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“Yes, sir.”
“And drive carefully, always adhering to the posted speed limits of the Garden State, Matthew.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line went dead.
Harris, Amal al Zaid, and Michael J. O’Hara were sitting in the rearmost banquette of the Roy Rogers restaurant at Broad and Snyder Streets when Amal saw an automobile pull to the curb outside.
“Get those wheels,” he blurted in something close to awe. “That’s an SL600!”
“What’s an SL600?” Tony Harris asked, looking. “You mean the Mercedes?”
"V-12 engine,” Amal al Zaid said. “Six liters!”
A large black man in a dinner jacket got out of the Mercedes SL600.
"V-12?” Tony asked. “No shit? What’s one of those worth?”
"V-12,” Amal al Zaid confirmed. “That’s worth at least a hundred thousand bucks!”
“Jesus,” Tony said.
“More like a hundred and a quarter, kid,” Mickey O’Hara said. “Well, I guess that’s his coming-out present to himself.”
“Excuse me?” Amal al Zaid asked.
“What did he get, Tony? Ten to fifteen?” Mickey asked.
Tony Harris shrugged.
“Or was it fifteen to twenty?” Mickey mused. “Well, whatever, he’s out, obviously. Who said ‘crime doesn’t pay’?”
Tony Harris raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
Amal al Zaid nearly turned around on the banquette to follow the guy in the tuxedo who had gotten out of the Mercedes-Benz SL600.
“It looks like he’s coming in
here!” Amal al Zaid said.
“Why would a heavy hitter hood like that come in a dump like this?” O’Hara asked rhetorically.
Lieutenant Jason Washington walked through the restaurant, slid onto the banquette seat beside O’Hara, quickly shook hands with O’Hara and Harris, and then smiled cordially at Amal al Zaid.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I really appreciate your time.”
Amal al Zaid said nothing.
“I’m Lieutenant Washington,” Jason said, oozing charm.
He had told Tony Harris to ask the witness to meet them in the Roy Rogers in the belief he would be more comfortable there than he would have been, for example, in the Homicide unit in the Roundhouse.
Amal al Zaid said nothing.
“Actually, I’m Detective Harris’s-Tony’s-supervisor.”
“You’re a cop?” Amal al Zaid asked, incredulously.
