Final Justice boh-8 Read online

  When the mayor had shaken their hands, Coughlin gestured toward the “other lawyer.”

  “And this is Detective Payne, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Is it indeed? Congratulations on the exam, Detective Payne.”

  “Thank you.”

  What I’m looking at here is the police establishment. A politically correct police establishment. Coughlin and Hollaran, the Irish cops of fame and legend; God only knows what the rough-looking one is, Eastern European, maybe; Wohl sounds German; Payne looks like a WASP. And Jason Washington representing the Afro-Americans-what did Washington say, “all cops are blue?” All we’re missing is a Jew.

  As if on cue, a large, stocky, ruddy faced, barrel-chested man with a full head of curly silver hair, a badge with a mourning strip on it hanging from his pocket, walked up to the group. He was Chief Inspector of Detectives M. L. Lowenstein.

  “Afternoon,” he said.

  “Thank you for coming, Chief Lowenstein,” the mayor said. “I really wanted you here when I make the announcement. ”

  Lowenstein nodded at him, then put out his hand to Detective Payne.

  “I saw The List, Matt,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  He knows Payne, too? That young man really gets around.

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you seen Denise?” Coughlin asked Lowenstein.

  “Sarah and I went to the house Monday evening,” Lowenstein said, and looked at Commissioner Mariani. Neither the commissioner nor the mayor had trouble translating the look: I’ve already expressed my condolences, so there’s no reason for me to be here again, except for this political bullshit about a task force.

  “Anytime you’re ready, Mr. Mayor,” Coughlin said. “I’ll take you in.”

  “Right,” the mayor said, and nodded, and followed Coughlin into the viewing room.

  It was a large room, with an aisle between rows of folding chairs. Up front, the first row of chairs on the right was upholstered. Mayor Martin saw the heads of two children on either side of a gray-haired woman-the widow and their kids-and of several other adults-family members, probably.

  Officer Kenneth J. Charlton was laid out in a gray metal casket in the center of the room. As he walked down the aisle behind Charlton, the mayor could see his face, and then enough of the body to see that Charlton was to be buried in his uniform.

  Coughlin stopped in the aisle next to the first row of chairs, and the mayor realized he was expected to approach the casket alone.

  There was a prie-dieu in front of the casket, which made the mayor uncomfortable. So far as he was concerned- he had learned this from his father, the Rev. Dr. Claude Charles Martin, now pastor emeritus of the Second African Methodist Episcopal Church-prie-dieux were a Roman Catholic device, or maybe Catholic/Episcopal device, of which he did not approve.

  So what the hell do I do now? Ignore it, as Pop would have me do, and stand by the casket looking thoughtfully down at the body? Or use the damn thing, and feel-and perhaps look-hypocritical?

  He dropped to his knees onto the padded prie-dieu and bent his head. And looked at the face of Officer Charlton.

  You poor bastard. Goddamn the animals that did this to you!

  The anger took him by surprise.

  Lord, forgive my anger. But what we have here is a good man who put his life on the line to protect other human beings. And lost it.

  Lord, take him into Your arms, and give him the peace that passes all understanding.

  He’s wearing his badge. Will they take it off? Or bury him with it?

  Probably take it off.

  Give it to his family?

  Or is there some sort of memorial with the badges of the other cops who’ve been killed in the line of duty?

  They have their pictures hanging in the lobby of the Roundhouse, but I can’t remember if their badges are there, too. ^1

  Lord, protect this man’s wife and children, and give them the strength to get through this ordeal.

  Make them wise in Your ways, Dear Lord, and grant them Thy peace.

  Give the police the wisdom to find the people who did this to this Thy servant, Lord.

  And quickly, before they kill someone else.

  Lord Jesus, guide my steps with Thy almighty hand.

  In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

  Amen.

  The mayor took one more look at the face of Officer Kenneth J. Charlton, and then got somewhat awkwardly off the prie-dieu.

  Then he turned and walked toward the widow and the children.

  Mrs. Charlton stood up, then urged the boy and the girl to their feet.

