“When you did what? ‘Shot Stevens’?”
“Charles D. Stevens, a.k.a. Abu Ben Mohammed. He was one of the, quote, Arabs, unquote, on the Goldblatt Furniture job.”
“I remember that,” Wally said. “He tried to shoot his way out of an alley in North Philly when they went to pick him up?”
“Right.”
“And shot a cop, who then put three rounds in him? That was you?”
Matt nodded. “I took a ricochet off a wall.”
“I didn’t make the connection with you,” Wally said. And then, surprising himself, he added, “You hear about the plainclothes Narcotics guy getting shot?”
“Washington said something about it.”
“Summers had me in here earlier today. ‘What did you know about the death of Officer Jerome H. Kellog?’”
“I heard.”
“Kellog’s wife—they were separated—and I are pretty close. They had me in here. Sitting in that chair is a real bitch.”
“Yeah,” Matt agreed.
“And you took out the North Philly Serial Rapist, too, didn’t you?” Wally said, remembering.
Matt nodded.
Jesus, Wally thought, as long as I’ve been on the job, I’ve never once had to use my gun. And this kid has twice saved the City the price of a trial.
“If I give you Boy Scout’s Honor to keep my runaway mouth shut, could I hang around here?” Matt asked.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Washington said you’re a damned good investigator. I’d like to see you work.”
Washington said that about me? I’ll be damned!
“Sure. Be my guest.”
“Where has, quote, the victim, unquote, been up to now?”
“Probably in the Hahnemann Hospital parking lot being told what not to say by his lawyer. Or deciding if it would be smarter to take the Fifth.”
“Wouldn’t he be? I had the feeling Jason Washington didn’t believe what he had to say.”
“Oh, this guy did it,” Milham responded matter-of-factly. “Or had it done. There’s not much question about that. Proving it is not going to be easy. He’s smart, and tough, and he’s got a good lawyer. But I think I’ll nail the sonofabitch.”
“Is that intuition on your part? Or Jason’s? Or did I miss something?”
“I don’t know about Washington. He sees things, senses things, that the rest of us miss. But what I saw was first of all a guy who didn’t seem all that upset to be sitting around across a desk from his wife, who had just had her brains blown out. And there’s his business partner on the floor, with bullet holes in him, too. I didn’t hear one word about ‘poor whatsisname.’ Did you?”
“Marcuzzi, Anthony J.” Matt furnished, shaking his head, no.
“‘Poor Tony, he was more than a business partner. We were very close friends. I loved him,’” Milham said mockingly.
Matt chuckled.
“On the way to Hahnemann Hospital,” Milham went on, “I guess he thought about that: ‘Jesus, I should remember that I’m supposed to be sorry as hell about this!’ He started crying in the wagon. He wasn’t all that bad, either. I almost felt sorry for him.”