Matt looked at him for a moment, then said, "Sorry, sir."
He took the folder holding his badge and photo identification card from his pocket and tried to shove it into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. It didn't fit. He started to unpin the badge from the leather folder.
I wonder, Lieutenant Lewis thought, how this young man's father feels about him becoming a policeman? He is probably at least as unenthusiastic about it as I am about that hard-headed, overgrown namesake of mine.
It is a question of upward and downward social mobility. My son has thrown away a splendid chance at upward mobility, to become a doctor; to make, a few years out of medical school, more money than I will ever make in my lifetime. This young man is turning his back on God alone knows what. Certainly, a partnership in Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and Lester. Very possibly a chance to become a senator or a governor. Certainly to make a great deal of money.
I am as baffled by this one as I am by Foster.
"Lieutenant," Detective D'Amata said, "Payne knows one of the victims. The woman." He consulted his notebook. "Her name is Penelope Detweiler. He says her parents are probably at the Union League-"
"Chestnut Hill?" Lieutenant Lewis asked, interrupting. "Those Detweilers, Payne?"
"Yes, sir."
Lieutenant Lewis also knew a good deal about the Detweilers of Chestnut Hill. Four generations ago George Detweiler had gone into partnership with Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt to found what was then called the Nesbitt Potted Meats and Preserved Vegetables Company. It was now Nesfoods International, listed just above the middle of the Fortune 500 companies and still tightly held. C. T. Nesbitt III was chairman of the Executive Committee and H. Richard Detweiler was President and Chief Executive Officer.
C. T. Nesbitt IV was to be married the day after tomorrow by the Episcopal Bishop of Philadelphia at St. Mark's Church. His Honor the Mayor and Mrs. Carlucci had been invited, and there had been a call from a mayor's officer to the 9^th District commander, saying the mayor didn't want any problems with traffic or anything else.
Extra officers from the 9^th District had been assigned to assist the Traffic Division in handling the flow of traffic. As a traffic problem it would be much like a very large funeral. A large number of people would arrive, more or less singly, at the church. Traffic flow would be impeded as each car (in many cases, a limousine) paused long enough to discharge its passengers and then moved on to find a parking place. After the wedding the problem would grow worse, as the four hundred odd guests left all at once to find their cars or limousines for the ride to the reception at the home of the bride's parents. Only the problem of forming a funeral convoy of cars would be missing.
Additionally there would be a number of plainclothes officers from Civil Affairs and the Detective Division mingling with the guests at the church and at the pre-wedding cocktail party for out-of-town guests in the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel.
Captain J. J. Maloney, the 9^th District Commander, had ordered Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., to take care of it.
"Has the family of the victim been informed?" Lieutenant Lewis asked.
"No, sir," D'Amata said.
"Sir, I thought maybe I could do that," Payne said. Lieutenant Lewis thought that over carefully for a moment. It had to be done. Normally it would be the responsibility of the 9^th District. But if Payne did it, it would probably be handled with greater tact than if he dispatched an RPC to do it. He considered for a moment going himself, or going with Payne, and decided against it. He also decided that he would not take it upon himself to notify the mayor, although he was sure Jerry Carlucci would want to hear about this. Let Captain J. J. Maloney tell the mayor, or one of the big brass. He would find a phone and call Maloney.
"Very well," Lieutenant Lewis said. "Do so. I don't think I have to tell you to express the regret of the Police Department that something like this has happened, do I?"
"No, sir."
"As I understand the situation, we don't know what happened here, do we?"
"No, sir," Matt Payne said.
"I'm sure that you will not volunteer your opinions, will you, Payne?"
"No, sir."
"And then come back here," Lieutenant Lewis said. "I'm sure Detective D'Amata, and others, will have questions for you."
"Yes, sir."
Lieutenant Lewis turned to Amanda Spencer.
"I didn't get your name, miss," he said.
"Amanda Spencer."
"Are you from Philadelphia, Miss Spencer?"
"Scarsdale," Amanda said, adding, "New York."
"You're in town for the wedding?"
"That's right."
