The Victim

by W. E. B Griffin

  FIFTEEN

  Amanda Spencer was a little drunk. Matt Payne’s usual reaction to drunken—even half-drunk—women was that they had all the appeal of a run-over dog, but again, Amanda was proving herself to be the exception to the rule. He thought she was sort of cute. Her eyes were bright, and she was very intent.

  And, Jesus Christ, she was beautiful!

  She was still wearing the off-the-shoulder blue gown she and Daffy’s other bridesmaids had worn at Saint Mark’s. He found the curvature of the exposed portion of her upper bosom absolutely fascinating. During the ceremony his mind had wandered from what the bishop of Philadelphia was saying about the institution of marriage to recalling in some detail the other absolutely fascinating aspects of Amanda’s anatomy, in particular the delightful formation of her tail.

  The ceremony had gone off without a hitch. Although Chad Nesbitt had been as tight as a tick, his condition hadn’t been all that apparent, and except for one burp and one incident of flatulence that had caused some smiles and a titter or two, the exchange of vows had been appropriately solemn and even rather touching: Matt had happened to glance at Daffy while the bishop was asking her if she was willing to forsake all others until death did them part, and she actually had tears in her eyes as she looked at Chad.

  Outside Saint Mark’s afterward, however, his plans to kiss Amanda tenderly and as quickly as possible were sent awry by Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., of the 9th District, who had been outside the church, seen Matt, and beckoned him over.

  “Excuse me, please, Amanda,” he said, and touched her arm, and she had smiled at him, and he’d walked over to Lieutenant Lewis.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Are you on duty, Payne?”

  “No, sir.”

  Lieutenant Lewis had examined him for a moment, nodded his head, and walked away.

  By then Amanda had been shepherded into one of the limousines and driven off to the Browne estate in Merion. He had known that it was highly unlikely that Amanda would have gone back to his apartment with him before they went to the house for the reception, but it had not been entirely beyond the realm of possibility.

  Matt had to drive out to the Brownes’ place by himself.

  But once there he had found her right away, by one of the bars, with a champagne glass in her hand that she, with what he thought was entirely delightful intimacy, had held up to his lips.

  Chad had searched him out, by then more visibly pissed, and extracted a solemn vow that if something happened to him in the service, Matt would look after Daffy.

  There had been an enormous wedding cake. Chad had used his Marine officer’s sword to cut it. From the way he withdrew it from the scabbard and nearly stabbed his new bride in the belly with it, Matt suspected that it was no more than the third time the sword had been out of its scabbard.

  An hour after that the bride and groom, through a hail of rice and bird seed, had gotten in a limousine and driven off.

  And now, an hour after that, he and Amanda were dancing.

  The vertical manifestation of a horizontal desire, he thought, delightfully aware of the pressure of Amanda’s bosom against his abdomen, the brushing of his thighs against hers.

  “I watched you during the wedding,” Amanda said against his chest.

  He pulled back and looked down at her and smiled.

  “I saw your gun,” she said.

  “How could you do that?” he asked, surprised. “It’s in an ankle holster.”

  “Figuratively speaking,” she said, pronouncing the words very carefully.

  “Oh,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Shipboard romance,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know about shipboard romances, presumably?” Amanda asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “People fall in love on a ship very quickly,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Because they are in a strange environment and there is an element of danger,” Amanda said.

  “You have made a study of this, I gather?”

  “The romance fades when the ship docks,” Amanda said, “and people see things as they really are.”

  “So we won’t get on a ship,” Matt said. “A small sailboat, maybe. But no ship. Or if we do, we’ll just never make port. Like the Flying Dutchman.”

  “They grow up, so to speak,” Amanda went on. “See things for what they really are.”

  “You said that,” he said.

  “Or,” she said significantly, “one of them does.”

  “Meaning what?” There was something in what was going on that made him uncomfortable.

  “When are you going to stop playing policeman and get on with your life is what I’m wondering,” she said, putting her face against his shirt again.

