Final Justice Part 66

"Mr. Chambers Galloway," Kenny furnished. "I'll give you his number."

"And anybody else . . . maybe Fats Gambino, if I have time on the way to the airport."

Kenny chuckled, deep in his throat, reminding Matt of Jason Washington.

"That'll make Ol' Fats's day. His place is right on Airport Boulevard, a couple of miles short of the airport. You can't miss it. I wouldn't suggest you tell him you're coming."

"And anybody else you think would be a good idea."

"I'll think on it, and tell you when you come in."

"Thanks, Kenny."

"My pleasure."

Matt considered for a moment having a room-service breakfast, but decided against it, but not because of the thought he had on the way to the dining room, which was that after he ate a leisurely breakfast, he would call Detective La.s.siter and suggest that if she was now awake, they had work to do. He would then meet her in the lobby, and she could have a Mcm.u.f.fin and canned orange juice for breakfast at the McDonald's on their way to Daphne.

She came into the dining room a minute after he took a table, even before the waiter had brought coffee.

Jesus, that's a good-looking woman!

"Good morning," Matt said.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Olivia said. "May I?" she asked, indicating a chair.

"Of course."

He smiled at her. She smiled back, but her smile was a momentary curl of her lips, completely devoid of anything resembling warmth.

Okay, if that's the way you want to play it. Screw you.

Olivia sat down.

"What we're going to do this morning is take statements from Colonel Richards and Mr. Galloway," Matt said, and then, without waiting for a reply, devoted his entire attention to the breakfast menu.

[THREE].

Detective Payne had just about finished his Belgian waffles with strawberries and cream, which he had ordered to accompany his chipped beef over toast with poached eggs, and glanced to see if Detective La.s.siter was finished with her whole-wheat toast, when he thought he heard his name being spoken.

He looked toward the headwaiter's table in time to see the woman behind it nod in his direction, the nod guiding a young man in a business suit toward him.

"Sergeant Payne?" the young man asked.

Matt nodded.

"My name is Roswell Bernhardt, Sergeant. I'm an attorney. Specifically, I'm Mr. Homer C. Daniels's attorney."

"I don't mean to be rude, counselor, but I don't think I should be talking to you," Matt said.

"I understand," Bernhardt said. "Certainly. But what I was hoping you could do is give me the name of someone in your district attorney's office with whom I could speak."

"I wouldn't know what name to give you, Counselor, in the D.A.'s office. Except for that of the D.A. herself. That's Mrs. Eileen McNamara Solomon."

"I understood someone's on the way here," Bernhardt said, then added. "Sergeant Kenny told me that."

If Kenny told this guy my name and where to find me, and that somebody's coming, he must like him. What the h.e.l.l!

"I'm going to meet someone from the D.A.'s office at the airport, Mr. Bernhardt . . ."

"Someone with the authority to discuss a plea bargain?"

". . . at half past twelve," Matt went on. "I don't know who, or what authority he or she might have. But if you'd like, if you give me your card, I'll pa.s.s it on, and tell whoever it is you'd like to speak with him/her."

Bernhardt produced a card, gave it to Matt, thanked him profusely, and left.

"I wonder what that was all about?" Olivia asked.

"I really have no idea," Matt said. "Are you about finished with your breakfast?"

She stood up and walked away and waited by the head-waiter's table until he had settled the bill.

"If you'll give me the keys to the car, please, I'll put my luggage into it," she said.

He wordlessly handed her the keys, then went to his room, packed, and then settled the bill. He made no attempt to rush.

When he got into the Mustang, she didn't speak.

Jesus, she's good-looking.

Is she going to stay p.i.s.sed all day?

For good?

That seems a distinct possibility.

Well, if that b.i.t.c.hy, irrational behavior last night was an indicator of the future, maybe that's not such an all-around bad thing.

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than not to have loved at all," as they say.

You don't believe that for a minute, and you know it.

Just keep your mouth shut, and maybe she'll cool off. Or warm up.

A familiar face came through the revolving doors into the persons-meeting-pa.s.sengers area, but it was not that of Steven Cohen, Esq., but rather that of Michael J. O'Hara.

"Sherlock G.o.dd.a.m.n Holmes in the flesh!" Mickey greeted them. "And the beauty with the beast!"

"I won't ask what brings you to the Redneck Riviera, Mickey," Matt began.

"What did you say? 'The Redneck Riviera'?"

Matt nodded. "That's what they call it."

"Great! I'm going to do a long piece, and that's great color."

"But frankly," Matt went on, "I was expecting Steve Cohen or somebody else from the D.A.'s office."

