Matt had a mental image of his godfather, now the heavyset, silver-haired first deputy police commissioner, and his father around the time they would’ve been about his age. He could see them sitting at the wooden table in the kitchen of the South Philly row house, a half-empty bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey between them, drinking from glass jars whose Amish Apple Butter labels had been soaked off years earlier, talking shop.
“Why?” Matt said.
“Jason’s too smart,” Patricia Payne said. “And that scares some people who think he might be after their job.”
“You should see that, Sherlock,” Amy said. “You didn’t earn your promotion to sergeant . . .”
“Bullshit,” Matt blurted.
“. . . And go into Homicide,” she went on. “You instead got a meritorious bump because of your connections. And if you don’t believe it, just ask any cop.” She paused, stared at him, then added, “That’s the perception, Matt, and perception more times than not is stronger than reality. It becomes reality. And, like Jason, you may soon hit your ceiling, too.”
Payne thought about that as he drained his beer.
“Where did you get that?” he said. “Not from Peter?”
Peter Wohl, at thirty-seven, was the youngest inspector in the department. After chief inspector, which was the next-highest rank, came the one- to four-star commissioner ranks.
It was no secret in the department that Wohl had been Matt Payne’s “rabbi,” his mentor. The function of rabbis was to groom a young police officer for greater responsibility—and rank—down the line.
Wohl’s rabbi had been Inspector, then Chief Inspector, then First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin. And Denny Coughlin’s rabbi, as he rose in rank, had first been Captain, then the Honorable Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia.
Carlucci liked to boast that before answering the people’s call to elective public office, he had held every rank in the department except that of policewoman.
And Hizzoner had had a rabbi—one Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, whose only son, Peter, would later enter the police academy at age twenty, two weeks after graduating from Temple University.
Peter and Amy had an on-and-off relationship.
“Yes,” Amy said, “from Peter. But he simply was repeating it. He does not subscribe to it.”
“Probably because people said the same about him,” Matt said. He paused, then added, “So, what’s the professional shrink term for him confiding in you? Pillow talk?”
Amy shook her head, clearly restraining herself from rising to the bait.
“You know, Matt,” she said, “Penn Law and the Wharton School now have an accelerated course that combines JD and MBA programs. You can get both degrees in half the time it would take if you earned each separately.”
“Is that so?” Patricia Payne said. “Business and law together. Interesting.”
Matt’s eyes darted toward his mother, and he fought back the urge to say, Jesus! Not you, too?
“Thanks, Amy,” Matt said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s nice to know. Duly noted.” He paused, then added, “Is there a reason you’re butting into my business?”
“Would you believe—as much as I right now want to smack you on the back of the head with one of those damn cast-iron pans—that I care about you? That we care about you?”
Matt did not respond.
“I know what’s going on with you,” Amy said. “I know the reason you’re on edge. And, trust me, getting that place in The Rittenhouse really ain’t going to cut it.”
“What do you mean?” Matt said, his tone sharp.
“Amanda called this morning. I had to pry it out of her.”
Matt saw his mother quickly turn her head at that.
He thought, Shit! And you would.
“Pry what, exactly?” he said.
“She told me she was taking that monthlong visiting teaching position in San Antonio.”
“She say anything else?”
“About you two? No. She’s never been the type who would do that. But, then, she didn’t have to.”
Matt was not surprised. Amanda and Amy, suitemates in college before going on to med school, had kept up with each other ever since. They both had an uncanny sixth sense.
“Listen, little brother,” she said in a tone that Matt decided was the same one she used with her more stubborn patients. “It’s not as if this topic has not been broached before. And you really better start thinking hard about what it is that you want. Really want. Remember lieben und arbeiten?”
Matt felt his temper about to flare. There was a long pause before he trusted himself to speak.
“And do you remember what Dr. Stein said?” he said, finally.
Amy, eyes narrowing, looked at her brother.
“Which particular time?” she said, sharply.
“When he came to see me,” Matt said, “after I took out those two in the parking lot of La Famiglia.”
He paused, and thought, The night Terry was in my Porsche and it got shot up and I shot the robbers. And that killed that relationship.
Then Amy told Amanda that story.
And now . . . Shit!
“Well?” Amy said.
Matt went on. “He said, and this is almost verbatim, ‘Your sister is a fine psychiatrist and a fine teacher. Perhaps for that reason I was terribly disappointed with just about everything she had to say, and certainly with her theories. She should have known that, and known that you should not even think about treating someone you deeply care for. It clouds judgment. In this case, spectacularly.’”
Payne paused, then added, “I think perhaps his point was flawed on the deeply caring part, but I agree with the rest of the premise.”
“Matt!” his mother said.
“Sorry, Mom.”
Payne’s phone vibrated, and when he yanked it out of his pocket, there came a sharp pain from his wound. He automatically put his hand over the bandage as he checked the phone’s screen. He grimaced.
“Are you okay, honey?” Patricia Payne said.
