Final Justice Part 10

"Terry," Daffy said, "Matt is a police officer."

"I know. 'One of Philadelphia's finest,' " Terry said.

"Who said that?" Daffy asked in disbelief.

"The monsignor. What was his name?"

"Schneider," Matt said. "I think he's a closet cop groupie."

He dropped to the carpet and picked up the toddler, and tickled her.

She shrieked in delight.

"Matt, you know you're not supposed to do that with her," Daffy said.

"She obviously hates it," Matt said. "What have you got against tickling?"

He nonetheless handed the child to Terry and got up.

"It hyperexcites her," Daffy said.

"Oh," Matt said.

The champagne cork popped, and Matt walked to the wet bar and took a gla.s.s, then handed it to Terry.

"Thank you," she said. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," he said, and turned to Daffy. "Yes, thank you very much, I'd love to."

"You'd love to what?"

"Stay for supper," Matt said.

"Would you believe, wisea.s.s, that Chad tried to call you to ask you to supper? He said they said you were out of town, and they didn't know when you'd be back," Daffy said.

"I talked to him, but I didn't know if he could make it," Chad said. "So I didn't tell you."

"Daffy has this terrible habit of offering me up to the ugliest women," Matt said. "I think they pay her."

"That's what I thought she was doing to me when she said someone was coming she really wanted me to meet," Terry said. "You're not nearly as ugly as I thought you would be."

"Then you can't ask for your money back, can you?"

Terry laughed.

"You really are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you?" she asked.

He took a second gla.s.s of champagne from Chad, then, making a show of thinking it over carefully, shrugged and handed it to Daffy.

"In these circ.u.mstances, I will give you a walk," he said.

"Which means what?"

"That tonight I will not wring your neck for playing cupid," Matt said. "Half the police department already knows I'm in love with Terry."

"d.a.m.n you, you're embarra.s.sing Terry!"

"Are you embarra.s.sed, Terry?" Matt asked.

"I'm still having trouble getting used to the idea that you're a policeman," she said. "And that you showed up here. Did you know I was here?"

"Of course. I had you under surveillance from the time you left the Savoy-Plaza. That man in the overcoat who exposed himself to you on Broad Street? One of my better men."

Terry laughed.

"Baloney!" she said.

"I'll prove it to you. He has a camera . . . delicacy forbids my telling where. I'll send you a print."

He mimed opening an overcoat, focused his hips, and then mimed pushing a shutter cord.

"Say 'Cheese.' Click. Gotcha!"

Chad laughed.

"Oh, G.o.d!" Terry said.

"I can't believe you did that!" Daffy said.

"But you're smiling, Daffy darling!"

"We thought we'd eat in," Daffy said, quickly changing the subject. "Terry has to be at the airport at eleven-thirty. I bought some shrimp at the Twelfth Street Market, but Monday the cook is off."

"That's Daffy's way, Terry," Matt said, "of asking whether I will be good enough to prepare my world famous Wild Turkey shrimp."

"Wild Turkey shrimp?" shrimp?"

"Over wild rice," Matt said. "Yes, Daffy, I will. But you'll you'll have to peel the slimy crustaceans. That's beneath the dignity of a master chef such as myself." have to peel the slimy crustaceans. That's beneath the dignity of a master chef such as myself."

"I've got to give Penny her bath," Daffy complained.

"I'll peel the shrimp," Terry said. "I have to see this. Wild Turkey-you're talking about the whiskey? . . ." Matt nodded. ". . . shrimp?"

"Bring your gla.s.s, I'll bring the bottle. The kitchen for some unknown reason is on the ground floor."

Matt led Terry into the kitchen, turned on the fluorescent lights, and then took his jacket off and laid it on a counter. Then he took his pistol from its shoulder holster, held it toward the floor, away from Terry, removed the clip, and then ejected the round in the chamber.

"I'm impressed," Terry said. "If that was your intention."

He gave her a dirty look but didn't reply. He reloaded the ejected round in the magazine, put the magazine in the pistol, the pistol in the shoulder holster, then shrugged out of that and hung it on an empty hook of the pot rack above the stainless-steel stove.

Then he looked at her.

"I wasn't trying to impress you. I don't like leaving guns around with a round in the chamber."

"Sorry," she said, and then asked, "What kind of a gun is that?"

He looked at her for a moment before deciding the question was a peace offering.

"It's an Officer's Model Colt," Matt said. "A .45. A cut-down version of the old Army .45."

"That's what all the cops carry?"

"No. Most Philadelphia cops carry Glocks. They're semiautomatic, like this one, but nine-millimeter, not .45."

"Then?"

"I think this a better weapon."

"And they let you do that?"

"With great reluctance. I had to go through a lot of bureaucratic bullsh-difficulty before I got permission to carry this."

"What is it with Colt?" Terry asked.

"Excuse me?"

"There's some sort of significance, obviously. Stan actually changed his name legally to Colt. And he always carries a Colt automatic in his films."

"What was his name before?"

"Coleman."

"Stan Colt, nee Stanley Coleman?"

"Yeah."

"Whatever works, I guess," Matt said, chuckling. "To answer your question, I suppose there is a certain romance to 'Colt.' They call the old Colt .44 revolver 'The Gun That Won the West,' and then the Colt Model 1911-the big brother of my pistol-was the service weapon right through Vietnam. Now the services use a nine-millimeter Beretta."

"You ever shoot anybody with that pistol?"

"Not with that one."

"But you have shot someone?"

"Why don't we just drop this subject right here?" Matt flared.

"Sorry," she said, offended and sarcastic.

He found a plastic bag of shrimp in the refrigerator, took it to the sink, tore the bag open, and started to peel them.

After a long moment, Terry went and stood beside him and took a handful of shrimp.

He glanced at her but said nothing.

They peeled shrimp in silence for perhaps three minutes, and then Matt said, "That's not the first time you've peeled shrimp."

"How can you tell?"

"Most people don't know how to squeeze the tail that way."

"My dad has a boat. We have a place on Catalina Island. I practically grew up peeling shrimp."

"Your father's a movie star? Producer? Executive?"

"Lawyer," she said. "With connections in the industry. Enough to get me my first job with GAM."

"So's mine," Matt said. "A lawyer with connections."

"Daffy told me-when she was selling me on the blind date."

"Actually, he's my adoptive father," Matt said, as he took a large skillet from an overhead rack.

"Your parents were divorced? Mine too."

"My father was killed before I was born," Matt said. "He was a cop, a sergeant named John X. Moffitt, and he answered a silent alarm and got himself shot. My mother married my dad-that sounds funny, doesn't it?-about six months later. He'd lost his wife in a car crash. A really good guy. He adopted me legally."

"Is that why you're a policeman? Because of your father?"

"That's one of the reasons, certainly," Matt said, as he unwrapped a stick of b.u.t.ter. "I like being a cop."

"Daffy doesn't approve," Terry said.

"I know. Daffy would be delighted-because of Chad-if I married a nice young woman, such as yourself, went to law school, and took my proper role in society."

"Yeah," Terry replied thoughtfully. "I picked up a little of that. Tell me about your promotion."

"The sergeant's examination list came out today," Matt said. "With underwhelming modesty, I was number one, and get to pick my a.s.signment."

"Which is?"

"Homicide."

"What is that, some sort of a death wish?"

"Huh?"

"Homicide sounds dangerous," she said. "Killers, right?"