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Coughlin saw that the envelope had been hand-addressed to him with his official title, FIRST DEPUTY POLICE COMMISSIONER COUGHLIN, not Uncle Denny, and that it was sealed.
He tore back an edge of the flap, poked his index finger in the hole, and ripped open the end. He extracted the single sheet of paper that was inside and unfolded it with a flick of his wrist.
“Jesus,” Coughlin said after a time, then raised his eyes to Wohl as he refolded the sheet. “He finally did it.”
Wohl nodded.
“Apparently so. He said he was adamant about his decision. Said he wasn’t going to give in to Carlucci’s henchmen. You know who he’s referring to?”
Coughlin nodded. “And so do you, if you think about it. That’s why I had him temporarily transferred to your unit before he could have been put . . . elsewhere.”
Wohl nodded, then went on. “He didn’t want to give these henchmen the satisfaction of seeing him given thirty days with intent to dismiss. He gave me a similar letter”—Wohl reached into his pocket and produced the opened envelope—“said he had a plane to catch, and asked that I give you yours, with his apology for not doing it himself.”
“Why don’t you believe him?”
“I think he thinks he’s failed the police department, in general, and you and me, in particular, and is willing to nobly fall on his sword.”
Coughlin looked at the television. The footage was of ex-governor Bailey commenting on Mayor Carlucci.
Coughlin turned back to Wohl.
“Anyone else know about this?” Coughlin said, gesturing with the folded sheet.
When Wohl shook his head, Coughlin held out his hand.
“Let me see that one, too, Peter.”
Wohl complied, and waited for him to read it.
Coughlin instead placed the two letters of resignation together in his big hands—and ripped them in half, then tore those halves in half again.
“He’s my godson. You’re his rabbi. Matty was born to be a cop. You know it. I know it. Most important, he knows it. This department, more so now than ever before, needs good cops. And minds like his—and yours, Peter—that think outside the box have to be the future of this department. Between us, we can find him a job that makes everyone happy.” He pointed at the telephone on the desk. “Get him on the horn for me, please.”
[ TWO ]
The Riverwalk
San Antonio, Texas
Monday, January 16, 12:22 P.M. Texas Standard Time
At more or less the same moment that Inspector Peter Wohl had entered First Deputy Police Commissioner Coughlin’s office, Matt Payne took a footbridge across the scenic urban stream, which was maybe twenty feet wide and hemmed with restaurants, hotels, and a variety of retail shops. He crossed just in time to see Amanda Law settling into a seat at a table of a small tree-shaded cantina just downstream.
Next door to the cantina was the boutique hotel where she had told him she was staying. And standing in front of the hotel was a traditional Mexican mariachi band—three Latin men wearing colorful outfits and strumming acoustic guitars.
Payne carried fifty red roses that he had ordered by phone from a florist a block off the Riverwalk. He went up to the musicians and spoke in the ear of the lead guitarist, and band leader, who nodded with enthusiasm.
Payne, balancing the enormous bouquet, dug his money clip from his pocket and handed the man two fifty-dollar bills. The man gave him a broad smile, removed his Western-style straw hat, and put it on Payne’s head.
—
With the band in tow, Payne approached Amanda’s table. He tilted his head so that the long brim of the hat obscured his face, then pulled a single rose stem from the bouquet.
The three men began softly playing and singing: “Besame, besame mucho / Que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte despues . . .”
Amanda, absently surveying the menu, turned her head at the familiar music and lyrics.
“Señorita?” Payne said, holding the rose out to her.
