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tment.
There were absolutely no exceptions to the rules-except, of course, one.
The Special Operations Bureau was tasked, as its name suggested, to perform particularly extraordinary ops. Emphasis on extraordinary. And it was in that environment that Matt Payne, before the police force even began issuing Glocks, began carrying his Colt Officer’s Model.45-caliber semiautomatic. Even after leaving Special Operations (and its commander, Peter Wohl, his rabbi) for Homicide, he continued carrying it, having successfully argued that (a) it had been grandfathered in as an approved weapon, and (b) it could be considered not as powerful as the Glock.45 because it held fewer of the 230-grain tactical rounds that he fed it.
Payne devoutly believed that his Colt, a smaller version of the dependable John Browning-designed Model 1911 semiautomatic that many argued damn near single-handedly won the Second World War, was superior to the Glock in almost every way. And its size sure as hell made it better for concealed carry.
Matt motioned toward the pistol box. “May I?”
Coughlin snorted. “Go ahead. But be damned careful, Matty. When you’re around guns, they tend to go off.”
Matt looked quickly at him and saw that Coughlin was smiling.
Matt unsnapped the two silver latches, opened the box, and removed the weapon. He automatically took care to keep the muzzle pointed down, then ejected the magazine and pulled back the slide enough to see that no round was in the chamber.
“Nice,” he said.
“Damn thing’s a monster compared to my.38.” He paused. “Which, I might add, served me just fine.”
“You never had to use it, Uncle Denny.”
“Precisely.”
“So why the nine-millimeter?”
“You’re not listening, Matty. I’m supposed to be setting an example. Besides, my.38 was fine. Why carry around an elephant gun? And I sure as hell didn’t want to have to buy a damned gun. If Mariani is forcing me to take one, it’d damn well better be a free one.”
Payne put the pistol back in the box, closed the lid, and snapped the latches shut.
“You know what they say about a nine-millimeter, don’t you, Uncle Denny?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“It’s a.45 set to ‘stun.’ ”
Coughlin grunted.
“Thank you for that educational ballistic tip, Marshal Earp.”
Payne shrugged and smiled.
“ ‘If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared,’ ” Payne quoted.
Coughlin’s Irish temper flared: “Jesus H. Christ, Matty!”
Payne put his hands up, palms out. “Hey, Niccolo Machiavelli said that, not me. Early 1500s, I believe it was.”
“If you think that kind of talk’s going to help with your case…” He paused, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose we actually should get into that, into why you’re here.”
“I heard-” Payne began just as the intercom speaker on the phone buzzed.
“Hold that thought, Matty.”
Coughlin pushed a button. “Yeah? What is it, Frank?”
“Call for you holding on line four, Chief,” Hollaran’s voice came over the speaker. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you want this one. Could be educational for Sergeant Payne to listen in on.”
Coughlin looked to the bottom edge of the phone and saw the blinking red light under one of the row of five buttons, three of which were regular phone lines and two of which were secure lines.