  “Mrs. Charlton, I’m Alvin Martin…”

  “It was good of you to come, Mayor.”

  "… and you have my most sincere condolences, and my…”

  “This is Kenny Jr., and this is Deborah.”

  “Kenny, Deborah, your father was a brave man who died a hero. You can be very proud of him.”

  There was no response.

  “If there is ever anything I can do for you, I want you to call me. You understand?”

  Kenny Jr. and Deborah nodded their heads but didn’t look at him.

  The mayor nodded at Mrs. Charlton, then turned and walked to the aisle and then down it.

  His press relations officer was waiting for him in the corridor outside the viewing room.

  He led the mayor to another viewing room where the press was waiting for him. The press relations officer had arranged Mariani and the other police department brass in a line against the wall, and he handed the mayor two three-by-five cards on which the essence of the announcement had been printed in large letters.

  The mayor glanced at them quickly, then turned to face the press.

  “This is a very sad day,” he began. “Both a citizen-a single mother of three-and a police officer have lost their lives as a result of a brutal attack that affects not only their grieving survivors but every citizen of Philadelphia.

  “This sort of outrage cannot be tolerated, and it will not be. I have ordered the formation of a task force to be commanded by Inspector Peter Wohl of the Special Operations Division…”

  When Matt Payne, driving the unmarked Crown Victoria, came down Pennsylvania Route 252 and approached the driveway to his parents’ home in Wallingford, he looked carefully in the rearview mirror before applying the brake. Two-fifty-two was lined with large, old pine trees on that stretch, and the drives leading off it were not readily visible. He had more times than he liked to remember come uncomfortably close to being rear-ended.

  Wallingford is a small Philadelphia suburb, between Media (through which U.S. 1, known locally as the “Baltimore Pike,” runs) and Chester, which is on the Delaware River. It is not large enough to be placed on most road maps, although it has its own post office and railroad station. It is a residential community, housing families whom sociologists would categorize as upper-middle-income, upper-income, and wealthy, in separate dwellings, some very old and some designed to look that way.

  Brewster Cortland Payne II had raised his family, now grown and gone, in a large house on four acres on Providence Road in Wallingford. It had been in the Payne family for more than two centuries.

  What was now the kitchen and the sewing room had been the whole house when it had been built of fieldstone before the Revolution. Additions and modifications over two centuries had turned it into a large rambling structure that fit no specific architectural category, although a real estate sales-woman had once remarked in the hearing of Mrs. Patricia (Mrs. Brewster C.) Payne that “the Payne place just looked like old, old money.”

  The house was comfortable, even luxurious, but not ostentatious. There was neither swimming pool nor tennis court, but there was, in what a century before had been a stable, a four-car garage. The Payne family swam, as well as rode, at the Rose Tree Hunt Club. They had a summer house in Cape May, New Jersey, which did have a tennis court, as well as a berth for their boat, a fifty-eight-foot Hatteras called F
inal Tort V.

  Matt made it safely into the drive, and as he approached the house, saw a two-year-old, somewhat battered, GMC Suburban parked with one of its front wheels on the grass beside the parking area by the garage. It had been Brewster Payne’s gift to his daughter, Amelia Payne, M.D., not because she needed such a large vehicle, but in the hope that the truck-sized-and truck-strong-vehicle would keep her alive. Amy Payne’s inability to conduct a motor vehicle over the roads of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania without, on the average of once a week, at least grazing other motor vehicles, street signs, and on memorable occasion, a fire hydrant, was almost legendary.

  Amy Payne was in the kitchen with her mother and Mrs. Elizabeth Newman, the Payne housekeeper, when Matt walked in. They were peeling shrimp. Amy was a not-quite-pretty young woman who wore her hair short, not for purposes of beauty but because it was easier to care for that way.

  Mrs. Newman was a comfortable-looking gray-haired woman in her fifties. Patricia Payne was older than she looked at first glance. She was trim, for one thing, with a luxuriant head of dark brown, almost reddish hair, and she had the fair skin of the Irish.

