Final Justice (Badge of Honor 8)

“You all right, Mother?” he asked.

“Of course I’m all right,” she snapped.

“Hey, you’re the one who admitted she was too… ‘tiddly’… to drive.”

“You’re an arrogant sonofabitch, you know that?”

He looked at her a moment.

“I owe you that one,” he said. “But that ends it. I am not going to burn for my sin through all eternity. You could have turned your head.”

“You bastard!”

“What I’m doing right now-fully aware that no good deed ever goes unpunished-is trying to be a nice guy.”

“How?” she asked, thickly sarcastic.

“You go in there and they see you’re plastered and bitchy, you’ll be back at Northwest in the morning.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

Why did I have to call him an arrogant sonofabitch? And a bastard?

Because I’m bitchy and plastered, that’s why.

Shit!

“The Mercedes belongs to Lieutenant Washington-or his wife, same thing-and the Jaguar to Inspector Wohl. There’s a new unmarked, which probably means Captain Quaire… You getting the picture?”

“Got it,” Olivia said. “Thanks.”

“Just sit there, pay attention, and speak only when spoken to, smile, and lay off the booze. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Matt got out of the car and stood impatiently, waiting for Olivia to figure out the seat belt and get out of it. He did not hold the door to the bar open for her, but once he was through it, he did hold it open long enough so that it didn’t close in her face.

Matt walked to the table holding Jason Washington, Peter Wohl, Joe D’Amata, Harry Slayberg, and-surprising him- Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Captain Francis X. Hollaran; the new unmarked car was the commissioner’s. Matt stood there, sort of waiting for permission to sit down.

Coughlin smiled at Detective Lassiter.

“Matt been keeping you busy, Detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good work with the Williamsons, Detective,” Coughlin said. “I think-between you and the story Mickey O’Hara had in the paper-that fire’s now under control.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Sit down, and help yourself,” Coughlin ordered, nodding at the bottles on the table. “You, too, Matt.”

“Could I get a Diet Coke?” Olivia called to the bartender.

“You don’t drink?” Coughlin asked, making it a statement. “Sorry.”

“Sometimes, sir, not now.”