Final Justice boh-8

by W. E. B Griffin

  I’ve got to find out more about Whatshisname who stuffed his girlfriend in a trunk and sends Dave Pekach taunting postcards from Europe…

  Uncle Denny said the body was (a) mummified and (b) in the trunk for a year? Didn’t it smell?

  I’ll have to find out when Stan Colt is going to grace Philadelphia with his presence. I really would like to see more-a hell of a lot more-of Vice President Terry Davis…

  Nice legs. Nice everything…

  — he didn’t think about Route 611 passing through Doylestown, right past the Crossroads Diner, until the diner itself came into view.

  Shit, Shit, Shit!

  The mental image of Susan with the neat hole under her sightless eyes jumped into his mind.

  No, goddamn it. No! Not twice in one day!

  Think of something else.

  Terry Davis in the shower.

  A mummified body in a trunk. If you want to feel nauseous, think of a stinking, mummified body.

  But (a) mummies don’t stink. They look like leather statues, but they don’t smell, (b) mummies are bodies that have gone through some sort of preservation process. They gut them, I think I remember from sixth grade, and then fill the cavity with some kind of preservatives-or was it rocks? sand? — and then wrap them in linen.

  The body in this weirdo’s trunk might have been dried out after a year, but, technically speaking, it wasn’t mummified. After a year, why wasn’t it a skeleton? Wouldn’t the flesh have completely decomposed-giving off one hell of a stink-in a year?

  There is a lot you don’t know about bodies. And ergo sum, a sergeant of the Homicide Bureau should know a lot about dead bodies.

  Maybe I can take a course at the university.

  Not a bullshit undergraduate course, but a course at the medical school. Amy’s a professor. She should (a) know and (b) have the clout to have her little brother admitted.

  Christ, I’m going seventy-five in a fifty-five zone!

  Sorry to be speeding, Officer. What it was, when I passed the Crossroads Diner, was that I naturally recalled my girlfriend with the back of her head blown out in the parking lot…

  Terry Davis has long legs. Nice long legs.

  Why do long legs turn me on?

  Why do some bosoms, but not others, turn me on?

  Why did Terry Davis turn me on like that?

  She really does have nice legs.

  And she smelled good, too.

  He recognized where he was. What he thought of as “the end of Straight 611 out of Doylestown.” The concrete highway turned into macadam, made a sharp right turn, then a sharp left turn, and then got curvy.

  Right around the next curve is where we pick up the old canal.

  I’ll be damned! I’m not going to throw up.

  And I’m not sweat-soaked.

  Thank you, God!

  He made the left turn and shoved his foot hard against the accelerator.

  FOUR

  Johnny Cassidy’s Shamrock Bar was on The Hill in Easton, near-and drawing much of its business from-Lafayette College. Even at four in the afternoon, there were a lot of customers, mixed students and faculty and other staff of the college.

  Matt took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer, a pickled egg, and a Cassidy Burger-“Famous All Over The Hill”- and struck up a conversation with the bartender, who had a plastic nameplate with a shamrock and “Mickey O’Neal Manager” printed on it pinned to his crisp, white, open-collar, cuffs-rolled-up shirt. Matt thought he was probably thirty-five or forty, and was not surprised that he was talkative.

  When Matt asked how Johnny Cassidy was, O’Neal shook his head sadly and said the Big C had gotten him, five, no six, months before. Johnny kept feeling tired, and he finally went to the doctor, and six weeks later he was dead. Died the same week as his mother, in fact.

  “So what’s going to happen to the bar?”

  “It’s going to stay open,” Mickey O’Neal said, firmly, and then went on to explain that he’d worked in the place for fifteen years before Johnny died, starting out as an afternoon bartender and working his way up to assistant manager, and got to know him real well. Johnny had been godfather to two of his kids. “They called him Uncle Johnny.”

  When Johnny knew his time was up, he made a deal with Mickey and his brother-Johnny’s younger brother, nice guy, who’s a cop in Philadelphia, and who had cared for their mother until she died; Johnny had never married-which gave twenty-five percent of the place to O’Neal and the rest to his brother.