"Where are you staying here?"
"With the Brownes, the bride's family," Amanda answered. "In Merion."
That would be the Soames T. Brownes, Lieutenant Lewis recalled from an extraordinary memory. Soames T. Browne did not have a job. When his picture appeared, for example, in a listing of the board of directors of the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society, the caption under it read "Soames T. Browne, Investments." The Brownes-and for that matter, the Soames-had been investing, successfully, in Philadelphia businesses since Ben Franklin had been running the newspaper there.
There was going to be a lot of pressure on this job, Lewis thought. And a lot of publicity. People like the Nesbitts and the Brownes and the Detweilers took the termpublic servant literally, with emphasis onservant. They expected public servants, like the police and the courts, to do what they had been hired to do, and were not at all reluctant to point out where those public servants had failed to perform. When a Detweiler called the mayor, he took the call.
Lieutenant Lewis thought again that Jerry Carlucci had been invited to the wedding and the reception and might even be at the Union League when the Payne kid walked in and told them that Penelope Detweiler had just been shot.
"Ordinarily, Miss Spencer, we'd ask you to come to the Roundhouse-"
"The what?" Amanda asked.
"To the Police Administration Building-"
"The whole building is curved, Amanda," Matt explained.
"-to be interviewed by a Homicide detective," Lieutenant Lewis went on, clearly displeased with Matt's interruption. "But since Officer Payne was with you, possibly Detective D'Amata would be willing to have you come there a little later."
"No problem with that, sir," D'Amata said.
And then, as if to document his prediction that the shooting was going to attract a good deal of attention from the press, an antennabedecked Buick Special turned out of the line of traffic and pulled into the exit ramp, and Mr. Michael J. O'Hara got out.
Mickey O'Hara wrote about crime for the PhiladelphiaBulletin. He was very good at what he did and was regarded by most policemen, including Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., as almost a member of the Department. If you told Mickey O'Hara that something was off the record, it stayed that way.
"Hey, Foster," Mickey O'Hara said, "that white shirt looks good on you."
That made reference to Lieutenant Foster's almost brand-new status as a lieutenant. Police supervisors, lieutenants and above, wore white uniform shirts. Sergeants and below wore blue.
"How are you, Mickey?" Lewis said, shaking O'Hara's hand. "Thank you."
"And what are you doing, Matt?" O'Hara said, offering his hand to Officer Payne. "Moonlighting as a waiter?"
"Hey, Mickey," Payne said.
"What's going on?"
"Hold it a second, Mickey," Lewis said. "Miss Spencer, you'll have to make a statement. Payne will tell you about that. And you come back here, Payne, as soon as you do what you have to do."
"Yes, sir. See you, Mickey."
O'Hara waited until Matt Payne had politely loaded Amanda Spencer into the Porsche, gotten behind the wheel, and was fed into the line of traffic by the Traffic sergeant before speaking.
"Nice kid, that boy," he said.
"So I hear," Lieutenant Lewis said.
"What does he have to do before he comes back here?"<
br />
"Tell H. Richard Detweiler that his daughter was found lying in a pool of blood on the roof of this place; somebody popped her with a shotgun," Lewis said.
"No shit? Detweiler's daughter? Is she dead?"
"No. Not yet, anyway. They just took her to Hahneman. There's another victim up there. White man. He got his head blown off."
"Robbery?" Mickey O'Hara asked. "With a shotgun? Who is he?"
"We don't know."
"Can I go up there?" Mickey asked.
"I'll go with you," Lewis said, and gestured toward the stairwell.
Between the third and fourth floors of the Penn Services Parking Garage, Lieutenant Lewis and Mr. O'Hara encountered Detective Lawrence Godofski of Homicide coming down the stairs.
Godofski had a plastic bag in his hand. He extended it to Lieutenant Lewis.
"Whaddayasay, Larry?" Mickey O'Hara said.
"How goes it, Mickey?"
The plastic bag contained a leather wallet and a number of cards, driver's license, and credit cards, which apparently had been removed from the wallet.
