"Likewise," Monahan said.
"What was that you were saying about a Molotov cocktail?"
"They threw one at us. Off a roof by Goldblatt's."
Giacomo looked at Washington for confirmation. Washington nodded.
"Well, I'm very glad to see that you came through that all right," Giacomo said.
"I came through it pissed, is the way I came through it. That's fucking outrageous."
"I absolutely agree with you. Terrible. Outrageous. Did the police manage to apprehend the culprits?"
"Not yet," Washington said.
"Mr. Giacomo, Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "is here to represent the people we think were at Goldblatt's."
"And you're friends with him?"
"Yes, we're friends," Giacomo said solemnly. "We have the same basic interest. Justice."
Jason Washington laughed deep in his stomach.
"Manny, you're really something," he said.
"It is not nice to mock small Italian gentlemen," Giacomo said. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
Washington laughed louder, then turned to Joe D'Amata: "Are we about ready to do this?"
"Yeah. We have seven different groups of people." He pointed toward the door at the end of the platform.
Washington turned to Monahan: "If you'll just have a chair, Mr. Monahan-"
Detective Pelosi smiled at Monahan and put his hands on the back of one of the folding chairs. Monahan walked to it and sat down.
Washington waved Giacomo ahead of him and headed for the door. Stillwell followed them.
There were two corrections officers and eight other people in a small room. The eight people were all Hispanic, all of about the same age and height and weight. One of them was Hector Carlos Estivez.
"Okay with you, Manny?" Washington asked.
Armando C. Giacomo looked at the eight men very carefully before he finally nodded his head.
"That should be all right, Jason," he said, and turned and walked out of the room. Washington and Stillwell followed him.
Giacomo sat down in a folding chair next to Monahan. Washington sat on the other side of him, and Stillwell sat next to Washington.
"Okay, Joe," Washington said.
"Lights," D'Amata ordered.
One of the corrections officers flicked switches that killed all the lights in the room except the floodlights shining on the platform. The people in the room would be only barely visible to the men on the platform.
"Okay," D'Amata ordered. "Bring them in."
The door to the room at the end of the platform opened, and eight men came into the room and took the two steps up to the platform.
"Stand directly under the number, look forward," D'Amata ordered. The men complied.
The Major Crimes lieutenant with the 35-mm camera walked in front of the men sitting in the chairs. He took three flash photographs, one from the left, one from the center, and one from the right.
"You didn't have to do that, Jason," Giacomo said.
"Oh, yes, I did, Manny." Washington said. "I only get burned once."
I wonder what the hell that's all about, Stillwell thought, and then the answer came to him: I will get copies of those photographs. If Giacomo suggests during the trial that Monahan was able to pick out Estivez because the other people in the lineup were conspicuously different in age, or size, or complexion, or whatever, I can introduce the pictures he's taking.
He remembered what Tony Callis had said about Washington having forgotten more about criminal law than he knew.
"Number one, step forward," D'Amata ordered when the photographer had stepped out of the way.
"Number three," Albert J. Monahan said positively.
"Just a moment, please, Mr. Monahan," Washington said.
"Number three is one of them. I recognize the bastard when I see him."
"Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "I ask you now if you recognize any of the men on the platform."
"Number three," Monahan said impatiently. "I told you already."
"Can you tell us where you have seen the man standing under the number three on the platform?" Washington asked.
"He's one of the bastards who came into the store and robbed it and shot it up."
"You are referring to January third of this year, and the robbery and murder that occurred at Goldblatt's furniture store on South Street?"
"Yes, I am."
"There is no question in your mind that the man standing under number three is one of the participants in that robbery and murder?"
"None whatever. That's one of them. That's him. Number three."
"Mr. Giacomo?" Washington asked.
Armando G. Giacomo shook his head, signifying that he had nothing to say.
"Jason?" Joe D'Amata asked.
"We're through with this bunch," Washington said.
"Take them out," D'Amata ordered.
A corrections officer opened the door at the end of the platform and gestured for the men on the platform to get off it.
That man didn't show any sign of anything at all when Monahan picked him out, Stillwell thought. What kind of people are we dealing with here?
"Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I see that you're wearing glasses."
"That's right."
"Before this is all over, I'd be grateful if you would give me the name of your eye doctor."
"You're not going to try to tell me I couldn't see that bastard? Recognize him?"
"I'm just trying to do the best job I can, Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I'm sure you understand."
"No, I don't," Monahan said. "I don't understand at all."
NINETEEN
Lieutenant Jack Malone had just carefully rewrapped the aluminum foil around the remnants of his dinner-two egg rolls and beef-and-pepperand was about to shoot it, basketball-like, into the wastebasket under the writing desk in his room in the St. Charles Hotel when his telephone rang.
He glanced at his watch as he reached for the telephone. Quarter past seven. Sometimes Little Jack would telephone him around this hour. His first reaction was pleasure, which was almost immediately replaced with something close to pain:
If it is Little Jack, he's liable to ask again why I'm not coming home.
"Peter Wohl, Jack," his caller said. "Am I interrupting anything?"
"No, sir."
"Sorry to bother you at home, but I want to talk to you about something."
"Yes, sir?"
"Have you had dinner?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you mind watching me eat? I've got to get something in my stomach."
"Not at all."
"You know Ribs Unlimited on Chestnut Street?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you meet me there in-thirty, thirty-five minutes?"
"Yes, sir, I'll be there."
"At the bar, Jack. Thank you," Wohl said, and hung up.
What the fuck does Wohl want? Is this going to be one of those heartto-heart talks better held in an informal atmosphere? Has word finally got to him that I was watching Holland's body shop?
"Malone, you disappoint me. A word to the wise should have been sufficient. Get Bob Holland out of your mind. In other words, get off his case."
Malone pushed himself out of bed and started to dress. He really hated to wear anything but blue jeans and a sweater and a nylon jacket,because sure as Christ made little apples, if I put on a suit and shirt, I will get something -slush or barbecue sauce, something-on them and have to take them to the cleaners.
"But on the other hand," he said aloud as he took a tweed sports coat and a pair of cavalry twill trousers from the closet, "one must look one's best when one is about to socialize with one's superior officer. Clothes indeed do make the man."
When he got outside the hotel, he saw that the temperature had dropped, and frozen the slush. He decided to walk. It wasn't really that close, but if he drove, he might not be able to find a place to park when he came back, and he had plenty of time. Wohl had said thirty, thirty-five minutes.