  “We’re talking about me buying him out, over time, you know, but right now, I’m just running the place for the both of us. Once a month, I write him a check for his share of what we make. It’s a pretty good deal all around. The bar stays open, which means I have a job, and his brother gets a check-a nice check, I don’t mind saying-once a month. Which is nice, too. Johnny figured he owed his brother-did I say he’s a cop in Philly? — for taking care of their mother all those years.”

  There were now answers to the questions raised by what Detective Payne had learned at the Northampton County Court House: Seven months before, for one dollar and other good and valuable consideration, all assets, real estate, inventory and goodwill of the property privately held by John Paul Cassidy at 2301 Tatamy Road, Easton, had been sold to the Shamrock Corporation. The building at 2301 Tatamy Road housed both Johnny Cassidy’s Shamrock Bar and, above it, four apartments on two floors.

  It would appear on the surface-he would nose around a little more, of course-that there was a perfectly good reason for Captain Cassidy’s sudden affluence. If the brother had insurance, which seemed likely-and the mother did, which also seemed likely-that would explain where he had gotten the cash to buy the condominium at the shore. And it seemed reasonable that getting a check every month for his share of the profits would explain why Captain Cassidy felt he could afford to give his old Suburban to his daughter and buy a new Yukon XL, no money down, to be paid for with the monthly check.

  Detective Payne had a third beer “on the house” and another pickled egg, and then got back in his Porsche to return to Philadelphia.

  The temptation to take the very interesting winding road beside the old Delaware Canal was irresistible. But he didn’t want to go back through Doylestown-past the Crossroads Diner-so he turned off Route 611 onto Route 32 a few miles south of Riegelsville, and followed it along the Delaware.

  A few miles past New Hope, his cellular phone tinkled. He looked at his watch and saw that it was quarter to five.

  That’s probably Peter. Despite what he said about filling him in in the morning, he wants to know what I found out.

  “Yes, sir, Inspector, sir. Detective Payne at your service, sir.”

  “Hey, Matt,” a familiar voice said. It was that of Chad Nesbitt. They had been best friends since kindergarten.

  “The Crown Prince of tomato soup himself? To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Where are you?” Chad asked, a tone of exasperation in his voice.

  “About five miles south of picturesque New Hope on Route 32. I presume there is some reason for your curiosity?”

  “What are you doing way up there?”

  “Fighting crime, of course. Protecting defenseless citizens such as yourself from evildoers.”

  “Daffy wants you to come to supper. Can you?”

  Daffy was Mrs. Nesbitt.

  “Why does that make me suspicious?”

  “Matt, for Christ’s sake, make peace with her. It gets to be a real pain in the ass for me with you two always at each other’s throat.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “There’s a girl she wants you to meet.”

  “Not only no, but hell no.”

  “This one’s nice. I think you’ll like her.”

  “She’s a nymphomaniac who owns a liquor store?”

  “Sometimes, Matt, you can be a real pain in the ass,” Chad said.

  There was a perceptible silence.

  “Come on, Matt. Plea
se.”

  “If you give me your solemn word that when I get there, we can go directly from ‘How do you do?’ to carnal pleasures on your carpet without-”

  “Fuck you. Come or don’t.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you can get here.”

  “Okay,” Matt said. “Take me half an hour, depending on the traffic on Interstate 95.”

  The Wachenhut Security guards who stood in the Colonial-style guard shack at the entrance to Stockton Place in Society Hill were chosen by Wachenhut with more care than their guards at the more than one hundred other locations Wachenhut protected in the Philadelphia area.

  Not only was Wachenhut’s regional vice president for the Philadelphia area resident in one of the luxury apartments behind the striped-pole barrier, but so were executives of other corporations, which employed large numbers of Wachenhut Security personnel.