  “I don’t think I’m ‘playing’ policeman,” he said.

  “You don’t know that you’re playing policeman,” she said. “That’s what I meant when I said one of them grows up.”

  “I don’t think I like this conversation,” Matt said. “Why don’t we talk about something pleasant, like what are we going to do next weekend?”

  “I’m serious, Matt.”

  “So’m I. So what’s your point?”

  “I know why you became a policeman,” she said.

  “You do?”

  “Because you couldn’t get in the Marines with Chad and had to prove you were a man.”

  “You have been talking to Daffy, I see,” he said.

  “Well, now you’ve done that. You became a cop and you shot a man. You have nothing else to prove. So why are you still a cop?”

  “I like being a cop.”

  “That’s what I mean,” she said.

  She stopped dancing, freed herself from his arms, and looked up at him.

  “The ship has docked,” she said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I’m sorry I started this conversation,” she said, “but I had to.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

  “Yes you do!” she said, and Matt saw that she was on the edge of tears.

  “What’s wrong with me being a cop?” Matt asked softly.

  “If you don’t know, I certainly can’t tell you.”

  “Jesus!”

  “I’m tired,” she said. “And a little drunk. I’m going to bed.”

  “It’s early,” he protested.

  She walked away with a little wave.

  “Call you in the morning before you go?”

  There was no reply to that, either.

  “Shit,” Matt said aloud.

  Thirty minutes later, just as Matt had decided she wasn’t coming back out of the house, and as he had indicated to the bartender that he would like another Scotch and soda, easy on the soda, his father touched his arm and announced, “I’ve been looking for you.”

  I am about to get hell, Matt decided. The party is just about over, and I have not danced with my mother. Actually I haven’t done much about my mother at all except wave ather. And to judge by the look on his face, he is really pissed. Or disappointed in me, which is even worse than his being pissed at me.

  “My bad manners are showing again, are they?” Matt asked.

  “Are you sober?” Brewster C. Payne asked evenly enough.

  “So far,” Matt said.

  “Come with me, please, Matt,” his father said. “There’s no putting this off, I’m afraid.”

  “No putting what off?”

  “Leave your drink,” his father said. “You won’t be needing it.”

  They walked out of the tent and around it and up the lawn to the house. His father led him into the butler’s pantry, where he had been early that morning with Soames T. Browne.

  H. Richard Detweiler was sitting on one of the high stools. When he saw Matt, he got off it and looked at Matt with both hurt and anger in his eyes.

  “Would you like a drink, Matt?” Detweiler asked.
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  “He’s already had enough to drink,” Brewster C. Payne answered for him, and then turned to Matt. “Matt, you are quoted as saying that Penny has a problem with drugs, specifically cocaine.”

  “Quoted by whom?” Matt said.

  “Did you say that? Something like that?” his father pursued.

  “Jesus Christ!” Matt said.

  “Yes, or no, for God’s sake, Matt!” H. Richard Detweiler said angrily.

  “Goddamn him!” Matt said.

  “So it’s true,” Detweiler said. “What right did you think you had to say something filthy like that about Penny?”

  “Mr. Detweiler, I’m a policeman,” Matt said.

  “Until about an hour ago I was under the impression that you were a friend of Penny’s first, and a policeman incidentally,” he said.

  “Oh, Matt,” Matt’s father said.

  “I think of myself as a friend of Penny’s, Mr. Detweiler,” Matt said. “We’re trying very hard to find out who shot her and why.”

  “And the way to do that is spread…something like this around?”

  “I didn’t spread it around, Mr. Detweiler. I talked to Chad about Penny—”

  “Obviously,” Detweiler said icily.

  “And in confidence I told him what we had learned about Penny—about Penny and cocaine.”

  “Not thinking, of course, that Chad would tell Daffy, and Daffy would tell her mother, and that it would soon be common gossip?” Brewster Payne said coldly.

