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.”
Both Matt and Tony wore the same clothing that they’d had on when they’d left Liberties Bar with Mickey O’Hara some six hours earlier. And with baggy eyes and five-o’clock beard shadows, both looked as if they’d just awakened from a very short sleep.
“Jesus, you two look like the walking dead,” Coughlin said by way of greeting. “You especially look like hell, Matty.”
“Just call me an overachiever, Uncle Denny,” Payne replied dryly. “I was catching a nap in the car when the long arm of Lieutenant Washington reached out for us. After Tony and I left the scene in Old City, we went to check out a hunch. The dead guy, Reggie Jones, had a sort of to-do list in his coat pocket, and we wound up staking out his house in South Philly. Thought it was a long shot, and boy was it.”
“And I thought,” Coughlin said, his tone suddenly cold as his Irish temper flared, “that we all agreed you would stay the hell off the streets while all that Wyatt Earp of the Main Line business died, if you’ll pardon my choice of words.”
There had been a flurry of new stories-from print to TV to the Internet-after the Bulletin had run the photograph of the tuxedo-clad Payne holding his Colt. 45 above the robber he’d shot in the parking lot of La Famiglia Ristorante. And then those were rehashed when the story broke about Payne’s foot chase and shoot-out with the assassin who fled Temple University Hospital. The mayor, who wasn’t displeased with Payne per se but was tired of constantly defending a good cop doing a good job, simply called Denny Coughlin and suggested Matt stay the hell out of sight-and stay out of the news.
And Coughlin had sent the order down the chain of command, after telling Matt himself.
Coughlin looked from Payne to Washington to Quaire. “Well?”
Quaire began, “I take-”
“It’s my fault, sir,” Detective Tony Harris interrupted. “I should have known better.”
“The hell it is,” Matt Payne said, looking at Tony. He turned to Coughlin and added, “I invited myself along. Me and Mickey O’Hara.”
Coughlin’s eyebrows went up. “What the hell was Mickey doing?”
“We were at Liberties,” Payne said, “when the news came in about the third dead guy. You know you can’t tell Mickey ‘no.’”
“Nor, apparently, you,” Coughlin said to Matt, his ruddy face turning redder by the second. “When I give an order, I damn well expect it to be kept.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said, his voice tired, its resigned tone sounding like that of a schoolboy who’d just been dressed down by the headmaster. Which, a dozen years ago, he had been on more than one occasion.
“And you, Detective Harris,” Coughlin said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Same applies.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Coughlin nodded and, with a more gentle voice, added, “I do commend you, Tony, being the low man on the totem pole here, for trying to take the bullet for everyone else, guilty or not.”
Harris shrugged, making his rumpled navy blazer look even worse.
“I do feel responsible, sir. I’ve seen Matt day in and day out at his desk up to his eyeballs with mostly paperwork from the other pop-and-drops. I wanted him to see a fresh crime scene. That thought had occurred to me earlier last night, when the scene for the first two guys who were pop-and-dropped was being worked. But for whatever reason I didn’t call him. Then, when the news came about the third one, and we were having drinks at Liberties, it just made sense for him to come along and see the scene. It’s a helluva lot better than reading statements, sir.”