Special Operations (Badge of Honor 2)

“Where do you live, Payne?” Jesus Martinez asked.

“On Rittenhouse Square,” Matt said.

“Figures,” Martinez said. “Let’s get the hell out of here, somebody’s liable to spot that car in the parking lot and start asking questions.”

“To which we answer, we were picking up Payne, and you were drinking water,” McFadden replied, but Matt saw that he picked up his fresh Ortleib’s and drank half of it.

“Hay-zus is a worrier,” Charley said to Matt.

“You better be glad I am,” Martinez replied.

Lorraine Witzell pushed between Charley and Matt to sit her glass on the bar, which served to place her rear end against Matt’s groin and the physiological phenomenon he would have rather not had manifesting itself at that moment. It didn’t seem to bother Lorraine Witzell at all; quite the contrary. She seemed to be backing harder against it.

Matt took a pull at his bottle of Ortleib’s.

“I’m ready,” he said, signifying his willingness to leave. “Anytime.”

Lorraine Witzell chuckled deep in her throat.

“Well,” she said, “if it turns out to be a dull night, come on back. I’ll probably be here.”

FIFTEEN

At quarter to one, Officer Charley McFadden pulled Matt Payne’s Porsche 911T to the curb before a row house on Fitzgerald Street, not far from Methodist Hospital, in South Philadelphia.

“It happens that way sometimes,” Charley said to Matt. “Sometimes you can go out and find who you’re looking for easy as hell. And other times, it’s like this. We’ll catch the bastard. Hay-zus will turn up something.”

“Yeah,” Matt said.

“And you got the fag tour, right?” Charley said. “So it wasn’t a complete waste of time, right?”

“It was…educational,” Matt said, just a little thickly.

“And we wasn’t in all of them,” McFadden laughed. “Maybe half.”

“There seem to be more of those places than I would have thought possible,” Matt said, pronouncing each syllable carefully.

“You all right to drive?”

“Fine,” Matt said.

“You’re welcome to sleep on the couch here,” Charley offered.

“I’m all right,” Matt insisted.

“Well, drive careful, huh? You don’t want to fuck up a car like this.”

“I’ll be careful,” Matt said, and got out of the car and walked around the back.

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“We’ll get the bastard,” Charley McFadden repeated. “And what the hell, we were on overtime, right?”

“Right,” Matt said. “Good night, Charley. See you in the morning.”

He started the engine, returned to South Broad Street, and pointed the nose toward Willy Penn, surveying the city from atop City Hall.

Matt had asked Charley McFadden about “that woman you introduced me to in the FOP” five minutes after they had picked up the Porsche, and were headed into West Philadelphia.