"They're in the cheap seats," Mickey said. "They'll be off in a minute."

He turned to Olivia.

"Stanley said to tell you he's sorry as h.e.l.l about the Ledger Ledger and that Phil Donaldson a.s.shole, and that he'll try to make it up." and that Phil Donaldson a.s.shole, and that he'll try to make it up."

"Stanley?"

"Stanley Coleman, aka-"

"That's very kind of Mr. Colt, but not necessary," Olivia said.

"Who's 'they,' Mick, as in 'they'll be off'?" Matt asked.

O'Hara turned and pointed.

Steven Cohen, Esq., and Lieutenant Jason Washington were about halfway down a long column of arriving economy-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers.

"I didn't expect the boss," Matt said.

"They don't want any mistakes made with this one. For your sake, Matty, I really hope this guy is the one you're looking for."

"He is, Mick. I'm sure. How did you find out?"

"A little Irish bird named Denny told me."

"Welcome to the Redneck Riviera, boss," Matt said. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Cohen."

"By calling me 'Mister,' Matt, are you implying I'm not welcome in the . . . what did you say-'Redneck Riviera'?" Cohen replied, putting out his hand.

"I am really delighted to see you. And yeah, that's what it's called. They've got a really spectacular seash.o.r.e. Ol-Detective La.s.siter and I saw it when we drove over from Pensacola. "

Cohen offered his hand to Olivia.

"Matt says he's sure this is the doer," Mickey said.

"I really hope so," Cohen said.

"Well, let us go see this fellow," Washington said. "Mick has reserved a car."

"The chief of police will be available," Matt said.

"Perhaps after after we check into the hotel," Washington said. "Mick's made reservations for us at the Marriott. Is that where you are?" we check into the hotel," Washington said. "Mick's made reservations for us at the Marriott. Is that where you are?"

"No, sir," Matt said, looking smugly at Olivia. "We're in the Eight Dollar Motel right in Daphne. Detective La.s.siter thought the Marriott was a little too rich for us."

"Actually, it's the Nine Dollar Inn, Sergeant," Detective La.s.siter corrected him.

"Actually, it's the $37.50 motel, after you pay up front and they give you the AAA discount," Matt said. "But what the h.e.l.l."

They collected their luggage and went to the Hertz counter, where a Lincoln Town Car awaited Mr. Michael J. O'Hara.

"I think the best way to handle this, Detective," Washington said, "would be for Sergeant Payne to drive us in Mr. O'Hara's car. En route, he can fill us in on what we should know. In the meantime, you could go to the police station, advise them of our arrival, and tell them we are anxious to speak with the chief at his earliest convenience."

"Yes, sir," Detective La.s.siter said.

Matt handed her the keys to the Mustang.

"Thank you," she said with a somewhat brittle smile.

The Mustang stayed on the tail of the Lincoln all the way from the airport through Mobile, across the I-10 bridge over Mobile Bay, and into Daphne, where it turned off U.S. 98 at the Joseph Hall Criminal Justice Center.

En route, as Washington intended he should, Matt told them everything he thought they should know. He pointed out the Gambino Motor Mall, and told them he had spoken with the proprietor, and that Fats had shown him the Peterbilt truck Mr. Daniels had driven into Mobile.

"I called the chief, and he said he just got a search warrant for the truck from a judge in Mobile, but he thought he'd wait until I could go along before he had a look."

"You didn't enter the vehicle?" Washington asked.

"No."

"Good," Cohen said.

"He certainly had to fuel the truck somewhere," Washington said, thoughtfully. "If he did so in Philadelphia and used a credit card, that would establish his presence there. On his way down here, as careful as we must presume he is, he probably paid cash. But he may not have had that much cash, and he may have used a card. It's worth looking into."

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

"I've got to have a picture of that truck," Mickey said. "How do I find my way back here?"

"After we have accepted the chief's kind invitation to witness his search of the vehicle, I will arrange something with Detective La.s.siter to get you back here," Washington said.

"I'd like a picture of you two searching the truck," Mickey said.

"Sergeant Payne and I have had quite enough personal publicity lately, thank you just the same, Michael."

"There is good publicity and bad publicity, Jason," Mickey said, "and you two could certainly use some of the good kind."

"If you'll pardon me, Michael, what I am trying to do is develop a variety of good reasons that will suggest to Mr. Daniels that denial of his partic.i.p.ation is no longer one of his options."

"That may be easier than you think, Jason."

"You will remember, Sergeant, Sergeant, to address me as 'Lieutenant' when we are about our official business?" to address me as 'Lieutenant' when we are about our official business?"