  Number 9 Stockton Place, for example, a triplex constructed behind the facades of four of the twelve pre-Revolutionary brownstone buildings on the east side of Stockton Place, was owned by NB Properties, Inc., the principal stockholder of which was Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III and was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick T. Nesbitt IV.

  Mr. Nesbitt IV was working his way upward in the corporate ranks-he had recently been named a vice president-of Nesfoods International, of which his father was chairman of the executive committee. Four of Nesfoods International’s Philadelphia-area manufacturing facilities employed the Wachenhut Corporation to provide the necessary security, as did many other Nesfoods establishments around the world.

  It therefore behooved Wachenhut to put its best security foot forward, so to speak, on Stockton Place.

  It wasn’t only a question of providing faultless around-the — clock security-Wachenhut had learned how to do that splendidly over the years-but to do so in such a manner as not to antagonize those being protected, and their guests.

  The senior security officer on duty in the shack when the Porsche Carrera rolled up was a retired soldier who had spent twenty years in the Corps in the military police. His retirement pay wasn’t going as far as he’d thought it would, and since he had enlisted at seventeen and retired at thirty-eight, he’d still been a young man who wanted to work.

  Wachenhut had been glad to have him, assigned him- with a raise in pay-to Stockton Place after only six months on the job, and made him a supervisor eighteen months after he had joined the firm. His superiors thought he would be capable of handling the sometimes delicate Stockton Place assignment, and he had proven them right.

  When the silver Porsche Carrera slowed as it approached the barrier, the senior security officer on duty nodded at it, then spoke softly to the trainee.

  “Now this guy doesn’t look like he’s either about to break into an apartment, or try to sell something. Very few burglars drive cars like that. So you smile at him, ask him who he wishes to see, and then for his name. Then you say ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ raise the barrier, and call whoever he said he’s going to see and tell them he’s coming.”

  “Got it,” the trainee said, and stepped out of the guard shack.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said to the driver. “How may I help you?”

  “Matthew Payne to see Mr. Nesbitt,” Matt said.

  “Thank you, sir,” the trainee said, and stepped inside the guard shack, and pushed the button that raised the barrier. Before the Porsche was past the barrier, the Wachenhut supervisor was on the interior telephone.

  “Like this,” he said, and then when the phone was answered, said, “This is the gate. We have just passed a Mr. Payne to see Mr. Nesbitt.”

  Matt pulled the Porsche to the curb in front of Number 9, got out, walked to the red-painted door, and pushed the doorbell.

  The door was opened almost immediately by Mr. Nesbitt IV, who looked very much like Matt Payne but a little shorter and a little heavier.

  “Hello, you ugly bastard,” he said. Then he raised his voice. “Dump the dope! The cops are here!”

  Then he embraced Matt.

  “Thanks for coming. And for Christ’s sake, behave yourself. ”

  The ground floor foyer of Number 9 was open to a skylight in the roof, invisible from the street. To the right was the door to the elevator, and to the left the door to the stairs. There were balconies on the first and second floors of the atrium.

  Mrs. Chadwick T. Nesbitt IV, the former Daphne Elizabeth Browne, known for most of her life as “Daffy,” a tall, attractive blonde, appeared on the upper balcony, looked down, smiled, and called, “Matt, how nice! Come up.”

  Matt and Chad got on the elevator, and when the door closed, and he was reasonably sure he couldn’t be heard, Matt asked, “ ‘How nice’? Is she into the sauce?”

  Chad laughed.

  “Looketh not ye gift horse in ye mouth,” he said.

  The elevator stopped, and the door opened, revealing the living room of the apartment. Floor-to-ceiling tinted glass walls provided a view of the Delaware River, the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, and on the New Jersey shore, mounted on now-disused buildings, a huge illuminated sign showing a steaming bowl of soup and the legend “Nesfoods Delivers Taste and Nutrition!”

  Daffy Nesbitt kissed Matt on the cheek, then turned and cried, “Terry, this is Chad’s and my oldest friend in the world.”

  Sitting on the thickly carpeted floor with Miss Penelope Alice Nesbitt, aged twenty-two months, was Terry Davis.