  “Well, if it isn’t the famous soon-to-be Sergeant Matthew Payne,” Amy greeted her brother. “How good of you to find time in your busy schedule for us.”

  “Amy!” Patricia Payne protested.

  “Got another fire hydrant, did you, Sigmund?” Matt said, as he walked to the table and kissed his mother.

  “You were on television,” Patricia Payne said. “I guess you know.”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” Matt said. “The mayor’s press guy grabbed my arm and said ‘You stand there.’ ”

  “You did look uncomfortable,” his mother said. “Well, I guess congratulations are in order, aren’t they?”

  “That’s what I came out to tell you,” Matt said. “How did you find out?”

  “Not from you, obviously,” Amy said.

  “Hey, I tried to call when I found out,” Matt said. “Didn’t I, Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And she told me you and Dad were going to be overnight in Wilmington,” Matt said, and added, “I even tried to call you, Sigmund Freud.”

  “I thought that had to be you. Sophomoric humor.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” Patricia Payne said.

  “He told the receptionist to tell me they were going to repossess my television unless they got paid,” Amy said.

  “Matt, you didn’t,” Patricia Payne said, but her face revealed that she found a certain element of humor in the situation.

  “I walked into the office, and the receptionist, all embarrassed, whispered in my ear and said that the finance company had called-”

  Mrs. Newman laughed out loud.

  “I’m going to get you for that, wiseass,” Amy said.

  “I put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator after Denny called,” Patricia Payne said. “Go get your father and we’ll open it. He’s in the living room.”

  “Uncle Denny called?” Matt asked.

  “We’re invited to the promotion ceremony,” Patricia said. “Denny’s very proud of you. We all are.”

  “You, too, Sigmund?” Matt asked.

  Dr. Payne gave him the finger.

  “And that goes for your boss, too,” she said. “We had dinner Monday night and he didn’t say a goddamn word.”

  “All Peter knew was that The List was out. He didn’t know when the promotion would come through, except that it wasn’t going to be anytime soon. That’s probably why he didn’t tell you.”

  She snorted.

  Matt walked out of the kitchen, down a narrow corridor, and through a door into a rather small, comfortably furnished room with book-lined walls, and the chairs arranged to face a large television screen.

  Brewster C. Payne was sitting with his feet up on the matching ottoman of a red leather armchair, one of two. He was a tall, angular, dignified man in his early fifties.

  He had a legal brief in his lap and his right hand was wrapped around a glass of whiskey.

  “You were on the boob tube,” he said. “You looked distressed. ”

  “I was,” Matt said, and then went on: “Amy’s pissed that Uncle Denny told you before I did. For the record, I tried to call just as soon as I found out.”

  “That’s not why she’s… somewhat less than enthusiastic, ” Brewster Payne said. “I think she was hoping you’d fail the test and leave the police department.”

  “Mother’s got champagne in the fridge,” Matt said, changing the subject. “But I’d rather have a quick one of those.”

  Payne pointed at a bottle of scotch, sitting with a silver water pitcher, a silver ice bowl, and several glasses. Matt helped himself, and while he was doing so, Brewster Payne rose from his chair. When Matt raised his glass, his father held out his glass and touched Matt’s.

  “It’s what you want, Matt, so I’m happy for you. And proud. Number one!”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can stay for supper? We bought some shrimp on the road from Wilmington…”

  “Sure. I made shrimp last night for Chad and Daffy, but what the hell…”

  “We could thaw a steak.”

  “Shrimp’s fine. Daffy was playing matchmaker again. I’d already met her. She’s from Los Angeles. She’s handling, I guess is the word, Stan Colt when he comes to town. His real name is Stanley Coleman.”

  “I saw it in the paper. Are you involved with that somehow? ”

  “Peter sent me to a meeting to see what Dignitary Protection is going to need to protect Super Cop. Monsignor Schneider-who sitteth at the right hand of the Bishop-was there. I think he’s a cop groupie. He knew all about Doylestown. Anyway, he asked for me by name. When Super Cop, aka Colt aka Coleman comes to town, I’ll be temporarily assigned to Dignitary Protection. Terry said he’s interested in very young women. That ought to make it interesting.”

