The Investigators (Badge of Honor 7)

Mr. Savarese waited patiently.

“How about a Chevy station wagon, Mr. S.? We got a couple of them. At a big funeral, we use them to haul flowers ahead of the procession, you know, enough to cover the phony grass by the grave—”

“They are black, like the Suburban?” Mr. Savarese interrupted him.

Paulo nodded. “And they don’t have any signs painted on them or anything.”

“I was thinking of something more on the order of a utility vehicle.”

Again he waited patiently for Paulo to give that some thought.

“What we do have is a Ford pickup, Mr. S. We keep it around with a jack and a couple of spare wheels and tires in the back, in case a hearse or a flower car has a flat.”

“Does that happen often, Paulo?”

“No, Mr. S. But sometimes, you know, you get a bad tire or pick up a nail.”

“Yes,” Mr. Savarese said, understanding. Then he gave a dry chuckle. “The final indignity of life, Paulo, a flat tire on your way to your last resting place.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean, Mr. S

.”

“Is there room for the three of us in this flat-tire truck?”

“You know, it’s a regular pickup truck. It would be a tight squeeze. And it’s sometimes dirty.”

“The upholstery, you mean?”

Pietro finally came to the table and sat down.

“You heard what we have been talking about, Pietro?” Mr. Savarese asked.

“We could put a blanket or something on the seats, if they’re dirty, Mr. S.,” Pietro said.

“You understand, Mr. S.,” Paulo explained, “we get a call there’s a flat, one of the mechanics drops whatever he’s doing and jumps in the pickup—”

Mr. Savarese held out his hand in such a manner as to indicate that a further explanation was not necessary.

“What I think we should do,” Mr. Savarese said, “un less this interferes with your plans, Paulo . . .”

“My time is your time, Mr. S., you know that.”

“. . . is send Pietro to the garage, where he will clean this flat-tire truck up as well as he can, and if necessary, as he suggested, put a clean blanket over the dirty seats, and then bring it here. By then it will be dark.”

“Good thinking, Mr. S.,” Paulo said.

“And in the meantime, you and I will discuss what you’re going to talk to this man about.”

“Right, Mr. S.,” Paulo said.

Paulo Cassandro’s prediction that it would be a tight squeeze in the front of the Ford pickup truck proved to be true, and the blankets—he had sent one of the Classic Livery mechanics to a dry goods store to get two nice ones—proved to be hot and slippery when installed over the greasy upholstery, and Paulo knew Mr. S. was uncomfortable.

But Mr. S. hadn’t said anything. Paulo interpreted this to be another manifestation of Mr. S.’s being fair. Mr. S. knew that he was the one who had ordered the pickup, so it wouldn’t be right to bitch about what happened when he got what he asked for.

At five minutes to eight, the pickup stopped outside a ten-foot-high hurricane fence in a field south of the Philadelphia International Airport. There were metal signs reading, U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. TRESPASSING FORBIDDEN UNDER PENALTY OF LAW attached at twenty-five-foot intervals to the fence.

As they had driven up to the fence, Mr. Savarese had seen where there once had been provision for floodlights to illuminate the entire perimeter of the fenced-in area. They were no longer in use. Neither was what had been contained inside the fence: a battery (four launcher emplacements) of U.S. Army antiaircraft weaponry.