  She smiled at Matt’s pleased surprise.

  Matt looked at Mrs. Nesbitt.

  “Get it over with, Daffy,” he said.

  “Get what over with?”

  “Whatever you’re going to say next in the mistaken belief that it will either be clever or terribly amusing.”

  “Hey, Matt, she’s being nice,” Chad said.

  “That’s what worries me,” Matt said.

  “Hello, again,” Terry said.

  “Again?” Daffy asked.

  “We met this morning,” Terry said.

  “I’d tell Daffy we had breakfast together, but she would read something into that,” Matt said, smiling at Terry.

  “Now who’s being clever and terribly amusing, you prick?” Daffy snapped.

  “Daffy, please, try to control your vulgarity in front of my goddaughter,” Matt said, unctuously.

  Terry Davis laughed.

  “Is she really?” she asked. “Your goddaughter?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said.

  “She’s adorable.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you mean you had breakfast?” Daffy asked.

  “At the Ritz-Carlton, no less,” Matt said.

  “Anybody for a drink?” Chad asked.

  “You got any champagne?” Matt asked.

  “You hate champagne,” Daffy said.

  “Not on those days on which I get promoted, I don’t,” Matt said. “But I’ll settle for scotch.”

  “Promoted to what?” Daffy asked.

  “To sergeant, thank you for asking.”

  “No shit! Hey, good for you, Matt!” Chad said. He went behind a wet bar and came up with a bottle of champagne. “I knew there was one in here.”

  “Terry,” Daffy said, “Matt is a police officer.”

  “I know. ‘One of Philadelphia’s finest,’ ” Terry said.

  “Who said that?” Daffy asked in disbelief.

  “The monsignor. What was his name?”

  “Schneider,” Matt said. “I think he’s a closet cop groupie.”

  He dropped to the carpet and picked up the toddler, and tickled her.

  She shrieked in delight.

  “Matt, you know you’re not supposed to do that with her,” Daffy said.

  “She obviously hates it,” Matt said. “What have you got against tickling?”

  He nonetheless handed the child to Terry and got up.

  “It hyperexcites her,” Daffy said.

  “Oh,” Matt said.

  The champagne cork popped, and Matt walked
to the wet bar and took a glass, then handed it to Terry.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and turned to Daffy. “Yes, thank you very much, I’d love to.”

  “You’d love to what?”

  “Stay for supper,” Matt said.

  “Would you believe, wiseass, that Chad tried to call you to ask you to supper? He said they said you were out of town, and they didn’t know when you’d be back,” Daffy said.

  “I talked to him, but I didn’t know if he could make it,” Chad said. “So I didn’t tell you.”

  “Daffy has this terrible habit of offering me up to the ugliest women,” Matt said. “I think they pay her.”

  “That’s what I thought she was doing to me when she said someone was coming she really wanted me to meet,” Terry said. “You’re not nearly as ugly as I thought you would be.”

  “Then you can’t ask for your money back, can you?”

  Terry laughed.

  “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He took a second glass of champagne from Chad, then, making a show of thinking it over carefully, shrugged and handed it to Daffy.

  “In these circumstances, I will give you a walk,” he said.

  “Which means what?”

  “That tonight I will not wring your neck for playing cupid,” Matt said. “Half the police department already knows I’m in love with Terry.”

  “Damn you, you’re embarrassing Terry!”

  “Are you embarrassed, Terry?” Matt asked.

  “I’m still having trouble getting used to the idea that you’re a policeman,” she said. “And that you showed up here. Did you know I was here?”

  “Of course. I had you under surveillance from the time you left the Savoy-Plaza. That man in the overcoat who exposed himself to you on Broad Street? One of my better men.”

  Terry laughed.

  “Baloney!” she said.

  “I’ll prove it to you. He has a camera… delicacy forbids my telling where. I’ll send you a print.”

  He mimed opening an overcoat, focused his hips, and then mimed pushing a shutter cord.

  “Say ‘Cheese.’ Click. Gotcha!”