Final Justice Part 36

"D'Amata, Matt. Where are you?"

"Halligan's Pub."

"Yeah. La.s.siter said you'd be going there. She with you?"

"Yeah."

"You eat yet?"

"Just finished."

"I'm in Liberties," D'Amata said. "I figured you might want to compare notes."

He's taking care of me. That's nice.

"Okay."

"The Black Buddha's going to want to know what's going on, and he'll be finished with that artsy thing pretty soon. If you don't want to come to Center City, I could meet you someplace. "

"I'll come there. I've got to pick up my car at the Roundhouse anyway. Thirty minutes?"

"Thirty minutes," D'Amata said, and hung up.

Matt looked at Olivia.

"We have to meet D'Amata, Mother," he said.

She nodded.

"Can I ask you a favor?" Matt asked the bartender.

"Name it."

"I'm going to give you a card-a bunch of cards-with my number on it. If any of the people on the list Mother gave you come in, would you hand them one and ask them to call?"

"Sure."

"Give one to anybody who might have an idea," Matt said. "Okay?"

"You got it."

Matt took a small, stuffed-to-capacity card case from his pocket.

"These are old," Matt said. "They say Special Operations. But the number I write on them will be Homicide. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Tell them to ask for me or Detective La.s.siter, but if neither of us is there, to talk to any Homicide detective, and leave a phone number and an address."

"Got it."

It took Matt and Olivia about five minutes to write her name and the Homicide number on all of the cards.

Then Matt asked for the check.

"On me," Charley the bartender said.

"No," Matt said, firmly, handing over his American Express card. "The one drink-between friends-we'll take with thanks. The rest we pay for."

Charley shrugged, but took the card.

Matt signed the receipt, looked at it, and said, "Mother, your half comes to fifteen-fifty, with tip."

She dug in her purse and came up with a five and a ten and handed it to him.

"I owe you fifty cents."

"I'll remember," he said.

He put out his hand to Charley.

"Thanks a lot," he said. "You've been more helpful than I think you understand. I'll probably come by again tomorrow, or Mother will. Okay?"

"Any time," Charley said.

"What we'll do, Mother, is go by the Roundhouse. I've got to get a property receipt for the sales slip I got in New York, and I want to pick up my car," Matt said when they were in the Porsche. "You can take it home after we meet with Joe D'Amata."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea," Olivia said.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not sure I should be driving. I'm not used to three drinks of scotch in forty-five minutes, and that third drink was really a double."

He looked at her and smiled.

"Mother, are you plastered?" he asked, amused.

"Tiddly, not plastered," Olivia said. "And I'm not your mother."

His eyebrows rose.

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," she said, and he saw that she was blushing.

"In vino veritas," Matt said, softly. Matt said, softly.

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

"It doesn't matter," Matt said, and moved his head the six or eight inches necessary to kiss her.

She didn't pull away.

"I really didn't want that to happen," she said, softly a moment later.

"Are you sorry?"

"Just drive the G.o.dd.a.m.n car, will you, please?"

He put the Porsche in gear and started off.

ELEVEN.

[ONE].

As Matt approached Liberties Bar on North Second Street, he saw Martha Washington's Mercedes parked in front, beside Peter Wohl's Jaguar and a half-dozen unmarked cars.

Well, so much for Joe D'Amata's n.o.ble attempt to bring me up to speed before Washington asks what I've been doing on my first day as a Homicide sergeant.

He pulled the Porsche to the curb beside one of the unmarked cars, turned off the key, and turned to Olivia.

"You all right, Mother?" he asked.

"Of course I'm all right," she snapped.

"Hey, you're the one who admitted she was too . . . 'tiddly' . . . to drive."

"You're an arrogant sonofab.i.t.c.h, you know that?"

He looked at her a moment.

"I owe you that one," he said. "But that ends it. I am not going to burn for my sin through all eternity. You could have turned your head."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"What I'm doing right now-fully aware that no good deed ever goes unpunished-is trying to be a nice guy."

"How?" she asked, thickly sarcastic.

"You go in there and they see you're plastered and b.i.t.c.hy, you'll be back at Northwest in the morning."

"Who's 'they'?"

Why can't I keep my mouth shut?

Why did I have to call him an arrogant sonofab.i.t.c.h? And a b.a.s.t.a.r.d?

Because I'm b.i.t.c.hy and plastered, that's why.

s.h.i.t!

"The Mercedes belongs to Lieutenant Washington-or his wife, same thing-and the Jaguar to Inspector Wohl. There's a new unmarked, which probably means Captain Quaire. . . . You getting the picture?"

"Got it," Olivia said. "Thanks."

"Just sit there, pay attention, and speak only when spoken to, smile, and lay off the booze. Got it?"

"Got it."

Matt got out of the car and stood impatiently, waiting for Olivia to figure out the seat belt and get out of it. He did not hold the door to the bar open for her, but once he was through it, he did hold it open long enough so that it didn't close in her face.

Matt walked to the table holding Jason Washington, Peter Wohl, Joe D'Amata, Harry Slayberg, and-surprising him- Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Captain Francis X. Hollaran; the new unmarked car was the commissioner's. Matt stood there, sort of waiting for permission to sit down.

Coughlin smiled at Detective La.s.siter.

"Matt been keeping you busy, Detective?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good work with the Williamsons, Detective," Coughlin said. "I think-between you and the story Mickey O'Hara had in the paper-that fire's now under control."

"Thank you, sir."

"Sit down, and help yourself," Coughlin ordered, nodding at the bottles on the table. "You, too, Matt."

"Could I get a Diet c.o.ke?" Olivia called to the bartender.

"You don't drink?" Coughlin asked, making it a statement. "Sorry."

"Sometimes, sir, not now."

"Joe tells me you got the sales slip for the camera in New York?" Coughlin asked Matt.

"Yes, sir. Henry Ford of Detroit, Michigan, himself bought it."

"You might call out there and see if they have something similar. Maybe there is a Detroit connection."

"I've already done that, sir," Matt said, and added, to Washington, "I gave a Homicide sergeant there your number. I didn't have any other direct Homicide number."

Washington nodded.

"How did you do at Halligan's Pub?" he asked.

"The bartender said she was looking for Mr. Right to come riding in on a white horse," Matt replied. "That so far as he knew, she didn't play around. We left him cards to pa.s.s out to anybody who might know anything, specifically including the names of the guys Mother got from Mrs. Williamson."