Broken Trust

by W. E. B Griffin

  Before turning in to the drive, he had looked to the southern end of the park and noticed that those crime scenes were gone, too. Where the streets had been all blocked off traffic now flowed freely. Only the soot on the stone façade of the building remained, and even it looked as if it had been mostly hosed off.

  If this were anywhere but Center City, he thought, the crime scene tape would be flapping in the wind for weeks, all faded and ragged.

  Here, thanks to those business-funded cleaning services, everything already is tidy. It’s like nothing happened. Which is exactly the way they want it.

  He stopped at the valet kiosk. There was a new crew of valets; two of whom trotted toward the car doors.

  “Matthew,” Camilla Rose said, “would you be offended if I asked for a rain check on the Library? I am suddenly exhausted and there is still work to do for the gala. I really don’t think I have anything more to add to what I probably should not have shared already.” She sighed. “But this is part of the fight I’ve chosen.”

  He waved off the valet approaching his door, then wrote on a business card and handed it to her.

  “That’s my personal cell phone number,” he said. “The others are my work numbers. We’ll talk more later. Please call at any time if you think or hear of anything else. And let me know the soonest I can question Johnny. The first forty-eight hours are the most critical in finding a murderer.”

  She nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

  “Oh, and would you happen to have your brother’s number?”

  “You bet your ass I do.”

  She tapped on the face of her phone, then looked at the card Payne gave her, then tapped again.

  Payne’s phone vibrated.

  “There,” she said. “I sent you all his numbers, addresses—everything. Good luck with getting to the bastard. Let me know how else I can help.”

  —

  Payne, watching Camilla Rose walk away and noting that she again moved in her usual graceful fashion, wondered: Does she really believe her brother put a hit out on Austin? Or is this just an opportunity to use me to stick it to him?

  He felt his telephone vibrate once more. He pulled it from his pocket and read the glass screen. Below a text message from Amanda, and another from Camilla Rose, he saw that the newest had been sent by Rittenhouse Realty.

  He first read Amanda’s text. If you can get out of anything you might have planned tonight, I’d appreciate it. I’d like for us to have some quality time together.

  Then his eyes went to the other text. Mr. Payne, an update, as you requested. We have an application for the unit. You’re welcome to view the condo tomorrow and complete paperwork as the back-up applicant for it. I highly encourage you to do so, as it isn’t unusual for there to be a problem with the other’s credit, references, et cetera. Thank you.

  He went back and reread Amanda’s message.

  Quality time? he thought.

  She’s been in such a funk, I cannot imagine she’s thinking about getting naked.

  I really want to surprise her with the damn condo. We can’t live in that one-bedroom of hers. Not if there’s going to be three of us. Or more.

  And how would she not love The Rittenhouse?

  I’ll do anything to get her past this, get her happier.

  Including not letting work interfere with tonight’s “quality time.”

  Better give Tony a heads-up.

  He thumbed a speed-dial number, and when Harris answered, Payne said, “Two things. First, in case I get hit by a bus or suffer some other calamity, let me share with you what Camilla Rose just told me . . .”

  II

  [ ONE ]

  The Hop Haus Tower

  Northern Liberties

  Philadelphia

  Thursday, January 5, 7:55 P.M.

  Matt Payne, having showered at the garret apartment and changed his bloodstained bandage and clothes, walked across the brightly lit marble lobby of the luxury condominium high-rise. He wore woolen slacks—his Colt pistol tucked inside the waistband at the small of his back—with a camel hair blazer, crisp dress shirt, and striped necktie. Cradled in the crook of his left arm were two dozen long-stemmed red roses wrapped in a fine ribbon of white linen.

  At the far end of the lobby, he approached a pair of sliding glass doors outside the bank of four elevators. He waved the electronic fob that hung from his key ring at a reader device. The enormous doors whooshed aside.

  One elevator stood waiting with its doors open. He stepped on, swiped the fob at another reader device on the panel, and when the green light above it lit up, he pushed the 21 button.

  As the elevator began its ascent to the penthouse floor, he could smell the delicate fragrance of the flowers. And that caused his mind to drift back to two weeks earlier.

  —

  Matt had been released from Temple University Hospital on the previous day. Amanda had brought home with them a few of the enormous floral arrangements that well-wishers had sent. In total, there had been more than a dozen, and as the newer ones had arrived, and begun to pack the room, Matt had insisted that their cards be kept but the flowers be distributed anonymously around the hospital for others to enjoy.

  Now floral fragrances filled the condominium.

  In the dining room, there was also the smell of beef tenderloin. Matt and Amanda had just finished a fine Chateaubriand with béarnaise sauce that she had prepared, knowing it was one of his favorites.

  Matt marveled at the woman who was carrying his child. Amanda Law, who had just turned twenty-nine, was the chief physician in the Burn Unit at Temple. She stood five-five and weighed one-ten, and had an athlete’s toned body. Thick, wavy blonde hair hung to her shoulders, softly framing her beautiful face and intelligent eyes.