  “And that’s all it is, isn’t it?” H. Richard Detweiler said angrily, disgustedly. “Gossip? Filthy supposition with nothing to support it but your wild imagination? What were you trying to do, Matt, impress Chad with all the inside knowledge you have, now that you’re a cop?”

  “Where did you hear this, Matt? From that detective? The black man?” his father asked.

  “Mr. Detweiler,” Matt said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am you learned it the way you have, but the truth is that Penny is into cocaine. From what I understand, she is on the edge of being addicted to it.”

  “That’s utter nonsense!” Detweiler flared. “Don’t you think her mother and I would know if she had a problem along those lines?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think you would. You don’t, Mr. Detweiler.”

  “I asked you the source of your information, Matt,” his father said.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that,” Matt said. “But the source is absolutely reliable.”

  “You mean you won’t tell us,” Detweiler said. “Did it occur to you that if there was any semblance of truth to this that Dr. Dotson would have been aware of it and brought it to my attention?”

  “I can’t believe that Dr. Dotson is not aware of it,” Matt said. “Mr. Detweiler, I don’t pretend to know anything about medical ethics—”

  “Medical ethics or any other kind, obviously,” Detweiler snapped.

  “But Penny is twenty-one, an adult, and it seems to me that Penny wouldn’t want you to know.”

  “Russell Dotson has been our family doctor for—for all of Penny’s life and then some. Good God, Matt, he’s a friend. He’s outside right now. If he knew, suspected, something like that, he would tell me.”

  “I can’t speak for Dr. Dotson, Mr. Detweiler,” Matt said.

  “Maybe we should ask him to come in here,” Detweiler said. “I think I will. Let the two of you look each other in the eye.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Mr. Detweiler,” Matt said.

  “I’ll bet you do!”

  “Dick, Matt may have a point,” Brewster C. Payne said. “There is the question of doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Detweiler snapped.

  “Yours. Penny’s. Matt’s,” Brewster C. Payne said.

  Detweiler glowered at him for a moment, then turned to Matt. “How long did you say you have been aware of this situation?”

  “Since I saw Penny in the hospital this morning,” Matt said after having to think a moment.

  Christ, was that only this morning?

  “In other words, when you and that detective came to the house, you knew, or thought you knew, that Penny was a drug addict?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In other words, then, when I allowed you, because I thought you were trying to find out who shot Penny, to paw through her drawers, you and that black detective were actually looking for evidence to support your notion that Penny’s taking drugs?”

  “No, sir,” Matt said. “That’s not so.”

  “Yes, it is, goddamn you! You took advantage of our friendship! That’s despicable!”

  “Dick, take it easy!” Brewster C. Payne said.

  “You better get him out of here before I beat him up,” H. Richard Detweiler said.

  “Mr. Detweiler—” Matt said.

  “Get out of my sight, goddamn you! I never want to see your face again!”

  “You can believe this or not, Mr. Detweiler, but we’re trying to help Penny,” Matt said.

  Detweiler stepped menacingly toward Matt.

  “Goddamn you!”

  Oh, Christ, I don’t want to hit him! Matt thought.

  His father stepped between them and kept them apart. He motioned with his head for Matt to leave.

  Matt felt sick to his stomach. He fled the house and after some difficulty found his car. It was blocked in by several limousines, and he had to find their chauffeurs and get them to move them.

  As he started down the drive he saw his father, obviously waiting for him. There was a temptation to pretend he didn’t see him, but at the last moment he braked sharply and stopped and rolled down the window.

  “You had better be sure of your facts,” Brewster C. Payne said, leaning down to the window. “Dick Detweiler is looking for Dr. Dotson right now.”

  “And if Dotson won’t tell him, then what?”

  “All I’m saying is that you had better be sure of your facts,” his father said.

  “There seems to be some doubt in your mind, Dad,” Matt said.

