“You are now working the Stan Colt job, Sergeant Payne,” McGuire said. “Mr. Colt, who will arrive at approximately three-fifteen, told Monsignor Schneider, who told the cardinal, who told the commissioner, who told me, that he’s really looking forward to working with you.”
“What does that mean?”
Quaire and McGuire smiled at each other.
“I think,” McGuire explained, smiling broadly, “that when the monsignor-who apparently is one of your biggest fans- spoke with Mr. Colt, he told him about your many heroic exploits. I think Mr. Colt heard that when Harrison Ford was preparing to make the movie Witness he came here to spend time with a real, live Philadelphia homicide detective…”
“Jesus Christ!” Matt said.
“… and has apparently decided that what was good enough for Harrison Ford is good enough for him.”
“Harrison Ford is an actor. Colt is a goddamn joke!”
“Don’t let the monsignor hear you say that,” Quaire said. “Much less the commissioner.”
“And for that matter, I have one day on the job in Homicide. I am hardly an experienced-”
“Lie down, shut up, and take this like a man, Matt,” Quaire said. “You’re dead. The commissioner has spoken.”
“It’s a dirty job, Sergeant, but someone has to do it,” McGuire said, smiling broadly.
Quaire chuckled. Matt glared at McGuire, who didn’t seem to notice.
“Mr. Colt,” McGuire went on, “will arrive by private jet at North Philadelphia Airport at three-fifteen. He will be met by the commissioner-or possibly the mayor, if he can get free; or both-Monsignor Schneider, myself, four Highway Patrol bikes, two of my people, representatives of the media, and of course you. Following what that good-looking press agent- What’s her name?”
“Terry Davis,” Matt furnished, automatically.
Jesus, Terry! She certainly dropped off my radar screen in a hurry after Olivia, didn’t she?
“-what Miss Terry Davis,” McGuire went on, “refers to as a ‘photo op,’ Mr. Colt and party will proceed- escorted by the Highway bikes-to the office of the cardinal, where there will be another photo op as the cardinal welcomes Mr. Colt back to Philadelphia…”
“He’s just a movie actor,” Matt said, shaking his head. “A lousy movie actor!”
“Who is about to raise several million dollars for West Catholic High School,” Captain Quaire said. “Which pleases the cardinal, and whatever pleases the cardinal pleases the commissioner.”
“… following which,” McGuire went on, “we will proceed to the Ritz-Carlton. Highway’s responsibility-the bikes- will end there. They’ll provide bikes to escort his limo to the events, but aside from that, it’s up to me to protect Mr. Colt from his hordes of fans, and you to keep him happy.”
“What makes him happy is young girls,” Matt said.
“Excuse me, Sergeant?” Quaire asked, coldly.
“Mr. Colt apparently likes young girls,” Matt said. “Very young girls.”
“Did you get that from one of the magazines in a supermarket checkout lane, or do you have another source of information? ” Quaire asked, sarcastically.
“Terry Davis told me,” Matt said. “I think she wants us to be prepared for that.”
“Oh, God!” Quaire said. “She wasn’t pulling your leg, Matt?”
“No, sir. I’m sure she was serious.”
“That should make this interesting for you, Gerry,” Quaire said.
“I don’t know how to handle something like that,” Matt said.
“We’ll just have to sit on him around the clock,” McGuire said. “If something like that gets in the papers, we’ll be held responsible.”
“He wants to see how real cops work,” Quaire said. “Show him. Everything from school crossing guards up. Keep him busy.”
“He’s going to want to see what he thinks is interesting,” Matt said. “Narcotics, Major Crimes, Homicide…”
“Vice,” McGuire said, chuckling.
“I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you, Gerry,” Quaire said. “And I don’t want him around here.”
“With all respect, sir, how do I tell him no?” Matt said.
Quaire thought that over before replying.
“If it happens, Matt, it happens. You know how I feel about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re going to get some help from Special Operations?” Matt asked.
McGuire nodded.
“Sure.”
“Do we know who?”
“Somebody special you wanted?”
“Detectives McFadden and Martinez,” Matt said.
“Mutt and Jeff?” Quaire asked. “Dignitary Protection isn’t quite their specialty, is it?”
Detective Jesus Martinez, who was of Puerto Rican ancestry, and who was five feet eight inches tall and weighed just over one hundred thirty pounds, and Detective Charles T. McFadden, who was six feet two and outweighed Martinez by a hundred pounds, had been partners since they had graduated from the Police Academy.
The first assignment for nearly all academy graduates was to a district, and almost always to a district wagon, where for their first year or so on the job, they learned the nuts and bolts of being a police officer on the street by responding with the wagon to assist other officers in everything from hauling Aunt Alice to the hospital after she’d fallen in her bathtub, to hauling drunks and other violators of the peace and dignity of the City of Brotherly Love to the district lockup.
Almost routinely, however, two brand-new police officers were assigned to work undercover in the Narcotics Division. McFadden and Martinez were chosen for the assignment in the hope that few drug dealers would suspect either the small, intense Latino or the large, open-faced South Philadelphia Irishman of being police officers when they tried to make a buy of controlled substances.
McFadden and Martinez quickly proved themselves to be very adept at what they were assigned to do. But their superiors realized it was only going to be a matter of time until they became known to the drug trade generally-in other words, their appearance in court to testify against the drug dealers- and would lose their usefulness.
At this point, it was expected the young officers would be assigned to a district and start driving the district wagon.
Something else happened: McFadden and Martinez had- on their own, off-duty-joined the citywide search for the junkie who had shot Captain Dutch Moffitt, of Highway Patrol, to death. In the belief that Gerald Vincent Gallagher would be somewhere in the area, they staked out the Bridge and Pratt Street terminal of the subway.
When Gallagher had finally shown up, he refused to obey their order to halt and had run off down the subway tracks. McFadden and Martinez-already known as “Mutt and Jeff,” after the cartoon characters-had chased him, ignoring the danger, down the tracks until Gallagher fell against the third rail and then got himself run over by a subway train.
In the movies, or in cops-and-robbers programs on TV, with the mayor and assorted big shots beaming in the background, the commissioner would have handed them detective badges and congratulations for a job well done. But this was real life, and promotions to detective in the Philadelphia police department came only after you had taken, and passed, the civil service examination. Martinez and McFadden hadn’t been on the job long enough even to be eligible to take the examination.
And their sudden celebrity-their faces had been on the front pages of every newspaper in Philadelphia, and on every TV screen-had of course completely destroyed their usefulness as undercover Narcotics officers.
It had looked as if their reward for catching the junkie who’d shot Captain Dutch Moffitt-something the rest of the police department hadn’t been able to do for an embarrassingly long period-was going to be reassignment to driving a wagon in a district.
