He tossed the cellular onto the seat.
So he’s a little pissed that I won’t tell him.
Better that than to tell him, get his hopes up, and then get kicked in the teeth again when this doesn’t work.
Matt arrived at the North Philadelphia Airport at half past two, to find that he was ahead of Lieutenant McGuire, but not of the Eighth District captain, who was supervising more than a dozen of his uniforms in setting up barriers to keep what looked like sixty or seventy-maybe more-of Stan Colt’s fans under control.
Matt looked closer and saw that there were two barriers, one for the fans-a surprising number of whom were gray-haired adults-and a second for the press.
He was wondering if he should at least identify himself to the Eighth District captain when Lieutenant McGuire arrived, got out of his car, waved at Matt, and then went to talk to the captain.
Four Highway bikes arrived next, in a roar of engines, under a sergeant. McGuire pointed out where they should park, and when they had, the Highway sergeant took off his helmet and hung it on his handlebar. Matt then recognized him as the sergeant who had been on Knight’s Road the night before.
The night before? That seems like two weeks ago.
He walked over to Matt.
“How’s the face?” he asked.
“It’s sore, and I went to Hahnemann this morning and they gave me shots and now my ass hurts.”
The sergeant chuckled.
“You did get to see Detective Coleman at Northeast, right?”
“Just came from there. I appreciate the help last night. All of it.”
“I know guys on the job wouldn’t have done what you did,” the sergeant said. “They’d say, Fuck it, I’ve had a couple of drinks, why take the
chance of getting my ass in a crack?”
“I wasn’t being noble. I just did it.”
“You were being a good cop,” the sergeant said. “Good cops take care of each other.”
Detective Charley McFadden walked up to them.
“What happened to your face?” he asked.
“Where’s Man Mountain Martinez?” Matt asked, ignoring the question.
“He took a dive onto a concrete driveway running down the guy in the hot Grand Am who smacked the van on Knight’s Road,” the Highway sergeant offered, helpfully.
“That was you?” Charley asked.
“Where’s Martinez?” Matt asked again.
“He’ll be here in a minute.”
“What have Mutt and Jeff got to do with this nonsense?” the Highway sergeant asked.
“Sergeant,” Charley said, “that’s what I’ve been trying to get Sergeant Payne to explain.”
A white Lincoln stretch limousine rolled up. McGuire signaled to the driver to put it behind the Highway bikes.
“Our hero’s chariot, I guess,” the Highway sergeant said.
“That’s a Classic Livery limo,” Matt said. “I wonder if we should tell our hero he’s being ferried around by the mob?”