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“How can that be done, Payne?”

“All I need is access to a computer with a digital photo program and a color printer,” Matt said.

“We’ve got one at Special Victims,” Durwinsky said. “That’s not far.”

“Okay,” Lowenstein said. “There it is. O’Hara, Special Victims, your sister and running down the doer via the camera. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said.

"O’Hara first, Chief?” Captain Durwinsky asked.

“Yeah, Helene,” Lowenstein said. "O’Hara first. I would like to see at least one story in the newspapers that doesn’t gleefully point out our many failures and all-around stupidity. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Now everybody get to work.”

Lowenstein walked out of the apartment.

In the hope that it wouldn’t be seen, Michael J. O’Hara of the Philadelphia Bulletin parked his Buick Rendezvous behind the Oak Lane Diner at Broad and Old York Road. The Rendezvous, with its array of antennae, was known to other members of the Philadelphia press corps, and some of his colleagues were even bright enough to be able to spot an unmarked car, and wonder what O’Hara was up to with the cops.

Mickey entered the diner and, after looking around, found Lieutenant Jason Washington, Sergeant Matt Payne, and that good-looking detective who’d come out of the crime scene with Denny Coughlin to face the press, at a banquette in the rear, drinking coffee.

He walked to them and slid in beside Washington.

“Well, isn’t this a coincidence!” O’Hara said. “Mind if I sit down?”

“I hoped you parked that conspicuous vehicle of yours where it will not attract the attention of the Fourth Estate?” Washington asked.

“Jesus!” Mickey said, his tone suggesting that Washington should have known the question was unnecessary. He smiled at Detective Lassiter. “I’m Mickey O’Hara.”

“Yes, sir, I know who you are,” Olivia said.

Mickey shook his head sadly, gave out a long sigh, and turned to Matt.

"You’re in luck, Matthew,” O’Hara said. “This beauty-this young beauty-calls me ‘sir,’ which means she has decided I am too old to merit her interest.”

“As obviously you are,” Washington said.

“Then, speaking with the wisdom of a senior citizen, my beauty, let me advise you to beware of this young man. While some think of him as the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line, others more accurately describe him as the Casanova of Center City.”

“That’s not funny, Mick,” Matt flared.

“Which part?”

“The Wyatt Earp part,” Matt said. “As a matter of fact, both parts.”

“One day, my beauty…”

“My name is Lassiter,” Olivia said.

"One day, Lassiter, my beauty,” O’Hara went on, “not so long ago, in an alley of our fair city, Wyatt Earp here put down a very bad guy who was shooting at both of us with a. 45. I meant nothing but respect in dubbing him Wyatt Earp.”

“As disassociated as I am from the realities of life,” Washington said, “I actually thought you would be interested in learning what has transpired at 600 Independence.”

“I know what happened at 600 Independence. A citizen called 911 when she heard strange noises in the next apartment. Two uniforms responded, and they all stood around chatting and not taking the door while the doer worked his wicked way on the victim. What else do I need to know?”

“You know why they didn’t-couldn’t-take the door?”