  Early in the meal, Matt had recognized that the conversation had been somewhat stiff and had tried to lighten it by again discussing the various plans in preparation for when the baby would come.

  Amanda’s mood brightened a bit. Yet, as they finished their food, Matt felt that something still was not quite right. He mentally debated telling her about his grand idea of looking for a condominium more appropriate for a young growing family, at least a two-bedroom, maybe in Center City.

  He studied her across the table as she very carefully finished her glass of water.

  “Are you doing okay, babe?” he said, reaching over and touching her hand.

  “I don’t know. For the last few days, I’ve just felt strange.”

  He chuckled.

  “Strange? You’ve never been pregnant. The whole thing has got to feel really strange. You have a seven-week-old alien creature growing in you.”

  She did not respond to that.

  “Just feels odd,” she went on. “That, and I’ve been experiencing some lower-back pain. I’m thinking I need to get back to my exercise routine.”

  “You said earlier that there’s no longer any nausea or tender breasts. That’s progress, right?” He chuckled again. “I mean, especially for me. It’s not like I can get you any more pregnant. And it does qualify as intense cardiovascular exercise . . .”

  She did not respond. She turned to look out the window for a long moment.

  She then pushed her chair back and stood.

  “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  She went down the hallway and disappeared into the bedroom. Matt heard the bathroom door close with a click.

  When Amanda had not returned to the table after ten minutes, he carefully pulled himself out of his chair to go check on her.

  He was almost to the bedroom door when she came out.

  Matt thought that she now looked very pale. All the color was gone from her face. Her shoulders were slumped.

  “Amanda?”

  He saw that she was starting to cry. She buried her face in her hands. H
er body trembled.

  He quickly went to her and wrapped his arms around her.

  —

  The elevator made a delicate Ding! stopping at the top floor, its doors opening. As Matt stepped into the hallway, his mind flooded with all he had learned over the previous two weeks about miscarriages. And how sadly common they could be—and, arguably worse, how emotionally devastating.

  At Unit 2180, he fed the key to the dead bolt of the heavy, dark-oak door. He could hear Luna whining on the other side, the two-year-old water dog’s long tail thumping the wall. He gently pushed open the door.

  Wish some of that happiness would rub off on your master, he thought, patting Luna’s curly black head. Then he heard in his head his sister Amy’s voice snapping: You’re such an asshole, Matt! Have some empathy, for chrissakes!

  Matt found Amanda in the kitchen. She was emptying a bottle of cabernet sauvignon into a large wine stem that was on the black marble island. Another stem next to it was three-quarters full.

  And that’s not her first glass. There’s a trace of lipstick on the rim.

  Maybe she’s making up for lost time—now that she’s not pregnant, she can drink again.

  “Hey, babe,” he said, moving around the island to reach her. “You look beautiful . . . I got you something.”

  She smiled as he put his arm around her. He kissed her on the lips.

  “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she said, gently placing the roses next to the kitchen sink.

  “I wanted to.”

  “That’s very sweet. Thank you.”

  Amanda handed the just filled wine stem to Matt, then touched hers to it.

  “Salute,” she said.

  Matt smiled, said, “Salute,” then took a sip.

  He looked at the wine bottle—Nice red, he thought, glancing at the label—then noticed the folded sheets of paper beside it.

  She saw where he was looking and reached over for the papers. She held them out to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “I’m afraid something we need to discuss. Again . . .”

  Matt put his glass down. He unfolded the pages.

  Oh shit, he thought, immediately recognizing what they were.

  [ TWO ]

  It had taken Matt a great deal of effort to get Amanda’s attention when he first tried courting her. She initially had refused his overtures. Amanda, even though she had known Matt’s sister since college, told him that she could not become involved romantically with a cop.

  It wasn’t, she said, that she did not admire cops—she, in fact, held them in high regard, even loved them. Especially because her father had been one. He had retired on a medical disability after taking a bullet to the knee while off duty and in the course of stopping a robber.

  The reason, Amanda said, was that she did not want to again live with the daily fear. Her family always had wondered if when they watched him leave the house for work if that would be the last they saw him alive.

  But Matt had been relentless in his pursuit. And eventually Amanda relented.

  Her worrying about his safety, however, did not go away. It caused her to consider what-ifs. Her father had taught her how to approach a problem from both a best-case scenario and a worst-case—Hope for the best but plan for the worst—and to consider the latter, she had written an obituary as if it had been crafted by Matt’s friend Mickey O’Hara.

  Amanda had given it to Matt in hopes that it might cause him to see things differently.

  —

  Now Matt, his eyes skimming the obit, remembered it painfully well.

  The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line:

  KILLED IN THE LINE OF DUTY

  Homicide Sergeant Matthew M. Payne, 31, Faithfully Served Family and Philly—and Paid the Ultimate Price.

  By Michael J. O’Hara

  Staff Writer, Philly News Now

  Photographs courtesy of the Family and Michael J. O’Hara

  PHILADELPHIA—The City of Brotherly Love grieves today at the loss of one of its finest citizens and public servants. Sergeant Matthew Mark Payne, a nine-year veteran of the Philadelphia Police Department, well known as the “Wyatt Earp of the Main Line,” was gunned down last week in a Kensington alleyway as he dragged out a fellow officer who’d been wounded in an ambush.

