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“So what do you do in Special Operations?” she said, obviously changing the subject.
“Today, for example, I think I proved that a cop who’s been spending more money than a cop makes came by it entirely honestly.”
“Internal Affairs?”
“No. This was unofficial, before Internal Affairs got involved. Now there won’t be an Internal Affairs investigation. A good thing, because just being involved with Internal Affairs makes people look bad.”
Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick T. Nesbitt IV and a freshly bathed Penelope in her nightgown appeared in the kitchen at this point, and Detective Payne resumed his preparation of Wild Turkey shrimp over wild rice.
At 10:45 Matt said that he would be happy to deliver Terry to the airport to catch the red-eye to the coast.
At 11:17, as he closed the trunk of the Porsche after having taken Terry’s luggage from it, and she was standing close enough to him to be kissed, a uniform walked up and said, “You’re going to have to move it, sir. Sorry.”
Matt took out his badge and said, “Three sixty-nine,” which was police cant for “I am a police officer.”
The uniform walked away. Matt looked at Terry, saddened by the lost opportunity.
Terry stood on her toes and kissed him chastely on the lips.
“Thanks,” she said, then quickly turned and entered the airport. She turned once and looked back at him, and then he lost sight of her.
He got back in the Porsche, and on the way to Rittenhouse Square decided that, all things considered, today had been a pretty good day.
The Hon. Alvin W. Martin, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, a trim forty-three-year-old in a well-cut Harris plaid suit, smiled at Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani and waved him into his City Hall office.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Ralph,” he said. “Have you had your coffee?”
The mayor gestured toward a silver coffee service on a sideboard.
“I could use another cup, thank you,” Mariani said. He was a stocky Italian, balding, natty.
“I was distressed, Ralph,” the mayor said, “to hear about the trouble at the Roy Rogers.”
“Very sad,” Mariani said. “I knew Officer Charlton. A fine man.”
“And Mrs. Fernandez, who paid with her life for calling 911.”
“A genuine tragedy, sir,” Mariani said.
“I’m going to the funeral home at three this afternoon,” Martin said. “I should say ‘homes.’ Officer Charlton’s first, and then Mrs. Fernandez’s. I think it would be a good idea if you went with me.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“I feel sure the press will be there,” the mayor said. “I’d really like to have something to tell them.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much news, Mr. Mayor,” Mariani said. “We’re working on it, of course. And it’s just a matter of time until we nail those animals, but so far…”
“When you say you’re working on it, what exactly does that mean?”
“That we’re applying all our resources to the job.”
“Who’s in charge of the investigation?”
“Lieutenant Washington, of Homicide, sir.”
The mayor knew Lieutenant Jason Washington, which was not the same thing as saying he liked him. The mayor thought of Washington as a difficult man who was not able to conceal-or perhaps didn’t want to conceal-his contempt for politicians.
Mayor Martin had sought Lieutenant Washington out shortly after taking office. The police department always provides a police officer, sometimes a sergeant, but most often a lieutenant, to drive the mayoral limousine, serving simultaneously, of course, as bodyguard.