  “I know that you don’t have very much experience as a policeman,” his father said. “If you had, you wouldn’t have run off at the mouth about any of this to Chad. A lot of damage has been done.”

  “To whom, Dad?” Matt’s mouth ran away with him. “To Penny? Or to your cozy relationship with Nesfoods International?”

  “That,” Brewster C. Payne said calmly, “was a despicable thing for you to say.”

  “You think so?” Matt said, his mouth now completely out of control. “Then try this on for size: Our information, as we cops are prone to say, is that Penny Detweiler was not only a coke junkie but was fucking that guinea gangster who got himself blown away. Nice girl, our precious Penny.”

  Brewster C. Payne looked at Matt intently for a moment, then straightened, turned, and started to walk back to the house.

  Matt drove down the driveway and, after one of the rent-a-cops had carefully examined him and the car, was passed out the gate.

  A hundred yards down the road he pulled the car to the curb, got out, and took several deep breaths. The technique, alleged to constrain the urge to become nauseous, didn’t work.

  Matt took Lancaster Avenue, which is U.S. Highway 30, into Philadelphia, driving slowly, trying to think of some way he could explain, in the morning, his runaway mouth to Jason Washington. Then it occurred to him that he had to tell Peter Wohl, not Washington, and he had to tell him tonight, not wait until morning.

  The worst possible, and thus the most likely, scenario was that the trouble I am going to cause for having confided, like a fourteen-year-old—which, it may be reasonably argued, I am, intellectually speaking—in Chad Nesbitt is going to start tonight. Mr. Detweiler will find Dr. Dotson. Dr. Dotson will either deny outright, or downplay, Penny’s coke problem. Mr. Detweiler will then naturally construe Brewster C. Payne’s best legal advice, to cool it, as being based on Brewster C. Payne’s paternal loyalty to his son, Boy Cop, Ye
Olde Blabbermouth. He will then express his displeasure, his outrage, to the nearest official ear he can find. Which will be that of His Honor Mayor Jerry Carlucci, last seen in the striped tent on his lawn.

  There was a cheese-steak joint at 49th and Lancaster. He pulled the Porsche to the curb and walked across Lancaster to it. There was a 19th District RPC at the curb, and two cops at the counter drinking coffee.

  The cops looked at him with unabashed curiosity, reminding him that he was wearing formal evening wear.

  Be not concerned, Officers. While my unbelievable stupidity has just brought down upon the Police Department generally, and on two of its best, who have been both holding my hand to keep me out of trouble, and have so foolishly placed an entirely unjustified faith in my common sense, the completely justified wrath of a very powerful man, what you have here is not some rich kid in a monkey suit who will disturb the peace of this establishment, but, incroyable, one of you, a police officer, complete to gun, badge, and out in the Porsche, handcuffs and everything.

  Matt walked to a pay phone mounted on the wall and fished change from his pocket. He had just received a dial tone when his eye fell on a stack on newspapers, apparently just delivered, on the counter. It was the Ledger. At first glance there seemed to be a three-column photograph of His Honor Mayor Jerry Carlucci just about in the act of either punching or choking someone.

  Curiosity overwhelmed Matt. He hung the phone up and went to the counter. On closer examination the photograph on the front page of the Philadelphia Ledger was indeed of the mayor, and he did indeed look as if he were about to either choke someone or punch him out. The caption, simply “The Honorable Jerry Carlucci, mayor of the City of Philadelphia,” provided no explanation.

  The explanation came in the story below the picture.

  SOCIALITES MARRY UNDER

  HEAVY POLICE GUARD:

  HEIRESS’ SHOOTING

  CONTINUES

  TO BAFFLE POLICE

  * * *

  By Charles E. Whaley, Ledger Staff Writer

  Phila—The wedding of socialites Daphne Elizabeth Brown and Chadwick T. Nesbitt IV went on as scheduled at 7:30 P.M. at St. Mark’s Church last evening, minus one bridesmaid, and with a heavy force of police and private security personnel evident at the church.