  “Is that the young woman’s name, ‘Terry’?”

  “Terry Davis. Two ‘r’s and a ‘y.’ She said her father’s a lawyer with movie connections, and he got her the job with GAM. Which stands for Global Artists Management.”

  “I think I know him,” Brewster Payne said. “If it’s the same fellow, he masterfully defends, whenever challenged, the motion picture industry’s amazingly imaginative accounting practices.”

  “Interesting,” Matt said. “If you happen to bump into him…"”

  “I’m getting the impression that you are somewhat taken with this young lady, and therefore not entirely unhappy with the prospect of protecting… what did you call him? ‘Super Cop’?”

  “She’s a blonde. Nice legs,” Matt said. “And she knows how to peel shrimp. What more can one ask for?”

  “What indeed?” Brewster Payne said.

  “Matt,” Patricia Payne said at the door, “I told you I was going to open a bottle of champagne.”

  “I needed a little liquid courage to face Sigmund Freud,” Matt said.

  She turned without replying, and after a moment, her son and husband followed her into the kitchen.

  The three women were standing around the chopping block in the middle of the kitchen. They each held a champagne glass, and there were two more on the chopping block. And something else, wrapped in a handkerchief.

  Matt and his father picked up the champagne stems.

  “To Sergeant Payne,” Patricia Payne said, and they all touched glasses.

  Matt took a sip and set it down.

  “I’ve got something for you,” she said. “I wanted the family to be together when I gave it to you.”

  She picked up the handkerchief and handed it to him. Even before he unwrapped it, Matt knew what it was. It was a police badge, and he knew whose.

  “Your father’s,” she said.

  Matt looked at the sergeant’s badge, Number 471, of the Police Department of the City of Philadelphia.

  “When Denny called,” Patricia Payne went on, “he said
that he could arrange for you to be assigned your father’s number if I wanted. I told him I thought you would like that. And he asked me if I happened to still have it, and I told him I’d have to look. I found it. It was in the attic. And your father’s off-duty gun, the snub-nosed. 38.”

  He looked at his mother but didn’t say anything.

  “Your father was a good man, Matt,” his mother said. “A good police officer.”

  “I have two fathers,” Matt said, his voice breaking. “My other father is a good man, too.”

  Brewster Payne looked at him.

  “Write this down, Matt. Never reply to a heartfelt compliment. You never can come up with something worth saying.”

  He put his arm around Matt’s shoulder, and then embraced him.

  “Give that to Denny before the ceremony tomorrow,” Patricia Payne said. “He’ll know how to handle it.”

  Matt nodded, and slipped the badge into his pocket.

  “Under the circumstances,” Brewster Payne said, picking up his whiskey glass, “barring objections, I think I’ll have another of these.”

  “Me, too,” Matt said.

  “First, we’ll finish the champagne,” Patricia Payne said. “And then we’ll all have a drink.”

  Matt had just turned onto I-476 in Swarthmore to return to Philadelphia when the S-Band radio in the Crown Victoria went off: "S-Twelve.”

  He pulled the microphone from under the center armrest.

  “Twelve.”

  “Meet the inspector in the 700 block of North Second.”

  “Got it. En route. Thank you,” he said.

  It was entirely possible that a crime had been committed in the 700 block of North Second Street, requiring his professional attention. But it was far more likely that he was going to find Inspector Wohl inside the premises at 705 North Second, which was known as Liberties Bar, and was the preferred watering hole of the Homicide Bureau.

  I wonder what that’s all about?

  I wonder why he didn’t call me on the cell phone?

  Tomorrow, I will no longer be S-Twelve.

  There was a somewhat battered, three-year-old Crown Victoria parked on Second Street in front of Liberties Bar. And a last year’s Crown Victoria, three brand-new Crown Victorias, and a Buick Rendezvous.