“Clearly the girl being Benjamin’s daughter,” Coughlin said.

Washington nodded.

“We’re told,” he went on, “but are awaiting positive ID, that the white male is one J. Warren Olde, Jr., of the custom homebuilder family. We’re also told, but are awaiting verification, that he’s the owner of the motel.”

“And we’re told this by whom?” Coughlin said. “A reliable source?”

Washington nodded again.

“Absolutely reliable,” he said. “We have Anthony Harris on the scene, and after some initial confusion of the deskman on the Wheel, he now has the job-”

“Confusion?” Coughlin interrupted. “What’s that all about?”

“Just an administrative matter that has been taken care of, sir.”

Coughlin raised an eyebrow, nodded, then gestured for Washington to continue.

“Harris got the job in part because he’s one of the best. But also because he has been on the scene since just about the time the motel blew up. He lives only seven, eight blocks away, and the blast rocked him out of bed.”

“Jesus!” Denny Coughlin blurted.

“It was a significant explosion,” Washington said.

“What do we know about the dead ones?” Coughlin said. “Anything yet?”

“Beyond the fact that one had his throat cut, not much. No IDs. They were severely burned, clearly. Practically everything in that room was consumed by the fire. The technician from the Medical Examiner’s Office put their ages between twenty-five and thirty-five. The autopsy should narrow that.”

Coughlin nodded in serious thought.

“Nothing else?” he then said.

Quaire grinned ever so slightly and made eye contact with his boss. Matt Lowenstein shrugged and grinned, too, his face saying Why not?

It wasn’t lost on Coughlin, who barked, “What the hell is it?”

“The tech from the Medical Examiner’s Office,” Quaire said, and in his peripheral vision saw Washington cringe, “said that the critter making the meth got circumcised in the room.”

“He got what?” Coughlin said incredulously, and wondered if he was having his chain pulled.

“It’s true, Denny,” Lowenstein offered. “But, I’m sorry, it’s far beneath my dignified station to explain.”

Coughlin looked at Quaire, who rose to the challenge: “The tech said anybody involved in drugs was a dickhead, and so deserved to have his throat circumcised.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Coughlin blurted, but he was smiling.

“What we don’t know,” Washington went on, “among other things, is: Who cut his throat? That may be something we never learn, considering the conditions of the only other two people who were there.”

After a moment, Quaire asked in a serious tone: “What I’m curious about is, how did Benjamin find out?”

“That’s a good question, Henry,” Hollaran said. “We wondered that, too. Turns out the vehicle Benjamin’s daughter drives has one of those satellite systems. In the event of an accident, a crash sensor on the vehicle activates a communications module that uses the cellular telephone tower system-or maybe it’s the global positioning system, or both-to triangulate the vehicle’s location and then telephone an emergency number and pass along the details. Everything from whether the air bags deployed-how many of them, to determine the severity of the accident-down to the air pressure in the tires.”

“I heard those calls go to some call center in Bombay, India,” Washington offered. “Making it an even more impressive system. Excuse me, that should be Mumbai, India. They changed it.”

Hollaran nodded and a little disgustedly said, “That would not surprise me; Lord knows there’s no one in Philadelphia-or Brooklyn or Iowa-who could be taken off the unemployment line and trained to do that. Why the hell keep jobs here? Anyway, this operator”-he glanced at Washington-“in Mumbai, India, could not get anyone in the Benjamin vehicle to respond when she or he dialed the vehicle’s cellular telephone system connected to its high-fidelity sound system. So the operator then called the local 911 emergency number here. And, after that, started going down the list of emergency contacts that the owner of the vehicle had submitted when the vehicle was purchased.”

“And the girl had her father as the first to contact in case of emergency, air bag deployment, et cetera,” Washington said.

“Exactly,” Hollaran said.

“And,” Coughlin put in, “because her father has the mayor’s personal cellular telephone number-it’s my understanding that quite a few city bond-issuance programs have been managed by Benjamin Securities-His Honor knew all about whose SUV that was before we could even get there and run the plates or VIN.”

“Ah, the miracles of modern technology!” Lieutenant Jason Washington intoned.

“In addition to the team of detectives Tony Harris is running,” Matt Lowenstein offered, “we’ve got men sitting on the hospital in case either the Benjamin girl or the Olde boy is able to start talking. We’ve got a lot of manpower already on it, Denny. Unless you can think of something else?”

Coughlin considered that, then said, “No, not at this point. It sounds as if all the wheels are turning on this.” He paused, then added, “I never doubted that, of course. It’s just that this has become an extraordinary case.”

He exhaled audibly.

“Okay, that was the first problem,” Coughlin went on. “Now, as to Matty. I would like to hear everyone’s thoughts on what we should do with Detective Matthew Payne.”

He looked at Washington.

“I’m sorry, Jason. But it seems that proverbial fan you spoke of is attracting more for you. I’d like your opinion first, then Henry’s, then Matt’s, and then Frank’s.”

Everyone nodded, recognizing what Denny Coughlin was doing. It was the military method of beginning with the junior officer and working up to the most senior. It was an effective way of getting an opinion that was original-not something from someone who for self-preservation or other purposes simply agreed with what their boss had just said.

“Unequivocally, I think Detective Payne should stay on the case,” Lieutenant Washington immediately said.

“What do you mean, ‘stay on the case’?” Coughlin said.

“He’s our absolutely reliable source. The one you asked about earlier?”

“How the hell is that?” Coughlin said. He looked at Hollaran. “Is that why he’s on the way here, Frank?”

Hollaran shrugged. “He didn’t get into that. He just said the heads-up was that he wanted to come back to work.”

“Matthew went to school with the two in the hospital and is close to another who has a financial interest in the motel,” Jason Washington explained, then went into the background he had on that from Tony Harris.

When Washington had finished with that a few minutes later, he added, “In summary, I believe Matthew would be indispensable. I welcome him back to Homicide with open arms.”

“Okay,” Coughlin said, stone-faced. “Thank you, Jason. Henry? Your piece of mind, please.”

“Well,” Quaire began, “it’s no secret that I was not overly thrilled about Matt using The List and the mayor’s top-five-scores-get-their-pick to come to Homicide.”

About a month earlier, the department had released what was universally known as “The List.”

Some twenty-five hundred police officers-corporals, detectives, and patrolmen with at least two years’ service?had taken the examination for promotion. Those who passed and were promoted received a pay raise, a bump of four percent for the first two ranks, and fourteen percent for the patrolmen.

The List showed who had passed and how their scores had ranked them.

The exam was given in two parts, the first being written. Of the twenty-five hundred candidates, one in five had failed the written component. That washed them out, making them ineligible to move on to the exam’s oral component.

Not everyone rushed to take the exam. Detectives could bring home more money in overtime than could sergeants, who clocked fewer hours. But because retirement pay was based on rank, they eventually would take it in hopes of being promoted and, then, retired as a lieutenant or captain.