If it had gone the other way, would Cassidy have taken a dive off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge? And would I have been at least tangentially responsible?
His reverie was interrupted by the tinkling of his cell phone.
“Payne.”
“Where are you, Matthew?” Lieutenant Jason Washington’s deep, rich voice demanded.
“I just came out of the Lincoln Tunnel on my way back.”
“And what developed in New York?”
“The camera was sold to an H. Ford of Lincoln Road in Detroit,” Matt said.
“Well, one never knows. There is a credible legend that Jack the Ripper was the King’s brother.”
“So I have heard. I’ve got the original sales slip, with a signature on it, in a Ziploc.”
“How did you get that?”
“I explained how important it was to the proprietor, and then bought a nine-hundred-dollar camera, after which he gave it to me.”
“There’s a slim chance, if he signed it, we might get a print.”
“Yeah.”
Shit, I didn’t even think about that. Oh, Jesus! If there are prints on there, they’ll be the proprietor’s and mine. There’s no excuse for such stupidity.
“You’re going to have to come to the office anyway, to get a property receipt for the sales slip, so I’ll leave the keys to your car in the FOP mug on my desk,” Washington said.
“You mean I’m getting it back?”
“You had doubts? I’m your lieutenant, Matthew. You can trust me,” Washington said, and added, “I’m driving Martha’s car, less because of spousal generosity than because she wanted to ensure my presence at a cultural event at the Fine Arts at seven-thirty.”
“Have fun.”
“If fortune smiles upon me, I may even be afforded the privilege of physical proximity to our beloved mayor.”
Matt chuckled.
“I am at the moment en route to meet with Tony, Mickey, and the witness from the Roy Rogers,” Washington went on. “If there are developments, call me between now and seven-thirty. ”
“Yes, sir.”
“Otherwise, after ten, call me to report your progress or lack thereof. But do not call me while I am at the Fine Arts unless what you have to say is really important.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And drive carefully, always adhering to the posted speed limits of the Garden State, Matthew.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line went dead.
Harris, Amal al Zaid, and Michael J. O’Hara were sitting in the rearmost banquette of the Roy Rogers restaurant at Broad and Snyder Streets when Amal saw an automobile pull to the curb outside.
“Get those wheels,” he blurted in something close to awe. “That’s an SL600!”
“What’s an SL600?” Tony Harris asked, looking. “You mean the Mercedes?”
"V-12 engine,” Amal al Zaid said. “Six liters!”
A large black man in a dinner jacket got out of the Mercedes SL600.
"V-12?” Tony asked. “No shit? What’s one of those worth?”
"V-12,” Amal al Zaid confirmed. “That’s worth at least a hundred thousand bucks!”
“Jesus,” Tony said.
“More like a hundred and a quarter, kid,” Mickey O’Hara said. “Well, I guess that’s his coming-out present to himself.”
“Excuse me?” Amal al Zaid asked.
“What did he get, Tony? Ten to fifteen?” Mickey asked.
Tony Harris shrugged.
“Or was it fifteen to twenty?” Mickey mused. “Well, whatever, he’s out, obviously. Who said ‘crime doesn’t pay’?”
Tony Harris raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
Amal al Zaid nearly turned around on the banquette to follow the guy in the tuxedo who had gotten out of the Mercedes-Benz SL600.
“It looks like he’s coming in here!” Amal al Zaid said.
“Why would a heavy hitter hood like that come in a dump like this?” O’Hara asked rhetorically.
Lieutenant Jason Washington walked through the restaurant, slid onto the banquette seat beside O’Hara, quickly shook hands with O’Hara and Harris, and then smiled cordially at Amal al Zaid.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I really appreciate your time.”
Amal al Zaid said nothing.
“I’m Lieutenant Washington,” Jason said, oozing charm.
He had told Tony Harris to ask the witness to meet them in the Roy Rogers in the belief he would be more comfortable there than he would have been, for example, in the Homicide unit in the Roundhouse.
Amal al Zaid said nothing.
“Actually, I’m Detective Harris’s-Tony’s-supervisor.”
“You’re a cop?” Amal al Zaid asked, incredulously.
“I realize that dressed like this-I’m going to sort of a party with my wife…” He paused, and then asked, “What did Mr. O’Hara tell you about me?”
“He said you just got out,” Amal al Zaid said.
“Actually, sir,” Tony Harris said. “The phrases Mr. O’Hara used were ‘fifteen to twenty’ and ‘heavy hitter hood.’ ”
Washington came out with his badge and photo ID, and showed it to Amal al Zaid.
“Mr. O’Hara is an old friend,” he said. “Despite a well-earned reputation for a really weird sense of humor.”
“I’m weird?” O’Hara asked. “You’re the first man in recorded history to walk into a Roy Rogers in a waiter suit.”
“It’s not a waiter suit, you ignoramus.”
“It looks like a waiter suit to me,” Mickey said. “What about you-Double-A Zee?”
Amal al Zaid giggled and nodded his head in agreement.
“Are you going to take our order, or is there something else Double-A Zee and I can do for the cops?” Mickey asked.
Amal al Zaid giggled again.
“Do you mind if he calls you that?” Washington asked.
Amal al Zaid shook his head, “no.”
“Can I call you that?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you,” Washington said. “Okay, Double-A Zee, let me tell you where we are in finding the people who murdered Mrs. Martinez and Officer Charlton.” He paused.
Amal al Zaid looked at him expectantly.
“Just about nowhere,” Washington said, finally.
“How come?” Amal al Zaid asked.
Washington shrugged.
“We’ve done-and are still doing-everything we can think of. We’re going to get them eventually. But the sooner we do, the sooner we can get them off the streets, the sooner they won’t be able to do the same sort of thing again. We don’t want any more people to die.”
Amal al Zaid nodded his understanding.
“An investigation is something like taking an automobile trip,” Washington said. “You can make a wrong turn and wind up in Hoboken when you really want to be in Harrisburg. I’m beginning to suspect that we’ve made a wrong turn, early on, and this is what this is all about.
“What we have here, where this trip began, are the only two witnesses who seem to know what they’re talking about; the only two who kept their cool in terrifying circumstances-”
“I was scared shitless,” Amal al Zaid corrected him.
“Make that two of us,” O’Hara said.
Amal al Zaid looked at him with gratitude.
“Who kept their cool in terrifying circumstances,” Washington repeated, “the proof of which, Double-A Zee, is your behavior in this from the beginning. And Mr. O’Hara’s attempt to take a photograph when they came out of the restaurant-”
“Attempt’s the right word,” Mickey said. “All I got is an artsy fartsy silhouette.”
Washington ignored the comment.
“So what we’re going to do now,” he went on, “is start from the beginning, once again, to see where we took the wrong turn. We’re going to do this very slowly, to see where what you saw agrees with what Mickey saw, or where it disagrees. Detective Harris”-he pointed to a huge salesman’s case on the banquette seat beside Harris-“has brought with him records and reports that he and others have compiled that he thinks will be useful. We’re going to see if what you and Mickey saw agrees or disagrees with what other people saw, or thought they saw, and if it disagrees, how it disagrees. You still with me, Double-A Zee?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“If either you or Mickey thinks of something-anything- or if you have a question while we’re doing this, speak up. I’ll do the same. Okay?”