“But if you had, you would have said what I said you said, more or less, right?”
“This’ll be in the paper tomorrow, Mick?” Lowenstein asked.
“It will, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was on page one.”
“Pity you couldn’t have put in there that we had a late-night conference,” Lowenstein said. “Martin would have loved that.”
“I didn’t know about the ‘late-night conference’ until I walked in here,” O’Hara said. “When I heard on the command band that everybody was headed to the 700 block of North Second, I thought there was a war on here.”
“Commissioner Coughlin and myself were conferring privately with Inspector Wohl,” Lowenstein said, “when these underlings coincidentally felt the need for a late-night cup of coffee at this fine establishment.”
There were chuckles.
“Nice story, Mickey,” Coughlin said.
“Presuming the conference is over,” Wohl said, as he got to his feet, “I am going home.” He looked at Matt. “And so are you.”
Coughlin stood up.
“Are we square with the tab here?”
“I’ll get the tab,” Mickey O’Hara said. “My pleasure.”
“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and at the mayor’s office at quarter to nine, Matty,” Coughlin ordered. “And I expect you to be nice to your grandmother.”
“I have, as always,” Jason Washington said, getting to his feet, “thoroughly enjoyed the company of my colleagues. And I am sure you have all profited greatly from the experience. ”
Detective Harris shook his head, then chuckled, then giggled, and then laughed. That proved contagious, and each of them was smiling, or chuckling, or laughing as they filed out the door onto North Second Street.
SIX
The Hon. Alvin W. Martin looked up from his desk when his executive assistant, Dianna Kerr-Gally, a tall, thin, stylish, thirtyish black woman, slipped into his office. thin,
"It’s ten past nine, Mr. Mayor.”
“Is everybody in the conference room?”
“Just about, but Commissioner Mariani has someone he wants you to meet.”
She nodded toward the outer office.
“Sure, send him in,” the mayor replied, with an enthusiasm he really didn’t feel. He had things to do, and the less time spent on the promotion ceremony the better.
It wasn’t only Commissioner Mariani. He had with him Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and a tall, lean, stern-faced, gray-haired woman in a simple black dress and the young detective who had scored number one.
“Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” Mariani said.
“Good morning, Ralph.”
The mayor smiled at the woman, who returned it with a barely perceptible curling of her lips.
She looks like that farmer’s wife in the Grant Wood painting.
What’s that on her dress? Miniature police badges. Three of them.
“Mr. Mayor,” Coughlin said. “I thought before the program begins that you’d like to meet Mrs. Gertrude Moffitt…”
“I’m delighted. How do you do, Mrs. Moffitt?”
She nodded, her lips curled slightly again, but she didn’t say anything.
“Mrs. Moffitt is the widow of a police officer, and two of her sons died in the line of duty as police officers…,” Coughlin said.
Well, that explains the three badges.
“… Sergeant John X. Moffitt and Captain Richard C. Moffitt…” Coughlin went on.
“That’s a proud tradition, Mrs. Moffitt,” the mayor said. “I’m honored to meet you.”
She nodded again.
“… and she is Detective Payne’s grandmother,” Coughlin finished.
“The tradition continues, then,” the mayor said. “This must be a proud moment for you.”
“If my grandson still carried his father’s name, it would be,” she said.
What the hell does that mean?
Detective Payne looked pained.
Whatever the hell it is, I’m not going to get into it here and now.
“Since you know full well, Mrs. Moffitt, that police work never ceases, I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I ask the commissioner if there have been any developments in the Roy Rogers case.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Mayor…”
Damn! The press will be in the conference room. It would have been a perfect place and time to announce the cops have finally bagged those animals.
“… but Commissioner Coughlin tells me there was a meeting last night of all the principals of the task force, plus Chief of Detectives Lowenstein.”
“Really? Well, I hope something good will come from it.”
“I feel sure that it will, Mr. Mayor,” Coughlin said. “We all feel there will be developments in the very near future.”
“I hope you’re right, Commissioner,” the mayor said. “Mrs. Moffitt, when we go into the conference room”-he looked at his watch-“and we’re going to have to do that right now, I think it would be very appropriate if you were to pin his new badge on your grandson.”
And a picture like that will certainly make the evening news.
“All right,” she said.
“Here it is, Mother Moffitt,” Coughlin said. “That’s Jack’s badge.”
“That’s Jack’s badge?” she asked, looking at the badge Coughlin was holding out to her.
“Yes, it is.”
“You told me, Dennis Coughlin, that it had been buried with him.”
“I was wrong,” Coughlin said.
“And where was it all these years? She had it, didn’t she?”
“Patricia’s Jack’s widow, Mother Moffitt.”
She snatched the badge out of his hand.
“Well, at least she won’t have it now,” Mother Moffitt said.
“If you will all go into the conference room now?” Dianna Kerr-Gally asked, gesturing at a door. “We can get the ceremony under way.”
When the mayor tried to follow the procession into the conference room, Dianna Kerr-Gally held up her arm, palm extended, to stop him.
He stopped.
Dianna Kerr-Gally, using her fingers and mouthing the numbers, counted downward from ten, then signaled the mayor to go into the conference room.
He walked briskly to the head of the table, where a small lectern had been placed. He looked around the room, smiling, attempting to lock eyes momentarily with everyone.
There were five promotees, all of whom looked older than Detective Payne, and all but Payne were in uniform. Two of the promotees were gray-haired. All the promotees were accompanied by family and/or friends. Dianna Kerr-Gally had put out the word no more than four per promotee, and apparently that had been widely ignored. The large room was crowded, just about full.
There were three video cameras at the rear of the room, and at least half a dozen still photographers. One of them was Michael J. O’Hara of the Bulletin.
I’ll have to remember to thank him for that front-page story about the task force.
Jesus, is that who I think it is? It damn sure is.
Brewster C. Payne in the flesh.
The last time I saw him was on Monday in Washington, in the Senate Dining Room. He was the “something really important has come up” reason our distinguished senior senator was sorry he couldn’t have lunch with me.
What’s his connection with Detective Payne?
When Dianna Kerr-Gally came to the lectern to hand him the three-by-five cards from which he would speak, he motioned her close to him and whispered, “The tall WASP in the back of the room?”
She looked and nodded.
“His name is Brewster Payne,” she whispered back.
“I know who he is. Ask him if he can spare me a minute when this is over.”
She nodded.
“If I may have your attention, ladies and gentlemen?” the mayor began, raising his voice so that it could be heard over the hubbub in the room.
The next time we do something like this, there should be a microphone.
“I realize you’re a busy man, Mr. Payne,” the mayor said, as Dianna Kerr-Gally ushered Brewster Payne into his office. “But I did want to say hello. I don’t think we’ve ever actually met, have we?”
“I don’t believe we have. But didn’t I see you in Washington on Monday?”