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“Yeah, just give me one more second. I’ve got to make a quick call. You do look incredible, honey.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said softly, and slid the glass door shut.
H. Rapp Badde, Jr., felt a stirring in his groin.
Is that from seeing her gorgeous naked body—or because I’m about to have someone whacked?
[THREE]
The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 7:30 A.M.
Lieutenant Jason Washington looked up from reading the front page of the morning’s Philadelphia Bulletin in time to see his boss walking purposefully around a corner, making a beeline for Washington’s glass-walled office. Captain Henry C. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Unit, was a stocky balding man in his late forties. Like Washington he wore khaki slacks, but instead of the white button-down-collar shirt Washington had on, Henry wore a red knit polo under a navy blazer.
Jason glanced at the wall clock and saw that Quaire was fifteen minutes earlier than he had said he would arrive. They’d spoken on the telephone an hour earlier. Quaire had called Washington at home and announced that Frank Hollaran had just called him at home, asking if they could be at the Roundhouse as soon as possible.
Quaire said that Captain Francis Xavier Hollaran, the forty-nine-year-old assistant to First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. “Denny” Coughlin, had told him: “Denny wants us to be prepared before we meet with Mariana and before Mariana’s meeting with Carlucci. Mariana said Carlucci wants damage control, and he needs to know what we know about the pop-and-drops.”
Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariana, a natty Italian, was the top cop with four stars on his uniform. And the Honorable Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci, who had once been the top cop, was Mariana’s boss, the mayor of Philadelphia.
Coughlin, whose three stars made him the number-two cop in the department, reported to Mariana. They were both appointed to their jobs by the managing director of the city, but served at the mayor’s pleasure. Every policeman below them in rank on the force—which, with some seven thousand in uniform, was the fourth largest in the country—was a civil servant.
Washington saw that Quaire was sipping from a heavy china coffee mug that bore the logotype of the Emerald Society, the fraternal organization of police officers of Irish heritage. Washington wasn’t a member, but he knew Hollaran and Coughlin had belonged to “The Emerald” all their long careers.
“Well, Jason, I see you’ve seen the good news,” Quaire said by way of greeting. He motioned at the desk and repeated the quote over the TV: “If it bleeds, it leads.”
The newspaper’s front-page headline at the top of the fold screamed: THE HALLOWEEN HOMICIDES
TRIPLE MURDERS TERRORIZE OLD CITY
“Quite the colorful headline, if a bit sensational,” Washington replied. “I have put the arm out for Harris and Payne, Henry. They said they should be here any minute.”
Quaire nodded as he sipped. “Good. We’re going to need everything Tony and Matt have to put out this fire. And no doubt more. They’re good, but this makes—what?—seven or eight unsolved pop-and-drops?”
While Tony Harris had a years-long history in Homicide, Matt Payne’s tenure could be measured only in months. And if Quaire had had any say in it, Payne never would have gotten the job, certainly not ahead of three other sergeants who also wanted in and who Quaire felt were far more qualified.
It was customary for the Homicide chief to pick, or at the very least have veto power over, who got assigned to the unit. But Commissioner Mariana, looking for ways to encourage the best and brightest, had announced that the five officers with the highest scores on the promotion exams got the assignment of their choice in the department. And Matt Payne grabbed the brass ring by being not only in the top five scores, but number one on the list of those who’d earned promotion to sergeant. And Payne picked Homicide.
A less-than-excited Quaire had no say.
One thing Quaire worried about was how Payne would be received. He was only a five-year veteran and newly minted sergeant, and he was getting a supervisor position over guys who had served longer than five years in Homicide alone.
But when he brought that up to Lieutenant Jason Washington and Detective Tony Harris—among Homicide’s most respected—they’d said that their experience with Matt Payne had been without problem. Both liked him and thought he was smart—“Smart enough to keep his eyes and ears open and learn how Homicide works,” Washington said. And he had.
It didn’t hurt, either, that he was well connected, starting with being the godson of Denny Coughlin, whom he was known to call “Uncle Denny.”
Quaire did have absolute authority to choose which squad in the unit to assign Payne. And because Payne’s score on the sergeant exam proved he was, as the commissioner would have put it, among the best and brightest, and because Harris and Washington already had worked with Payne, and clearly liked him, Quaire naturally put Payne in the squad led by Lieutenant Jason Washington.
“Here comes Coughlin now,” Washington said, looking past Quaire.
Quaire turned and raised his china mug to acknowledge the first deputy police commissioner. Denny Coughlin, a ruddy-faced fifty-nine-year-old, had graduated from the Police Academy nearly forty years earlier. He was tall and heavyset, with a full mouth of teeth and full head of curly silver hair. He wore his usual well-tailored gray plaid double-breasted suit, but no tie.
Washington made the educated guess that Coughlin kept at least two extra neckties—and probably another suit—as backups in his big office on the third floor.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Coughlin said once he was in Washington’s doorway. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Good morning, sir,” Washington and Quaire now said in unison.
“And good timing, Commissioner,” Washington added as he nodded toward the far side of the office. “Here come Sergeant Payne and Detective Harris.”
