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“What is bothering her, Matt?” Washington asked. “Something obviously is.”
“I think she thinks I arranged for her to be sent back,” Matt said.
“I can quickly straighten that out, if you’d like.”
“She wants to stay in Homicide,” Matt said. “Is there any chance she can? She’s a pretty good cop.”
“Your loyalty is commendable…”
“Is that what it is, ‘loyalty’?” Mickey said.
“Mickey,” Washington said, coldly angry, “sometimes, as now, you don’t know when to stop.” He turned to Matt. “As for her staying in Homicide, that, I’m afraid, is self-evidently out of the question. And you should know it is.”
Matt couldn’t think of a reply.
“And I just thought of something else,” Washington said. “When I spoke with Commissioner Coughlin, he suggested that your father might like you to call. And I had the feeling that the commissioner would not consider a call from you to be an unwelcome intrusion on his time.”
“Well, I guess I’d better do that right now,” Matt said. “Before I become incoherent.”
He got up from the table and went through a plate-glass door to an area between the hotel building and the bay. They could see him taking out his cellular.
“I think what we have here is raging testosterone,” Cohen said. “And I’m not making fun of him.”
“For that reason, I was deaf to his insolence,” Washington said. He looked between Chief Yancey and Sergeant Kenny.
“I think a word of explanation is in order. Sergeant Payne is carrying his father’s badge. Shortly before Matt was born, his father was killed on duty, answering a silent alarm. Deputy Commissioner Coughlin was his father’s best friend. He is Matt’s godfather.”
“Being a cop’s in his blood, huh?” Sergeant Kenny said.
“Prefacing this by saying I am-perhaps too obviously- fond of our young sergeant, I sometimes wonder if he’s not flying a little too high for his experience.”
“He did a good job with Daniels, Jason,” Steve Cohen said. “Absolutely professional.”
“And now he knows it. That’s my point, Steve. Our Matty is not burdened with over-modesty.”
“And he’s going to be money in the bank on the stand,” Cohen pursued. “If we’re taking a poll, I’d say Matt is a hell of a good cop.”
“I associate myself with the shyster,” O’Hara said. “Now, can we get something to drink, for Christ’s sake?”
“The Nesbitt residence,” the Nesbitt butler answered the call.
“Brewster Payne, Porter. Is Mr. Nesbitt available?”
“I’m sure he will be at home for you, Mr. Payne. One moment, please.”
Several moments later, Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III, Chairman of the Executive Committee of Nesfoods International, Inc., who had been practicing with a new putter on the practice green behind the left wing of his home, came on the line.
“If you weren’t my lawyer, I’d be happy to hear from you. What’s the bad news you really hate to have to tell me this time? IRS, or something else?”
“Actually, Tom, this does have a certain IRS connection.”
“Oh, God, now what?”
“Your assets have been seized and you may have to go to prison.”
“I don’t think that’s funny.”
“I had drinks with Denny Coughlin at the Rittenhouse just before I started home.”
