Final Justice Part 74

Matt ran back to the Porsche and got in. He tossed his cellular into Terry's lap.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" Terry asked.

He had the car moving before the door had closed.

He wound it up in first, and touched the brake only as he reached the end of the lane of cars. As he turned left, the windshield of the Porsche suddenly reflected light all over.

There was a boom.

"You c.o.c.ksucker!" Matt said, slamming on the brakes.

The object in the man's hand obviously was not a softball bat.

There was another boom. Part of the windshield fell out.

Matt dove out of the car, and half rolled, half crawled, between two parked cars.

He pulled his Colt Officer's Model .45 from the small of his back and worked the action. A cartridge flew out. He'd had one in the chamber.

That leaves five.

He ran between the cars, dropped to his knees, and peered very carefully around the b.u.mper of one.

The two were climbing the chain-link fence at the end of the parking lot.

Matt stood up, held the pistol in both hands, and called out, "That's it. Just drop to the ground."

One of them dropped to the ground and one didn't.

For a moment, Matt didn't know what to do.

Then the second one dropped to the ground, reached into his jacket, and came out with a semiautomatic pistol and started firing it wildly.

And then there was another boom, immediately followed by the sound of heavy lead shot striking metal and gla.s.s near him.

Matt fired four times, taking out the shotgunner first, and then the man with the pistol. The shotgunner went down and stayed there. The man with the pistol didn't. He began to scream in agony.

Matt took the spare clip to the .45 from where he had concealed it-behind the white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the dinner jacket- ejected the empty clip from the pistol, and slipped in the spare.

Then, holding the weapon in both hands, he carefully walked up to the two men on the ground. The one with the shotgun was on his back, his head in a pool of blood. One of Matt's shots had struck him, straight on, in the right cheek.

The other one was screaming.

Matt saw the pistol-at first glance in the dark, it looked like a Browning .380-and keeping his eye on the man, bent over, carefully picked it up with two fingers on the grips, and then put it in his hip pocket.

"You got anything else?" he asked, and patted the writhing man down to make sure he didn't.

Then he went back and picked up the shotgun on the ground near the body, and turned and walked quickly toward the Porsche and the victims.

The first thing he saw was that only one headlight was working. And then he saw the pellet holes in the hood and door and windshield frame, and what was left of the windshield. Then he first smelled and then saw gasoline running from under the Porsche.

"Jesus," he said. He laid the shotgun on the roof and jerked Terry's door open.

She looked at him without comprehension.

And then he saw that her face was bleeding.

"Are you all right?"

"All right?" she parroted.

He unfastened her seat belt, reached into her lap, reclaimed his cellular, and then pulled her out of the car.

There was blood on her dress, but when he put his hand to it, she pushed him away, as if he was taking liberties with her person. He led her around the corner and sort of leaned her against a Ford van.

Then he went to the victims.

"It's over," he said. "Everything's going to be all right."

"All right? All right?" the woman snapped at him. "What the h.e.l.l is the matter with you? Are you drunk, or what? Can't you hear that screaming?"

"I'm calling for a.s.sistance," Matt said. "Help will be here soon."

He punched in 911 on his cellular as he walked back to Terry.

"Police Radio." Mrs. Angelina Carracelli, who had been on the job for twenty-two years, answered his call on the second ring.

"This is Sergeant Payne, 471. Shots fired. Officer needs a.s.sistance."

Mrs. Carracelli waited for the sergeant to provide greater details. When none were forthcoming, she said, "Sergeant?"

"Radio," Sergeant Payne said, a little distantly. "That's not exactly accurate. I'm doing fine. I don't need a.s.sistance. But there are people here who do."

"You said 'shots fired,' Sergeant?"

"Oh, yes. Lots of shots fired."

"What is your location, Sergeant?"

"I'm going to need two ambulances-no, three. And the fire department. There's spilled gas."

"What is your location, Sergeant?"

"I'm in the parking lot next to La Famiglia Restaurant on South Front Street."

"Are you injured?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you in uniform, Sergeant?"

"Oh, no, I'm not in uniform," Matt chuckled.

Mrs. Carracelli made several quick decisions. First, that the call was legitimate, not someone's idea of a joke. That there was something wrong with the sergeant. His voice was strange, and he sounded a little disoriented. He might be injured, or even wounded.

She muted the telephone line and pushed the appropriate switches.

Every police radio in Philadelphia heard three shrill beeps, and then the call: "a.s.sist the Officer, South Front Street, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. a.s.sist the Officer, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. All officers use caution, plainclothes police on the scene."

The three shrill beeps and the call were also heard in the Buick Rendezvous, which was carrying Mr. and Mrs. Casimir Bolinski up Market Street toward the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.

"s.h.i.t," Mr. Michael J. O'Hara said, as he put the Rendezvous into a screeching U-turn. "That's where Matty is!" As they followed the black Suburban up Market Street in their unmarked Crown Victoria, Lieutenant Gerry McGuire and Sergeant Al Nevins heard the same call.

