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It was necessary for Matt to dig out the credit card again, and sign a sales slip for $35.00 worth of parking before he could put the Porsche in gear and head downtown toward the Lincoln Tunnel.
He looked at his watch; it was quarter past five.
When he came out of the New Jersey exit of the Lincoln Tunnel, it looked very familiar and he wondered why. He rarely went to New York City, and when he did, he almost never drove, preferring the Metroliner, a really comfortable train on which one did not have to keep one eye open for the New Jersey State Police for being in violation of speeding and/or drinking laws.
It was a moment before he understood.
He saw it at least once a week, on television. The opening shot on The Sopranos was from the inside of New Jersey mob boss Tony Soprano’s GMC Suburban as he came out of the tunnel.
Another segment of the TV show came to his mind. A New Jersey detective on the pad from the mob got caught at it, and jumped off a bridge.
That made him think of Captain Patrick Cassidy, whose sudden affluence-including his new Suburban-he had found to be completely legitimate.
If it had gone the other way, would Cassidy have taken a dive off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge? And would I have been at least tangentially responsible?
His reverie was interrupted by the tinkling of his cell phone.
“Payne.”
“Where are you, Matthew?” Lieutenant Jason Washington’s deep, rich voice demanded.
“I just came out of the Lincoln Tunnel on my way back.”
“And what developed in New York?”
“The camera was sold to an H. Ford of Lincoln Road in Detroit,” Matt said.
“Well, one never knows. There is a credible legend that Jack the Ripper was the King’s brother.”
“So I have heard. I’ve got the original sales slip, with a signature on it, in a Ziploc.”
“How did you get that?”
“I explained how important it was to the proprietor, and then bought a nine-hundred-dollar camera, after which he gave it to me.”
“There’s a slim chance, if he signed it, we might get a print.”
“Yeah.”
Shit, I didn’t even think about that. Oh, Jesus! If there are prints on there, they’ll be the proprietor’s and mine. There’s no excuse for such stupidity.
“You’re going to have to come to the office anyway, to get a property receipt for the sales slip, so I’ll leave the keys to your car in the FOP mug on my desk,” Washington said.
“You mean I’m getting it back?”
“You had doubts? I’m your lieutenant, Matthew. You can trust me,” Washington said, and added, “I’m driving Martha’s car, less because of spousal generosity than because she wanted to ensure my presence at a cultural event at the Fine Arts at seven-thirty.”
“Have fun.”
“If fortune smiles upon me, I may even be afforded the privilege of physical proximity to our beloved mayor.”
Matt chuckled.
“I am at the moment en route to meet with Tony, Mickey, and the witness from the Roy Rogers,” Washington went on. “If there are developments, call me between now and seven-thirty. ”
“Yes, sir.”
“Otherwise, after ten, call me to report your progress or lack thereof. But do not call me while I am at the Fine Arts unless what you have to say is really important.”