  Payne’s heroic act amid a barrage of bullets sealed, right up until his last breath, his long-held reputation as a brave, loyal, and honorable officer and gentleman.

  Friends and family say that part of what made Payne such an outstanding civil servant, one who personified the department’s motto of Honor, Integrity, Sacrifice, was that he did not have to do the job.

  He chose to do it.

  A FAMILY THAT SERVED—AND SACRIFICED

  When, almost a decade ago, Payne graduated summa cum laude from the University of Pennsylvania, he could have followed practically any professional path other than law enforcement.

  He’d enjoyed a privileged background, brought up in all the comfort that a Main Line lifestyle afforded. After attending prep school at Episcopal Academy, then completing his studies at U of P, he was expected to pursue a law degree and perhaps join his adoptive father’s law practice, the prestigious firm of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester.

  Instead, Matt Payne chose something else: He decided that he should defend his country.

  He signed recruitment papers with the United States Marine Corps, only to have a minor condition with his vision bar him from joining the Corps.

  Determined to serve in some capacity, Payne joined the Philadelphia Police Department.

  Again, he didn’t have to. If anything, Matt Payne had a pass. But, again, he chose to.

  A pass because his biological father, Sergeant John F. X. Moffitt, known as “Jack,” had been killed in the line of duty—shot dead while responding to a silent burglar alarm at a gasoline station. And Jack Moffitt’s brother, Captain Richard C. “Dutch” Moffitt, who was commanding officer of the department’s elite Highway Patrol, had been killed trying to stop a robbery of the Waikiki Diner on Roosevelt Avenue.

  Payne’s decision to join the police department came only months after his Uncle Dutch had been killed. Many believed he’d done so in order to avenge the deaths of his father and uncle and to prove that the eye condition that kept him out of the Corps would not keep him from being a good cop.

  “Frankly, all that scared hell out of us,” said Dennis V. “Denny” Coughlin, who recently retired as first deputy commissioner of police but at the time of Payne’s joining the department was a chief inspector.

  Coughlin long had been best friends with Jack Moffitt and took upon himself the sad duty of delivering the tragic news to Matt’s mother—then pregnant with Matt—that she’d been widowed.

  “I can confess now that when Matty came to the department,” a visibly upset Coughlin said, “I tried to protect him. I sure as hell didn’t want to have to knock on his mother’s door with the news that now Jack’s son—who was also my godson—had been killed on the job, too. Unfortunately, that duty fell last week to First Deputy Commissioner of Police Peter Wohl.”

  NEW COP, HERO COP

  After graduating from the police academy, there was no question that Matt Payne was becoming both a good cop and a respected one.

  “But no matter how hard we tried throughout his career,” said Peter Wohl, to whom Payne was first assigned as an administrative assistant when Wohl ran Special Operations, “Matt wound up in the thick of things, bullets flying. That said, all his shootings were found to be righteous ones.”

  Before Payne had even put in six months on the job, he had already drawn his pistol. It had happened when he was off duty and had come across a van that fit the description of the one used by the criminal the newspaper headlines called the “Northwest Serial Rapist.” When the van’s driver tried to run him do
wn, he shot him in the head. A young woman—trussed-up and naked in the back of the vehicle—was saved from becoming the rapist’s next victim. And headlines hailed Matt Payne as a hero.

  The next incident happened during an operation that was being covered by this writer.

  Matt Payne had been assigned to provide protection for this writer in an alleyway that was supposed to be a safe distance from where tactical teams were staging to arrest gang members who had committed murder while robbing Goldbatt’s Department Store.

  “We thought that in having Matt sit on Mick,” Wohl explained, “we could keep Mick out of our way and at the same time keep Matt far from any gunplay.”

  They were wrong.

  As this writer reported then, one gang member who ran from the tactical teams came into the alleyway and began shooting. Payne, his forehead grazed by a bullet, returned fire and killed the felon.

  The following day, a photograph taken by this writer of a bloodied Matt Payne holding his pistol while standing over the dead shooter appeared on the newspaper’s front page with this writer’s firsthand account of Payne’s heroic actions.

  The photograph’s headline read “Officer M. M. Payne, 23, The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”

  A SHINING—BUT BRIEF—CAREER

  Promotion followed. But so, too, did more gunfire.

  Payne became romantically involved with a young woman named Susan Reynolds and discovered that a sorority sister of hers was caught up with a terrorist named Bryan Chenowith, the target of a nationwide manhunt by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  In an attempt to trap Chenowith, Payne asked Reynolds to lure her friend to a diner in hopes that the fugitive would follow. The plan was for an FBI special agent to grab him, but the fugitive brought with him a .30 caliber carbine rifle—and shot up the diner parking lot.

  Susan Reynolds took a bullet to the head and died in Payne’s arms.

  Later, Payne quietly admitted that the experience haunted him beyond anything he’d ever known.