Less than a minute later, the city editor crossed the city room to Mickey's desk.
"Jesus, Mickey," he said.
"Yes, or no?"
"I don't suppose you want to tell me who the cop who gave you this is?"
"I always protect my sources," Mickey said, and burped.
"It's for real?"
"The gentleman in question is a horse's ass, but he knows what he's talking about."
"The cops will know who talked to you," the city editor said.
"That thought had run through my mind," Mickey O'Hara said.
"You're going to put his ass in a crack," the city editor said.
"I have the strength of ten because in my heart, I'm pure," Mickey O' Hara said. "I made it perfectly clear that we were on the record."
"It will be tough on Mr. Nelson," the city editor said.
"Would we give a shit if he didn't own theLedger?" Mickey countered.
The city editor exhaled audibly.
"This'll give you two by-lines on the front page," he said.
"Modesty is not my strong suit," Mickey said. "Yes, or no?"
"Go ahead, O'Hara," the city editor said.
FIFTEEN
It had been the intention of Lieutenant Robert McGrory, commanding officer of Troop G (Atlantic City) of the New Jersey State Police, to take off early, say a little after eight, which would have put him in Philly a little after nine-thirty, in plenty of time to go by the Marshutz amp; Sons Funeral Home for Dutch Moffitt's wake.
But that hadn't proved possible. One of his troopers, in pursuit of a speeder on U.S. 9, had blown a tire and slammed into a culvert. It wasn't as bad as it could have been; he could have killed himself, and the way the car looked it was really surprising he hadn't. But all he had was a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder, and some bad cuts on his face. But by the time he had that all sorted out (the trooper's wife was eight-and-a-half months gone, and had gotten hysterical when he went by the house to tell her and to take her to the hospital, and he had been afraid that she was going to have the kid right there and then) it was almost nine.
By then, the other senior officers going to Captain Dutch Moffitt's funeral had not elected to wait for him; a major and two captains could not be expected to wait for a lieutenant. Major Bill Knotts left word at the barracks for Lieutenant McGrory that Sergeant Alfred Mant (who was coming from Troop D, in Toms River, bringing people from there and further north) had been directed to swing by Atlantic City and wait at the Troop G Barracks for McGrory, however long it took for him to get free.
The senior state police officers in Knotts's car were all large men. They all had small suitcases; and they were, of course, in uniform, with all the regalia. The trunk of Knotts's Ford carried the usual assortment of special equipment, and there was no room in it for two of the three suitcases; they had to be carried in the backseat. When they were all finally in it, the Ford was crowded and sat low on its springs.
"I think you'd probably make better time on Three Twenty-two," Knotts said, as he settled into the front seat, beside Captain Gerry Kozniski, who was driving.
"Whatever you say, Major," Captain Kozniski said, aware that he had just been given authority, within reason, to "make good time" between Atlantic City and Philadelphia. There were two major routes, 322 and 30, between the two cities. U.S. 30 was four-laned nearly all the way, from Atlantic City to Interstate 295, just outside Camden. Only some sections of U.S. 322 were four-laned. Consequently, 30 got most of the traffic; there would be little traffic on 322 and it would be safer to drive faster on that road.
Captain Kozniski hit sixty-five, and then seventy, and then seventyfive. The Ford seemed to find its cruising speed just under eighty. They would still be late, but unless something happened, they could still at least put in an appearance at the wake.
"Word is," Captain Kozniski said, "that Bob McGrory's going to be a pallbearer."
"Yeah. Mrs. Moffitt asked for him," Knotts said.
"Dutch Moffitt and he went way back. They went to the FBI National Academy together."
He did not add, wondering why he didn't, that the Moffitts and McGrorys, having made friends at the FBI Academy in Quantico, had kept it up. They visited each other, the Moffitts and their kids staying at the McGrory house in Absecon for the beach in the summer, and the McGrorys and their house apes staying with the Moffitts in Philly for, for example, the Mummers' parades, or just because they wanted to go visit.
The wives got on well. Lieutenant Bob McGrory had told Knotts he had heard from his weeping wife that Dutch had stopped a bullet before he heard officially. Dutch's Jeannie had called McGrory's Mary-Ellen the minute she got back from the hospital. Mary-Ellen had parked the kids with her mother and gone right to Philly.
"I met him a couple of times," Captain Stu Simons, riding alone in the backseat, said. "VIP protection details, stuff like that. He was a nice guy. It's a fucking shame, what happened to him."
"You said it," Bill Knotts said.
"They catch him yet, the one that got away?"
"I think so," Captain Simons said. "I think I heard something. They canceled the GRM (General Radio Message) for him."
"I didn't hear anything," Knotts said. "It was a busy night."
"I hope they fry the sonofabitch," Captain Kozniski said.
"Don't hold your breath," Captain Simons said. "He'll get some bleeding-heart lawyer to defend him, and they'll wind up suing Moffitt's estate for violation of the bastard's civil rights."
Major Bill Knotts suddenly shifted very quickly on his seat, and looked out the window.
Captain Kozniski looked at him curiously.
"That shouldn't be there," Knotts said, aloud, but as if to himself.
"Whatever it was, I missed it," Captain Kozniski said.
"There was a Jaguar back there, on a dirt road."
"Somebody taking a piss," Captain Kozniski said.
"Or getting a little," Simons said.
"You want me to call it in, Major?" Captain Kozniski said.
"We're here," Knotts said simply.
Captain Kozniski eased slowly off on the accelerator, and when the car had slowed to sixty, began tapping the brakes. The highway was divided here by a median, and he looked for a place to cross it. The Ford bottomed out as they bounced across the median.
"Jesus Christ, Gerry!" Simons called out. "All we need is to wipe the muffler off!"
Captain Kozniski ignored him. "Where was it, Major?" he asked.
"Farther down," Knotts said. "Where the hell are we? Anybody notice?"
"We're three, four miles east of State Fifty-four," Captain Kozniski replied with certainty.
It took them five minutes to find the car, and then another two minutes to find another place to cross the median again.
"Stay on the shoulder," Knotts ordered, as they approached the dirt road.
Captain Kozniski stopped the car, and Knotts got out. Kozniski followed him, and then Simons. There was the sudden glare of a flashlight, and then Simons walked back to the car and got in the front seat and turned on the radio.
Knotts, carefully keeping out of the grass-free part of the road so as not to disturb tire tracks, approached the car, which was stopped, headed away from the highway, in the middle of the road.
"Give me a flashlight, please," he said, and put his hand out. Kozniski handed him his flashlight. Knotts flashed the light inside the car. It was empty. He moved the beam of the light very slowly around the front of the car.
"Major!" Captain Simons called. "It's a hit on the NCIC computer. NCIC says it was reported stolen in Philadelphia."