Lieutenant Lewis examined the driver's license through the clear plastic bag and then handed it to Mickey O'Hara. The driver's license had been issued to Anthony J. DeZego, of a Bouvier Street address in South Philadelphia, an area known as Little Italy.
"I'll be damned," Mickey O'Hara said. "Tony the Zee. He's the body?"
Detective Godofski nodded.
"This is pretty classy for Tony the Zee, getting himself blown away like this," O'Hara said. "The last I heard, he was driving a shrimp-and-oyster reefer truck up from the Gulf Coast."
"Godofski," Lieutenant Lewis said, "have you thought about bringing Organized Crime in on this?"
"Yes, sir. I was about to do just that."
"You find anything else interesting up there?"
Godofski produced another plastic bag, this one holding two fired shotshell cartridges.
"Number seven and a halfs," he said. "Rabbit shells."
"No gun?"
"No shotgun. Tony the Zee had a.38, a Smith and Wesson Undercover, in an ankle holster. I left it there for the lab guys. He never got a chance to use it."
"What the hell has H. Richard Detweiler's daughter got to do with a second-rate guinea gangster like Tony the Zee?" Mickey O'Hara asked rhetorically.
Lieutenant Lewis shrugged and then started up the stairs again.
****
The Union League of Philadelphia is a stone Victorian buildingsome say a remarkably ugly one-on the west side of South Broad Street, literally in the shadow of the statue of Billy Penn, which stands atop City Hall at the intersection of Broad and Market Streets.
South Broad Street, in front of the Union League, has been designated a NO PARKING AT ANY TIME TOW-AWAY ZONE. Several large signs on the sidewalk advertise this.
Traffic Officer P. J. Ward, who was directing traffic in the middle of South Broad Street, was thus both surprised and annoyed when he saw a silver Porsche 911 pull up in front of the Union League, turn off its lights, and stop. Then a young guy in a monkey suit got out and quickly walked around to the other side to open the door for his girlfriend.
Ward quickly strode over.
"Hey, you! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The young guy in the monkey suit turned to face him.
"I won't be long," he said. "I'm on the job."
There was a silver-colored badge pinned to his jacket, but Officer Ward decided he wasn't going to take that at what it looked like. There was a good chance, he decided, that when he got a good look at the badge, it would say PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR or OFFICIAL U.S. TAXPAYER, and that the young man in the monkey suit driving the Porsche would turn out to be a wiseass rich kid who thought he could get away with anything.
"Hold it a minute," he said, and trotted onto the sidewalk.
The badge was real. The next question was what was this rich kid driving a Porsche 911 doing with it?
"I'm Payne, Special Operations," the young guy said, and held out his photo ID. Ward saw at a glance that the ID was the real thing.
"What's going on?"
"I have to go in here a minute," Matt said. "I won't be long."
"Don't be," Officer Ward said.
Matt took Amanda's arm and they walked up the stairs to the front door. As they reached the revolving door to the entrance foyer, it was put into motion for them. Matt saw that just inside was a large man, who smelled of retired cop and was functioning more as a genteel bouncer than a doorman.
He had seen the two young people all nicely dressed up and decided they had legitimate business inside.
"Good evening," he said, then saw the badge on the young man's lapel, and surprise registered on his face.
"The Browne dinner?" Matt asked.
"Up the stairs, sir, and to your right," the man at the door said, pointing.
Matt and Amanda started up the stairs. Matt unpinned his badge and put it in his pocket. He would need it again when he went back to the garage, but he didn't want to put it on display here. Then he thought of something else.
"Here," he said, handing the Porsche keys to Amanda.
"What's this for?" she asked.
"Well, I sort of hoped you'd park it for me until I can catch up with you," Matt said. "I really can't leave it parked out in front."
"When are you going to 'catch up with me'?"
"As soon as I can. Sometime tonight you're going to have to make a statement at Homicide."
"I already told that detective everything I know."
"You know that," Matt said. "He doesn't."
She took the keys from him.
