"I'm sorry, too," she said.

"We will solve that problem when you come back," he said. "I really want to see more of you."

"So what do you do in Special Operations?" she said, obviously changing the subject.

"Today, for example, I think I proved that a cop who's been spending more money than a cop makes came by it entirely honestly."

"Internal Affairs?"

"No. This was unofficial, before Internal Affairs got involved. Now there won't be an Internal Affairs investigation. A good thing, because just being involved with Internal Affairs makes people look bad."

Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick T. Nesbitt IV and a freshly bathed Penelope in her nightgown appeared in the kitchen at this point, and Detective Payne resumed his preparation of Wild Turkey shrimp over wild rice.

At 10:45 Matt said that he would be happy to deliver Terry to the airport to catch the red-eye to the coast.

At 11:17, as he closed the trunk of the Porsche after having taken Terry's luggage from it, and she was standing close enough to him to be kissed, a uniform walked up and said, "You're going to have to move it, sir. Sorry."

Matt took out his badge and said, "Three sixty-nine," which was police cant for "I am a police officer."

The uniform walked away. Matt looked at Terry, saddened by the lost opportunity.

Terry stood on her toes and kissed him chastely on the lips.

"Thanks," she said, then quickly turned and entered the airport. She turned once and looked back at him, and then he lost sight of her.

He got back in the Porsche, and on the way to Rittenhouse Square decided that, all things considered, today had been a pretty good day.

[THREE] The Hon. Alvin W. Martin, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, a trim forty-three-year-old in a well-cut Harris plaid suit, smiled at Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani and waved him into his City Hall office.

"Thank you for coming so quickly, Ralph," he said. "Have you had your coffee?"

The mayor gestured toward a silver coffee service on a sideboard.

"I could use another cup, thank you," Mariani said. He was a stocky Italian, balding, natty.

"I was distressed, Ralph," the mayor said, "to hear about the trouble at the Roy Rogers."

"Very sad," Mariani said. "I knew Officer Charlton. A fine man."

"And Mrs. Fernandez, who paid with her life for calling 911."

"A genuine tragedy, sir," Mariani said.

"I'm going to the funeral home at three this afternoon," Martin said. "I should say 'homes.' Officer Charlton's first, and then Mrs. Fernandez's. I think it would be a good idea if you went with me."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"I feel sure the press will be there," the mayor said. "I'd really like to have something to tell them."

"I'm afraid I don't have much news, Mr. Mayor," Mariani said. "We're working on it, of course. And it's just a matter of time until we nail those animals, but so far…"

"When you say you're working on it, what exactly does that mean?"

"That we're applying all our resources to the job."

"Who's in charge of the investigation?"

"Lieutenant Washington, of Homicide, sir."

The mayor knew Lieutenant Jason Washington, which was not the same thing as saying he liked him. The mayor thought of Washington as a difficult man who was not able to conceal-or perhaps didn't want to conceal-his contempt for politicians.

Mayor Martin had sought Lieutenant Washington out shortly after taking office. The police department always provides a police officer, sometimes a sergeant, but most often a lieutenant, to drive the mayoral limousine, serving simultaneously, of course, as bodyguard.

He'd toyed with the idea of having a white officer-a very large, happy, smiling Irishman who would look good in the background of news photos came to mind-but before he could make the appointment, he'd seen Washington striding purposefully though the lobby of the Roundhouse, and asked who he was.

That night he had mentioned the enormous lieutenant to his wife, Beatrice, at supper.

"I thought you knew Jason," Beatrice said. "He's Martha's husband."

The mayor knew his wife's friend, Martha Washington. Beatrice, as the mayor thought of it, was "into art and that sort of thing," and Martha Washington was both a very successful art dealer and a painter of some repute.

"No, I don't," the mayor confessed. "How do you think he'd like to be the mayor's driver?"

"I don't think so," Beatrice had said. "I can't imagine Jason as a chauffeur-yours or anyone else's."

"You're going to have to get used to being the mayor's wife, precious."

Mayor Martin had taken the trouble to meet Washington socially, which had proven more difficult to do than he thought it would be.

The mayor had arranged for the Washingtons to be invited to a friend's cocktail party, and when they sent their regrets, to a second friend's cocktail party, which invitation they also declined with regret. On the third try, he finally got to meet them, and Alvin W. Martin's first impression of Jason Washington that night was that he was going to like him, possibly very much, and that he would look just fine in the background of press photos.

Washington was an imposing man, superbly tailored, and erudite without rubbing it in your face. The mayor, studying Washington's suit with the eye of a man who appreciated good tailoring, wondered how he could afford to dress that well on a detective's salary. He decided the artist wife picked up the tab.

He finally managed to get him alone.

"I'd really like to get together with you, Jason. You don't mind if I call you 'Jason,' do you?"

"Not at all."

"I'm in the process of selecting a driver. Would you be interested?"

"With all possible respect, Mr. Mayor, absolutely not."

"Actually, it would entail more than just driving the limo," the mayor had said. "I really need someone around who can explain the subtleties of the police department to me."

"I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding such a person, Mr. Mayor."

"And, specifically, I need input from someone knowledgeable about what I might be able to do for our fellow blacks in the police department."

"I can tell you that, Mr. Mayor, in a very few words: Really support a meaningful pay raise; get it through the City Council. Policemen often have a hard time making ends meet."

"I was speaking specifically of black police officers."

"There are two kinds of police officers, Mr. Mayor. The bad ones-a small minority-and all the others. And all the others are colored blue."

"That's a little jingoistic, isn't it, Lieutenant?"

"Simplistic, perhaps, Mr. Mayor, and perhaps chauvinistic, but I don't think jingoistic, which, as I understand the word, carries a flavor of belligerence I certainly didn't intend."

"Let me be very frank," the mayor said. "When I asked around for the name of an outstanding black officer to whom I could turn with questions regarding the police department generally, and black officers in the department specifically, your name immediately came up. You have a splendid reputation. And I wondered how it is you're a lieutenant."

" 'Only' a lieutenant? Is that what you mean?"

"All right, if you want to put it that way. You don't think race had anything to do with you having been a policeman twenty-three years before being promoted to lieutenant?"

"Mr. Mayor, I've spent most of my career in Homicide…"

"You've been described to me as one of the best homicide investigators anywhere."

Washington ignored the compliment, and continued:

"… where, because of the extraordinary amount of overtime required, most detectives make as much as inspectors and some as much as chief inspectors. I was a little late reaching my present rank because I never took the examination until I had assurance, in writing, that should I pass and be promoted, I would not be transferred from Homicide."