He walked over to his mother.
“I’m afraid I need to get back,” he said, kissing her cheek again. “I’ll take a rain check on lunch.”
He went to the door and through it.
No one said another word.
[ FOUR ]
On the drive back, it took Matt a great deal of effort to keep a heavy foot off the accelerator pedal. In short order, he had gone through a wide range of emotion—first bordering on rage, then anger, then frustration, then, finally, a fair dose of self-loathing. Taking it all out on the car—which, by design, performed extraordinarily well when pushed hard—was easy to do.
His mind racing, he entered the on-ramp for I-476 South. There was no traffic ahead. And, seven seconds later, above the growl of exhaust, the alarm went off loudly in the dashboard—Bong! Bong!—and the instrument display flashed 90 MPH LIMIT EXCEEDED!
He immediately laid on the brakes and set the cruise control at 65, grateful that he had taken the time a month earlier to set up the onboard computer to warn him of the speedometer needle approaching triple digits.
He sighed as he touched the icon labeled PHONE on the in-dash screen, triggering the artificial intelligence interface on his smartphone that Kerry Rapier had had hacked and upgraded for him.
“Who can I call for you, Marshal?” the sultry, computer-generated female voice filled the car, triggering in Payne the mental image of the actress Kathleen Turner. He once had made the mistake of telling Rapier how much he’d liked her in Body Heat.
“Call Tony Harris mobile,” he announced.
“My pleasure.”
On the screen in the dashboard, a text box appeared that confirmed the request. Next, he heard two rings, and then Harris’s voice.
“Hey, Matt.”
“You got my attention. I’m headed back from my family’s place, and—”
“Hold one,” Tony interrupted. “I want to conference in Krowczyk.”
A minute later, Harris said, “Hey, Krow.”
“What’s up, Tony?” Danny Krowczyk, the Signals Intelligence analyst, said. “You get ahold of ol’ Wyatt Earp?”
Harris chuckled.
“Yeah, and he’s actually coming back from fighting evil criminals on the Main Line as we speak,” Harris said. “He’s on this conference call.”
There was silence.
Payne’s next mental image was of the gentle giant of a geek in his usual stance: hunched over his IBM i2 analyst notebook computer, his face aglow in its light, his eyeglasses reflecting a screenful of intel.
And, he thought, right now probably with a look of Oops! on his face.
“You’ve got the Marshal’s attention, Krow,” Payne said. “This better be good.”
“Oh, hey, Sarge. Yeah, I got something that I think is better than good. Then again, with all I’ve had to dig through, it could be nothing better than a WAG.”
“WAG?” Payne said.
“Yeah, that’s short for a highly technical HUMINT term.”
Human Intelligence WAG? Payne thought.
“Which is?” he said.
“Wild-ass guess.”
Payne snorted.
“So, you making progress or not?”
“Sarge,” Krowczyk said, “we can collect a shitload of data points round the clock till the cows come home, but unless they’re sorta close to what we’re looking for, there’s a real chance of instead getting what we refer to as analysis paralysis.” He paused, then added, “That said, I think this will help. There’s interesting stuff here, including a suicide. You swinging by the ECC anytime soon?”
“I’m on my way.”
Payne saw movement on the in-dash screen, the caller ID reading DAD’S OFFICE.
Oh, for chrissakes!
“I’ve got to take this incoming call, guys,” Payne announced.
“See you shortly,” Harris said, and the connection went dead.
Payne tapped the screen to accept the call, and said, his tone disgusted, “I really can’t believe they called you already, Dad. What the hell?”
“Hello, Matt,” Mrs. Irene Craig said, a certain tone of loving exasperation in her voice. She had served some twenty years as executive secretary to Brewster Payne, founding partner of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester, arguably Philadelphia’s most prestigious law firm. “You don’t sound as if you’re having the best day. I’m sorry. Please hold for your father.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Craig. Nice to hear your voice. And you really don’t want to know.”
After enough time for Mrs. Craig to share what had just transpired, his father’s voice filled the car. “Who called, Matt? What’s this about?”
“I’m guessing my pain-in-the-ass sister.”
“I haven’t heard from Amy. Is it anything serious?”
“And Mom didn’t call?”
“About what, Matt?”
“No, nothing serious,” Matt said. “I just assumed that since I was out at the house with them now, and . . .”
“Well, Matt,” Brewster said, when he had finished, “the one thing I can say unequivocally is that they do both love and care about you”—he paused, then added—“as do I.”
Matt felt his throat tighten.
“Look, Matt,” his father went on, “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: You’re a grown man. Do what you believe you must. Do what makes you happy.”
Matt was quiet. He thought about his father—a tall, angular, dignified man in his early fifties—and how wise and fair he could be, and how he wanted to emulate that for as long as he could remember.
“Matt?” his father said.
“Yeah, I’m still here . . . And thanks for that.”
“What was it that you called about earlier?” Brewster Payne said, moving the conversation on.