"I was about to say," she said, a touch of wonder in her voice, " 'You're not going to just leave me here like this, are you?' But of course you have to, don't you? You'rereally a policeman."
"I'm sorry," Matt said.
"Don't be absurd," Amanda said. "Why should you be sorry? It's just that-you don't look like a cop, I guess."
"What does a cop look like?"
"I didn't mean that the way it came out," she said.
She took his arm and they went the rest of the way up the stairway.
"Wait here, please," Matt said when they came to the double doors leading to the dining room. He stepped inside.
"May I have your invitation, sir?"
"I won't be staying," Matt said as he spotted the head table, and Mr. and Mrs. H. Richard Detweiler, and started for it.
"Hey!" the man who'd asked for the invitation said sharply, and started after him.
Mr. H. Richard Detweiler, who obviously had had a couple of drinks, was engaged in animated conversation with a youthful, trim, freckle-faced woman sitting at his right side. She was considerably older than she looked, Matt knew, for she was Mrs. Brewster Cortland Payne II, and she was his mother.
She smiled at him with her eyes when she saw him approaching the table, then returned her attention to Mr. Detweiler.
"Mr. Detweiler?" Matt said. "Excuse me?"
"Matt, you're interrupting," Patricia Payne said.
The man who had followed Matt across the room came up. "Excuse me, sir, I'll have to see your invitation," he said.
H. Richard Detweiler first focused his eyes on Matt, and then at the man demanding an invitation.
"It's all right," he said. "He's invited. He'd forget his head if it wasn't nailed on."
"Mr. Detweiler, may I see you a moment, please, sir?"
"Matt, for God's sake, can't you see that I'm talking to your mother?"
"Sir, this is important. I'm sorry to interrupt."
"Well, all right, what is it?"
"May I speak to you alone, please?"
"Goddammit, Matt!"
"Matt, what is it?" Patricia Payne asked.
"Mother, please!"
H. Richard Detweiler got to his feet. In the process he knocked over his whiskey glass, swore under his breath, and glowered at Matt.
Matt led him out of the room.
/> "Now what the devil is going on, Matt?" Detweiler asked impatiently, and then saw Amanda. "How are you, darling?"
"Mr. Detweiler," Matt said, "there's been an incident-"
"Incident? Incident? What kind of anincident?"
Brewster C. Payne II came out of the room.
"Penny's been hurt, Mr. Detweiler," Matt said. "She's been taken to Hahneman Hospital."
In a split second H. Richard Detweiler was absolutely sober.
"What, precisely, has happened, Matt?" he asked icily.
"I think it would be a good idea if you went to the hospital, Mr. Detweiler," Matt said.
Detweiler grabbed Matt by the shoulders.
"I asked you a question, Matt," he said. "Answer me, dammit!"
"Penny appears to have been shot, Mr. Detweiler," Matt said.
"Shot?" Detweiler asked incredulously."Shot?"
"Yes, sir. With a shotgun."
"I don't believe this," Detweiler said. "Is she seriously injured?"
"Yes, sir, I think she is."
"How did it happen? Where?"
"On the roof of the parking garage behind the Bellevue," Matt said. "That's about all we know."
"'All we know'? What about the police?"
"I'm a policeman, Mr. Detweiler," Matt said. "We just don't know yet what happened."
"That's right," Detweiler said, dazed. "Your dad told me you were a policeman-and then there was all the business in the newspapers. My God, Matt, what happened?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Dick, you'd better go to the hospital," Brewster C. Payne said. " I'll get Grace and bring her over there."
"My God, this is unbelievable!" Detweiler said.
"It would probably be quicker if you caught a cab out front," Matt said.
H. Richard Detweiler looked at Matt intently for a moment, then ran down the stairs.
"How did you get involved in this, Matt?" Brewster C. Payne II asked.
"Amanda and I found her- Excuse me. Dad, this is Amanda Spencer. Amanda, this is my father."
"Hello," Amanda said.
"We drove onto the roof of the garage and found her," Matt said. " Amanda called it in. They took her to Hahneman in a wagon."
The Victim boh-3 Page 8