Coughlin looked at the television. The footage was of ex-governor Bailey commenting on Mayor Carlucci.
Coughlin turned back to Wohl.
“Anyone else know about this?” Coughlin said, gesturing with the folded sheet.
When Wohl shook his head, Coughlin held out his hand.
“Let me see that one, too, Peter.”
Wohl complied, and waited for him to read it.
Coughlin instead placed the two letters of resignation together in his big hands—and ripped them in half, then tore those halves in half again.
“He’s my godson. You’re his rabbi. Matty was born to be a cop. You know it. I know it. Most important, he knows it. This department, more so now than ever before, needs good cops. And minds like his—and yours, Peter—that think outside the box have to be the future of this department. Between us, we can find him a job that makes everyone happy.” He pointed at the telephone on the desk. “Get him on the horn for me, please.”
[ TWO ]
The Riverwalk
San Antonio, Texas
Monday, January 16, 12:22 P.M. Texas Standard Time
At more or less the same moment that Inspector Peter Wohl had entered First Deputy Police Commissioner Coughlin’s office, Matt Payne took a footbridge across the scenic urban stream, which was maybe twenty feet wide and hemmed with restaurants, hotels, and a variety of retail shops. He crossed just in time to see Amanda Law settling into a seat at a table of a small tree-shaded cantina just downstream.
Next door to the cantina was the boutique hotel where she had told him she was staying. And standing in front of the hotel was a traditional Mexican mariachi band—three Latin men wearing colorful outfits and strumming acoustic guitars.
Payne carried fifty red roses that he had ordered by phone from a florist a block off the Riverwalk. He went up to the musicians and spoke in the ear of the lead guitarist, and band leader, who nodded with enthusiasm.
Payne, balancing the enormous bouquet, dug his money clip from his pocket and handed the man two fifty-dollar bills. The man gave him a broad smile, removed his Western-style straw hat, and put it on Payne’s head.
—
With the band in tow, Payne approached Amanda’s table. He tilted his head so that the long brim of the hat obscured his face, then pulled a single rose stem from the bouquet.
The three men began softly playing and singing: “Besame, besame mucho / Que tengo miedo a perderte, perderte despues . . .”
Amanda, absently surveying the menu, turned her head at the familiar music and lyrics.
“Señorita?” Payne said, holding the rose out to her.
She glanced at the flower, then slowly motioned with her left hand, palm out, toward it, and said in a soft monotone, “No, gracias.”
Matt smiled when he saw the diamonds of her engagement ring sparkling in the sunlight. But he thought that her face looked, as her voice had sounded, if not saddened, then simply devoid of any emotion.
Matt pushed the hat back on his head, motioned near the menu with the flower again.
“Señorita, por favor?”
Amanda looked up from her menu and in a polite tone had begun to repeat, “No . . .” when she gasped. “Matt?”
Payne, putting his open hand on his chest, joined in with the musicians, but in English, and completely off key: “Kiss me, kiss me a lot / For I’m scared to lose you, to lose you afterward . . .”
Amanda stood up, her face showing a mix of surprise and excitement.
“Oh my God,” she said, “I’ve missed you so much . . .”
—
Matt Payne refilled their glasses with the last of the pitcher of frozen margaritas.
“So, they forced my hand,” he said. “And, you know, I’m glad they did. It leaves me with no excuse not to broaden my horizons.”
“What’s your plan?”
“The initial plan, subject to modification, is that I’ll be working in my father’s Center City office while taking that new combined Law-MBA program at UP.”
“What do you think you’d want to do with that?”
He shrugged. “Almost anything. Get this: Aimee Wolter says that I should consider running for district attorney, that she would run the campaign. But that’s getting ahead of things. First things first . . .”
“Matt, listen. That all sounds great. But hold that thought. I have to tell you something . . .”
“Okay.”
“I really went off prematurely. I like to think I’m pretty tough . . .”
“And you are. Incredibly tough.”
“But losing the baby hit me hard. Really hard. You saw how I was, with my hormones raging off the chart. I’m grateful you tolerated me. That, and I’ve been talking with my father. Not about my hormones but about you. And me. Us. I won’t repeat exactly what he said—he’s not one to sugarcoat, as you know—but he helped convince me.”
“About what?”
Amanda was silent. She met his eyes.
“Even though I get concerned and worried,” she said, “I’ve always respected what you do, and what my dad did, as a cop. And now, tending to these warrior heroes here at the medical center . . . and seeing their amazingly strong families supporting them . . . has helped put it in another light.”
She paused to sip her margarita, clearly collecting her thoughts.
“I came here to learn more about medicine,” she went on. “And I have. The work that’s done at Brooke is incredible, miraculous. But what I’ve also really learned about here is the inner strength, the extraordinary determination and perseverance, of the patients. They have been through hell, had their lives literally blown up, suffering horrific burns, losing arms and legs, and more. Yet they believe in who they are and what they do. The harder it gets, they tougher they get. And you know what? After all they’ve been through, and all they will go through, with multiple operations and then rehabilitation, they still would do anything to get back to serving with their brothers and sisters in uniform. It is awe-inspiring. And humbling.”
She paused.
Matt felt his throat tighten.
“So I get it, Matt. And I don’t want you to quit if you don’t. I’ll work this out. We can work this out.”
“You’re sure about this?” he said, his voice strained.
“Our world needs good men to overcome the evil. I know that to be an absolute.”
Then Matt saw her eyes moisten, and a tear slip down her cheek. She leaned over and threw her arms around his neck. She buried her face in his neck and kissed it as he wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed her close.
He ignored the vibrations coming from the phone in his pants pocket.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
W. E. B. Griffin is the author of seven bestselling series: The Corps, Brotherhood of War, Badge of Honor, Men at War, Honor Bound, Presidential Agent, and Clandestine Operations. He has been invested into the orders of St. George of the U.S. Armor Association and St. Andrew of the Army Aviation Association of America, and is a life member of the U.S. Special Operations Association; Gaston-Lee Post 5660, Veterans of Foreign Wars; the American Legion, China Post #1 in Exile; the Police Chiefs Association of Southeastern Pennsylvania, Southern New Jersey, and the State of Delaware; the National Rifle Association; the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) Society; and the Flat Earth Society (Pensacola, Florida, and Buenos Aires, Argentina, chapters). He is an honorary life member of the U.S. Army Otter & Caribou Association, the U.S. Marine Corp Raider Association, and the USMC Combat Correspondents Association.
William E. Butterworth IV has been an editor and writer for more than thirty years, and has worked closely with his father on the editing and writing of many of the Griffin books. He is coauthor of the bestselling novels The Saboteurs, The Double Agents, Death and Honor, The Traffickers, The Honor of Spies, The Vigila
ntes, The Outlaws, Victory and Honor, Covert Warriors, The Spymasters, Empire and Honor, The Last Witness, Hazardous Duty, Top Secret, The Assassination Option, and Deady Assets. He is a member of the Sons of the American Legion, China Post #1 in Exile, and of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) Society, and a life member of the National Rifle Association and the Texas Rifle Association. He lives in Florida.
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Broken Trust Page 31