"Fair enough," Malone said.
He stood up and offered Matt his hand.
"Thank you."
"For the ribs, you mean," Matt said.
"Yeah, for the ribs," Malone said. Then he leaned over and shook McFadden's hand. Charley nodded at him, but said nothing.
Malone found his coat and walked out of the apartment.
"I wonder if he really has some ideas about catching Holland, or whether that was just bullshit," McFadden said.
"Why couldn't he tell-who did he work for in Auto Squad?"
"That's part of Major Crimes. Major Crimes is commanded by a captain. I forget his name."
"Why couldn't he tell him what he told us?"
"You really don't understand, do you?" McFadden said. "Sometimes, you're smart, Matt, and sometimes you're dumber than dog shit."
"I prefer to think of it as 'inexperienced,'" Matt said. "Answer the question."
"Okay. Don't Make Waves."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning the Auto Squad and Major Crimes has enough, more than enough, already to do without getting involved in something that might turn against them. It's not as if people are going to die because Holland is stealing cars. Who the hell is really hurt except the insurance company?"
"I could debate that:You are. Your premiums are so high because cars are stolen and have to be paid for."
"And sometimes," Charley said, smiling at him, "you sound like the monks in school. Absolute logic. You're absolutely right. But it don't mean a fucking thing in the real world. Whoever runs Major Crimes decided he didn't want to go after Bob Holland because there are other car thieves out there heknows he can catch, car thieves whowill go to jail, and who don't call the mayor by his first name. You understand?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Don't get me wrong, Matt. For the record, I hope, when you settle yourethical problem, that you decide you don't have to tell Wohl. I'd like to go after Holland."
"Help Malone, you mean?"
"Yeah. Don't you?"
"Yeah. I would. But I think it would be stupid. And probably dangerous."
"To your job, you mean? I don't think you'd be likely to get shot or anything trying to catch Holland."
"Yeah, to my job. I like my job."
"Right. You get your rocks off stumbling around fall-down buildings in the dark with a tape measure, right?"
"You'd better finish those drawings while you can still draw a reasonably straight line."
"Yeah. Jesus, it's getting late, isn't it?"
He sat down at the table. Matt went around picking up the remnants of the meal and the empty beer bottles. When he opened the cabinet under the sink, to put rib bones in the garbage can, he saw the martini glass. It had Helene's lipstick on it. It had somehow gotten broken when they had been thrashing around on the couch.
As the memories of that filled his mind's eye, he felt a sudden surge of desire.
My God, I'd like to be with her again!
"You going to tell me what's happening at half past four tomorrow morning?" Charley asked.
"They know who the doers are on that Goldblatt furniture job-"
"The Islamic Liberation Army?"
"-and they're going to pick them up all at once."
"Highway, you mean?"
"No. Special Operations. ACT."
"Jesus, that's interesting. How come not Highway?"
"A couple of reasons. I think Wohl wants Special Operations-the ACT guys-to do something on their own. And I think he's concerned that this Islamic Liberation Army thing could get out of hand."
"What do you mean, 'out of hand'?"
"He doesn't want a gang of armed robbers to get away with it, or get special treatment, because they're calling themselves a liberation army."
"That liberation army business is bullshit, huh?"
"Yeah. And finally, Chief Lowenstein told Wohl he wanted Highway to pick up these guys. I think Wohl wants to make the point that he will take requests, or suggestions, from Lowenstein, but not orders. In other words, if Lowenstein had said he wanted ACT to make the arrests, Wohl would have sent Highway."
"If the ACT guys blow it, Wohl'll have egg on his face."
"Yeah," Matt said, "and if you should happen to be around Castor and Frankford at that time of the morning, Wohl would figure out where you heard what was happening and I would have egg, or worse, on mine."
"Yeah, I suppose. Shit! Okay. I won't be there."
Matt finished cleaning up and then stood and looked over Charley's shoulder as he worked. It became quickly apparent that Charley was a quite competent draftsman.
I didn't learn a damned thing in high school, for that matter in college, that has any practical value.
"I wish I could do that," Matt said.
"So do I," McFadden said. "Then I could get the fuck out of here."
THIRTEEN
At 3:45 the next morning Officer Matthew M. Payne, in his bathrobe, was watching the timer on his combination washer-drier. It had twentyfive minutes to run.
At approximately 3:25 Officer Matthew M. Payne had experienced what the Rev. H. Wadsworth Coyle of Episcopal Academy had, in a euphemistically titled course (Personal Hygiene I), euphemistically termed a "nocturnal emission." The Reverend Coyle had assured the boys that it was a natural biological phenomenon, and nothing to be shamed about.
It had provoked in Officer Payne a mixed reaction. On one hand, it had been a really first-class experience, with splendid mental imagery of Helene, right down to the slightly salty taste of her mouth on his, and on the other, a real first-class pain in the ass, having to get out of goddamn bed in the middle of the goddamn night to take a goddamn shower and then wash the goddamn sheets so the maid would not find the goddamn telltale spots on the goddamn sheets.
"Fuck it!" Officer Payne said, aloud and somewhat angrily. He draped his bathrobe carefully on the stove, went into his bedroom, and dressed. The last item of his wardrobe was his revolver and his ankle holster, which he had deposited for the night on the mantelpiece over the fireplace.
Picking up the revolver triggered another mental image of the superbly bosomed Helene, but a nonerotic, indeed somewhat disturbing, one: the way she had handled the gun, and even the cartridges. That had been weird.
He went down the stairs, and then rode the elevator to the basement. When he drove out of the garage onto Manning Street, he saw that not only was it snowing, but that it had apparently been snowing for some time. Small flakes, which were not melting, and which suggested it was going to continue to snow for at least some time.
He made his way to North Broad Street, and drove out North Broad to Spring Garden, and then right on Spring Garden to Delaware Avenue, and then north on Delaware to Frankford Avenue and then out on Frankford toward Castor.
Except for a few all-night gas stations and fast-food emporia, the City of Philadelphia seemed to be asleep. The snow had not yet had time to become soot-soiled. It was, Matt thought, rather pretty.
On the other hand, there was ice beneath the nice white snow, and twice he felt the wheels of the Porsche slipping out of control.
And there is a very good chance that when I get out there, Inspector Wohl will remind me that he said he would see me at eight o'clock in the office, not here at four-fifteen, remind me that he has suggested it would well behoove me to listen carefully to what he says, and send me home.
There was a white glow, of headlights and parking lights reflecting off the fallen and falling snow in the school building parking lot. And just as he saw an ACT cop open the door of an RPC standing at the curb to wave a flashlight to stop him, Matt saw Inspector Wohl, Captain Sabara, and Lieutenant Malone standing in the light coming through the windshield of a stakeout van.
Malone and Sabara were in uniform. Wohl was wearing a fur-collared overcoat and a tweed cap. He looked, Matt thought, like a stockbroker waiting for the 8:05 commuter train at Wallingford, not like the sort of man who would be in charge of all this police activity.