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“Okay,” Matt said. “We’ll give it a shot.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Lieutenant Daniel Justice, Jr., reputedly the smallest, and without question the most delicate-looking White Shirt in the Philadelphia Police Department, was sitting at the lieutenant’s desk in South Detectives when Detective Harry Cronin walked in.
“Danny the Judge,” as he was universally known, was connected by blood and marriage to an astonishing number of police officers, ranging from a deputy commissioner to a police officer six months out of the Academy. It was said that his mother needed help to raise her left wrist, on which she wore a charm bracelet with a miniature badge for each of her relatives on the job, including her husband, Detective Daniel Justice, Sr., Retired, known of course as “Big Danny.”
The only scandal ever to taint the name of the Justice family occurred when “Danny the Judge,” in hot pursuit of a sixteen-year-old car thief he had detected trying to break into an automobile, slipped on the ice and broke his wrist.
“To what do we owe the honor of your presence, Cronin, at this hour of the morning?” Danny the Judge asked.
“I need a favor, Lieutenant,” Harry Cronin asked.
Danny the Judge could see in Cronin’s face that whatever it was, it was important.
“What?” he asked.
“Call my wife and tell her I’m working,” Harry Cronin said.
“Are you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Doing what?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d call my wife first, Lieutenant,” Harry said.
Danny the Judge looked at him a moment, then consulted a typewritten list of the home phone numbers of all the detectives in South Detectives, found Cronin’s number, and called it.
“Patty? Dan Justice. Harry asked me to call. He’s on the job and can’t tell right now when he’ll get home.”
There was a pause as Mrs. Cronin replied.
“Patty, I wouldn’t do that. When I tell you Harry’s on the job, he’s on the job. As soon as he can find a minute, I’ll have him call you himself.”
Danny the Judge replaced the telephone in its cradle and looked at Detective Cronin.
“Okay, Harry. Tell me how you’re really on the job.”
“I think it would be best if you came with me, Lieutenant,” Cronin said.
Danny the Judge rose from behind his desk—it was rumored that when he was seated behind the desk, his feet did not quite reach the floor—and followed Harry Cronin down to the parking lot and to Harry’s Chevrolet.
In the backseat was a man wearing a too-small overcoat and handcuffs.
And what looked like nothing else.
Danny the Judge looked closer to confirm the nothing else.
“Who’s this?”
“You have absolutely no reason to hold me against my will,” the man wearing handcuffs and a too-small overcoat said without much conviction in his voice.
“His name is Ketcham, Ronald R.”
