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“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 propri
etor 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 assistance 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 Washington’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 button, 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.
