Kentucky Derby or lie on the sands of Palm Beach.

The Citation stopped two hundred feet from them, and ground handlers went quickly to it to chock the wheels.

The mayor, the commissioner and the monsignor started to walk toward it. The commissioner turned and signaled for Matt to come with them.

The door rotated open, revealing stairs, as they-and a gaggle of photographers and reporters holding microphones- approached the airplane.

Matt saw what looked like a fat woman sporting a dirty blonde pageboy haircut and wearing pajamas come quickly out of the door and down the stairs-then noticed the goatee. The man held one 35mm camera with an enormous lens in his hands, and another, with a slightly smaller lens, hung from his neck.

He knelt to the right and aimed his camera at the door.

Stan Colt appeared in the doorway, smiling and ducking his head.

"Go down a couple of steps!" the fat photographer ordered.

Colt obeyed. He carefully went down two steps, then waved and flashed a wide smile. He was wearing blue jeans, a knit polo s.h.i.+rt, and a Philadelphia 76ers jacket. His fans applauded. Some whistled.

Colt came down the rest of the stairs and walked to Monsignor Schneider, who enthusiastically shook his hand and introduced him to the mayor and the commissioner, who both enthusiastically shook his hand.

Jesus, he's a h.e.l.l of a lot smaller and shorter than he looks in the movies!

Photographs were taken, and the momentous occasion was both recorded on videotape and flashed via satellite to at least two of Philadelphia's TV stations, which interrupted their regular programming to bring-live-to their viewers images of Mr. Colt's arrival.

Matt saw that a young man his age and a prematurely gray-haired woman Matt guessed was probably in her late thirties had begun to take luggage from both the cabin and the baggage compartment. Both were stylishly dressed. Matt had no idea who they were, but presumed they had been on the airplane.

When they had all the luggage off the plane, they began to carry it to a black GMC Yukon XL, on the doors of which was a neat sign reading "Cla.s.sic Livery."

The side windows of the truck were covered with dark translucent plastic. Matt knew that the truck-there were several just like it-was usually used to move cadavers from hospitals to funeral homes that rented their funeral limousines from Cla.s.sic Livery. He wondered if the truck was going to be able to haul all the luggage.

The commissioner indicated the white limousine. Colt nodded, then sort of trotted over to the fans behind their barriers, shook hands, kissed two of the younger females, and then, waving, sort of trotted to the white limousine and ducked inside.

The fat photographer got in the front seat. The mayor and the commissioner got in the back.

"Hi!" Terry Davis said.

He hadn't seen her get off the Citation.

Jesus, she looks good!

"Hi!"