Matt told him about what Camilla Rose Morgan had said.
“I cannot right now confirm this,” Brewster said, “but I’m almost certain she is not a client.”
What the hell? Matt thought. She lied about that? Why?
Makes me wonder how well she knew Daffy. If it was only in passing.
Not that that really matters, but it could establish a pattern.
“Do you remember speaking with her?” Matt said.
“Oh, sure. How could anyone not, with that enormous personality of hers? Not to mention her gift for getting one to contribute to her charities. She’s very good, very convincing. But just not a client.”
“How come?” Matt said.
“Any firm as conservative as ours simply would not annoy a billionaire, especially a local one. Not when it’s his or her business that we want. The firms going after those smaller lawsuits usually are ones in places like Seattle, Chicago, Dallas—”
“She has a Florida lawyer. Maybe more than one.”
“Okay, even Miami, looking to make a name for themselves. The way it works—if, in fact, she had approached the firm for representation—is we would have said, ‘Unfortunately, we have to decline taking your case.’”
“Because of what? Conflict of interest?”
“That’s exactly the reason. And I’m sure the reason she didn’t approach us was that she knew—or was told—that for decades we had represented Old Man Morgan in various cases. And none of the reputable local firms would take her case against Mason Morgan because they would rather have a billionaire’s business. Even just the crumbs, which are serious crumbs.”
“And that she wouldn’t win.”
“Yes, very likely that, too. The lawyer—lawyers, plural—taking her case will get plenty of billable hours. But if they don’t win, that’s all they get—there won’t be a big payday. And whatever they get would be nothing like what they could get from the old man’s company year after year. It would not surprise me if the old man, and now Mason, has put every heavy-hitting firm in town on retainer.”
“So,” Matt said, “when someone tries to hire them to go after Mason and/or Morgan International, the firms can say, ‘Sorry, but our conflict check has found that they are our client. Said conflict check ensures that our commitment is to the client’s best interest.’”
“Precisely.”
“She had listed as her next of kin her lawyer in Florida.”
“And not Mason or her mother? Interesting. That could mean something. Do you know who it is?”
“I should shortly.”
Brewster was quiet a for a minute, then said, “There is a small chance it could be a firm to which we’ve outsourced work and that could explain her thinking she’s our client. We’ve been looking at expanding into Florida, because farming out case work opens up a lot of other problems, such as inefficient conflict checks and disclosure of confidential information. When you do get the name, let me know. If nothing else, I can get you a clearer picture on who it is.”
“Will do. Thanks,” Matt said. “But, going off on a tangent, out at the house just now Mom mentioned the office politics of freezing people out of promotions because someone above them considers them a threat. I don’t doubt it happens; I’m just wondering how much, and what you think.”
“But you just got promoted.”
“Not about me,” Matt said, and explained. “We were talking about Jason Washington coming in at number one on the captain’s list, and . . .”
After he had finished, Brewster Payne said, “In my experience, there very well is a great deal of truth to that. Happens all the time. And the reverse is true: promotions get made based not on one’s superior abilities but on some connection.” He paused, then added, “Apropos of nothing whatsoev
er, that is why I like what I do. No one limits how hard I can work nor how high I can go.”
Matt was quiet.
“Look, Matt, call if you need anything. I have to deal with this deposition that just came in.”
“Thanks for everything. And I really mean it.”
“Anytime. You know that. Good luck.”
Matt heard the connection drop out.
—
Ten minutes later, after thinking about what his father had said, Payne tapped the MESSAGES icon on the dash screen.
The sultry Kathleen Turner voice filled the car: “Yes, Marshal?”
“Text Daffy.”
After a short pause came: “Your goddaughter’s mother has Do Not Disturb enacted on her communication devices right now.”
“Of course Daffy does. She’s probably bent into a pretzel in some snooty yoga class and trying in vain to rein in her flatulence.”
“Shall I ask Mrs. Nesbitt that?”
Payne chuckled.
“And you would. No, text her, quote, Quick question: How well did you know Camilla Rose Morgan, question mark, unquote.”
The sultry voice repeated the message as it simultaneously appeared in a text bubble on the screen in the dash.
“Okay. How’s this, Marshal?”
“Perfect. Send it. That way, it’ll be waiting for her when she gets thrown out of the class for stinking up the place.”
“Sent. Anything else I can do?”
“Yeah. You seem to be pretty intuitive. Always quick with the answers, getting me what I need. Why can’t all the women in my life be as cooperative and accommodating as you?”
“Try making me mad and see what happens.”
Payne was quiet.
“Marshal? Does this have anything to do with Amanda?”
“Play a Bob French album,” he said.
“Excellent choice. And I will cue up some new Emily Asher you might like. I love traditional Dixieland Jazz. Okay, Marshal, there, it’s done.”
Payne sighed as he heard the Original Tuxedo Jazz Band’s crisp but mournful brass horns begin filling the car with “Someday You’ll Be Sorry.”
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