The Swedish philosopher/theologian Emmanuel Swedenborg believed that there is sometimes an unspoken communication between loved ones. That one loved person knows what the other loved one is thinking.
This may or may not have had anything to do with what Detective Olivia Lassiter said to Sergeant Matthew Payne when he pulled to the curb in front of her apartment.
“You wait in the car. I know what you’re thinking.”
Sergeant Payne had in fact been thinking, all the way from Rittenhouse Square, that there was something wonderfully erotic having Olivia sitting beside him, with nothing beneath her dress but Olivia, and that with just a little bit of luck he might get lucky when they got to her apartment and they went inside while she changed clothing.
“What am I going to do out here?” he asked.
“That’s up to you. You’re not coming in,” Detective Lassiter said, and got out of the car.
He watched her enter the apartment, shrugged, and then reached for the Philadelphia Bulletin, which had his picture on the front page, and which he had dropped onto the floor.
When he saw the picture, he smiled, remembering what Stan Colt had said when he got out of the car to pose for Eddie the photographer: “Look serious, but think of pussy!”
Then he started looking through the rest of the Bulletin. Ten minutes later, on page 4 of Section Three, “Living Today,” he saw a picture of an old geezer with an over-and-under crooked over his arm standing with a bunch of cops and with half a dozen patrol cars of various law enforcement agencies in the background.
Then he read the caption, and then looked very carefully at the picture again, at the handcuffed man in black coveralls on the ground.
“Jesus Christ!” he said aloud, and reached for his cellular.
“Police department,” a female voice with a thick southern accent announced.
“I’d like to speak to whoever’s handling the case of that Peeping Tom you bagged last night.”
“So would everybody else from New Orleans to Destin,” the woman replied.
“My name is Matthew Payne. I’m a sergeant in Homicide in Philadelphia…”
“Yeah, I bet you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I just told you. Now get me some supervisor on the phone, and right now.”
“You don’t have to bite my head off!”
A male voice with an equally heavy accent next came on the line.
“Can I help you?”
“With whom am I speaking. Please?”
“I’m Sergeant Kenny.”
“Sergeant, I’m Sergeant Payne. Philadelphia Homicide.”
“So Barbara-Anne said. How can I help you?”
“That Peeping Tom you bagged last night? Was there a knife involved? A great big knife?”
There was no response.
“Hello?” Matt asked after what seemed like a long time.
“What can I do for you?” a new southern-accented male voice inquired.