“Gotcha, you bastard!” he said.
Lieutenant Jason Washington was in the lieutenant’s office in Homicide when Matt and Olivia walked in. Matt was surprised; it was quarter to eight, and Washington usually showed up at ten or later.
As Matt walked toward the lieutenant’s office, Washington looked up, saw them, and motioned for them to come in.
“Good morning, Detective Lassiter,” he said.
“Good morning, sir,” Olivia said.
“Is there some reason you chose to answer neither your radio nor your cellular, Matthew? Or you, Detective, your cellular?” Washington asked.
“I turned the radio off when I was ferrying Colt around,” Matt said, “or he would have wanted to respond to anything that came over it. And obviously, I didn’t turn it back on this morning.” He took his cellular from his pocket. “And the battery is dead in this.”
“And you, Detective?”
Olivia had her cellular in her hand.
“I guess I didn’t turn it on this morning, sir,” she said.
“Need I say that I would be both disappointed and more than a little annoyed if this ever-the operative word is ‘ever’-happened again?”
“No, sir,” they said, almost in unison.
“Then the incident is closed,” Washington said.
“Have you seen the Bulletin this morning, Lieutenant?” Matt asked.
“With your image adorning page one? Indeed, I have. And so, I daresay, has most of the population of Philadelphia.”
“I wasn’t talking about my picture,” Matt said. “I meant this.”
He laid Section Three of the Bulletin, “Living Today,” open to page four, on the desk.
“Then you stand out like a cork bobbing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, for everyone else in Philadelphia is talking of nothing else… What am I being shown?”
“Look at the guy on the ground in the picture,” Matt said.
Washington looked.
“You can doubtless imagine the odds against that fellow being our critter,” he said after a moment. “But if you wish to turn over the stone under the stone, why don’t you give them a call?”
“I already have.”
Washington looked at him with interest.
“They wouldn’t tell me whether or not this guy had a knife,” Matt said. “Or whether he was just peeping in windows or trying to break in, or whether the window belonged to a young woman…”
“And you have concluded, obviously, that this proves he did indeed have a knife, with which he was trying to break into the apartment of a young woman?”
“I think the possibility exists,” Matt said, a little lamely.
One of the telephones on the desk rang, and Washington had it to his ear before it could ring again.
“Homicide, Lieutenant Washington,” he said.
And a moment later,
“Yes, sir.”
And a moment later,
“Yes, sir. They are both here with me.”
And a final moment later,
“Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”
He put the handset in its cradle.
“Detective Lassiter, it is said that God takes care of fools and drunks. While you are certainly not a drunk, Sergeant Payne qualifies on both counts, and you have apparently been taken under his protective mantle.”
“Sir?” Olivia asked.
“The reason I attempted-and failed, and we now know why, don’t we? — to communicate with the both of you this morning was to relay the order of Deputy Commissioner Coughlin to get you both in here immediately, and keep you here until I had additional instructions from him.”
“I don’t understand,” Matt said. “Is he pissed about the picture? Olivia had nothing to do with that.”
Washington ignored the reply.
“Those were the additional instructions promised. We are to report to Commissioner Mariani forthwith.”
He stood up and gestured for them to precede him out of the office.
“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on?” Matt asked.
“Obviously, you haven’t had time to read the editorial page of the Ledger, have you?”
“No. What’s on the editorial page?”
“Among many other things, your photograph.”
Commissioner Mariani was sitting behind his desk. Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Inspector Wohl were sitting side by side on a couch, and Captain Quaire was sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair just inside the door.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Washington said.
Matt and Olivia said nothing.
“I presume everyone has seen the Ledger?” Commissioner Mariani asked.
“No, sir,” Matt and Olivia said, in duet.
Mariani gestured impatiently to Captain Quaire to hand the newspaper to them.
Matt took it, and Olivia stepped close to him and read it over his shoulder.
“My God!” Olivia said.
“I’m sure you will understand why I have to ask this question, Detective,” Mariani said. “Did anything improper, or anything that could be construed as improper-say, by Philadelphia Phil-happen while you were in Mr. Colt’s hotel room?”
“No, sir,” Olivia replied, visibly shocked by the question.
“Were you ever alone with Mr. Colt at any time, for even a brief period?”
“No, sir. Matt… Sergeant Payne… was there all the time, and so was Detective… What’s his name, Matt?”
“Detective Hay-zus Martinez,” Matt furnished.
“I’m not surprised, but I had to ask,” Mariani said. “And what you did was only-acting on orders from Captain Quaire- explain to Mr. Colt your involvement in the Williamson murder? ”
“Yes, sir.”
“And there was absolutely nothing social about your visit to Mr. Colt?”
“He bought us dinner, sir.”
Mariani thought that over. It was obvious he hadn’t liked to hear that.
“Philadelphia Phil somehow got the mayor’s unlisted home number,” Coughlin said. “He called him, and asked him to respond to the Ledger editorial. The mayor said he hadn’t read it. Philadelphia Phil will call him at his office at eleven. The mayor’s going to have to take that call. All of Philadelphia Phil’s early-morning listeners heard him promise to take it.”
“And so far, according to Lieutenant Pearson of Northwest Detectives, Mr. Philadelphia Phil-” Mariani began.
“The bastard’s name is Donaldson,” Coughlin furnished. “Phil Donaldson.”
“Mr. Donaldson has called twice there asking to speak to Detective Lassiter,” Mariani went on, “and twice to Homicide, according to Captain Quaire, where he asked to speak to either her or Payne.”
Mariani let that sink in for a moment, then went on:
“Mr. Donaldson, as we all know, is a skilled interviewer. Moreover, it has been suggested to me that he is more than a little annoyed with Lassiter, for her having gotten Mrs. Williamson to say she understood why the uniforms couldn’t take the Williamson girl’s door, after he had painted the uniforms as… We all know what he said.”
“Commissioner, may I go off at a tangent?” Washington asked.