McGuire found the microphone.

"Dan Seven-four and Dan Seven-five, stay with the a.s.signment," he said into it, and then he tossed the microphone to Nevins as he desperately looked for a hole in the oncoming traffic on Market Street in which he could make a U-turn.

"Radio," Sergeant Nevins said to the microphone, "Dan Seven-one in on the a.s.sist Officer on Front Street. Be advised there is probably an officer in plainclothes on the scene."

Mrs. Carracelli opened the telephone line.

"Sergeant, identify your unit and give conditions."

"My name is Payne. Homicide," Matt said. "There was an armed robbery, two black males, one pistol, one shotgun."

"Are there any injuries?" Mrs. Carracelli asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

"One of the doers looks dead; the other's alive. He'll need Fire Rescue. At least one of the victims is going to need an ambulance. Maybe three victims. And I'm going to need the fire department. There's gas on the ground."

"Are you injured?"

"No, I'm fine. They missed me."

"Help is on the way."

"I can hear the sirens. Tell them I'm deep inside the parking lot."

"Help is on the way," Mrs. Carracelli said, and muted the telephone line again.

Three more shrill beeps went out over Police Radio.

"All units responding to the a.s.sist Officer on the unit block of South Front Street, be advised shots have been fired at police and there are plainclothes police officers on the scene. One is inside the parking lot. All units be advised, the unit block of South Front Street, shots have been fired at police and there are plainclothes officers on the scene. One is inside the parking lot. Suspects in the shooting are two black males. Both have been shot and are still at the location."

Matt looked down at Terry.

She looked up at him with horror in her eyes.

"Help is on the way," he said. "You can hear it. . . ."

"What about the . . . man who's screaming? Can't you do something for him?"

"I'd like to put another round in the sonofab.i.t.c.h, is what I'd like to do."

"My G.o.d, I can't believe you said that. You really are a cold-blooded sonofab.i.t.c.h, aren't you?"

Matt decided there was no point in arguing with her.

"There will be help in a minute," he said, and started walking back toward where he'd put the two men down.

Halfway there, he pulled his bow tie loose and opened his collar.

He was sweat-soaked.

He looked at the cellular and punched in an autodial number.

[THREE].

Detective Payne's call was answered by Inspector Peter F. Wohl in his residence in the 800 Block of Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill, in Northwest Philadelphia.

When Wohl's cell phone-in a charging cradle on his bedside table-chirped, he was not wearing any clothing at all, and was engaged in chasing a twenty-eight-year-old female around his bedroom with the announced intention of divesting her of her sole remaining article of clothing, black nylon underpants.

When the cell phone tinkled, Wohl said "s.h.i.t" and the young woman-having only moments before decided to let Peter work his wicked way with her-softly said, "Amen."

Amelia Alice Payne, M.D., knew Inspector Peter Wohl well enough to know that not only was he going to answer the phone, but that the odds were that it was something that would keep them from ending what had been a delightful evening in what she had thought was going to be a delightful way.

The look on Peter's face as he listened to what the caller was saying confirmed her worst fears, as did his almost conversational response to what the caller had said: "Was it a good shooting?"

Amy had been Peter Wohl's on-and-off girlfriend, lover, and the next-thing-to-fiancee long enough to have acquired an easy familiarity with police department cant.

She knew, in other words, that "a good shooting" was one in which the police shooter was not only fully justified in having used deadly force in the execution of his duties, but in circ.u.mstances such that his justification would be obvious to those who would investigate the incident, which was officially the Internal Affairs Division of the police department and the Office of the District Attorney, and unofficially Philadelphia's newspapers, radio and television stations, and more than a dozen civil rights organizations.

"Well, you know the drill," Inspector Peter Wohl said to his caller. "They'll take you to Internal Affairs."

He clicked the cell phone off and tossed it on the bed, then raised his eyes and looked at Amy, who was still where she had been when the phone tinkled, standing on his mattress, holding on to the right upper bedpost.

"Sorry," he said.

"f.u.c.k you, Peter!" she said, furiously.

"Maybe we can work that in a little later," Wohl said. "But right now I have to go to Internal Affairs."

"No you f.u.c.king well don't!" Amy went on. A part of her brain-the psychiatrist part-told her that she had lost her temper, which disturbed her, while another-purely feminine- part told her she had every justification in the world for being angry with the male chauvinistic sonofab.i.t.c.h for choosing duty over hanky-panky with her, particularly at just about the precise moment she had decided to let him catch her.

He looked at her with a smugly tolerant smile on his lips, which added fuel to her anger.

"I 'f.u.c.king' well don't?" he parroted, mockingly.

"Peter, you've got a deputy," she said, when she thought she had regained sufficient control. "Under you and your deputy, there are three captains, and probably four times that many lieutenants."