The Investigators

by W. E. B Griffin

  “What did it cost?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  Wohl chuckled.

  “How’s it coming?”

  “There are thirteen tapes. I am on number three.”

  “We still on for tomorrow?”

  “Yes, indeed, sir. I wish to play for ten dollars a stroke, plus side bets. It would please me greatly to have you pay for this electronic marvel.”

  “Merion at twelve, right?”

  “Bring your checkbook.”

  The relationship between Inspector Wohl and Detective Payne was unusual. Generally, it was believed that Wohl had elected to become Payne’s rabbi, which was to say he had seen in the younger man the intelligence and character traits that would, down the pike, make him a fine senior police officer, and had chosen to be his mentor. That was true, but the best explanation of their relationship Peter had ever heard had come from his mother, who had said Matt was the little brother he had never had.

  Wohl turned and walked out of the room, pausing before Washington’s desk.

  “If he shows any signs of slowing up—much less trying to leave—use your whip,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Washington said.

  Detective Payne replaced the headset, then held his hand, middle finger extended, in a very disrespectful gesture, over his head.

  Wohl went down the corridor, got into his official unmarked car, and headed downtown for his meeting with Chief Inspector Lowenstein.

  Five minutes later, the telephone in the Investigations Section rang. Sergeant Washington answered it, called out “Matt!” and when there was no answer, got up and walked to Payne’s desk, tapped him on the shoulder, and then pointed to the telephone.

  Payne took his earphones off, punched an illuminated button on the telephone on the desk, and picked it up.

  “Payne,” he said.

  “Would you hold please for Mr. Nesbitt?” a female voice said.

  “No,” Payne said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You tell Mr. Nesbitt when he finally learns how to dial a telephone himself, I’ll be glad to talk to him,” Payne said, and hung up.

  He looked over at Washington.

  “That pisses me off,” he announced.

  “What, specifically, causes you to have an uncontrollable impulse to pass water?” Washington asked.

  “Would you hold please for Mr. More Important Than You Are?” Matt said in a high soprano.

  Washington chuckled.

  Less than a minute later, the telephone rang again.

  Washington let it ring until it penetrated Matt’s concentration and he reached for it.

  “Detective Payne,” he said.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV demanded.

  “If you want to talk to me, Chad, you call me.”

  “That’s what secretaries are for,” Nesbitt said.

  “Now that you have me, what’s on your mind?”

  “Tonight.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was just about to call you, myself, about tonight.”

  “You are coming?”

  “That’s what I was going to call about. I will not be coming.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I seem to have come down with a virus.”

  “What kind of a virus?”

  “Some kind of Asiatic flu. Not to worry, it will only last twenty-four hours. They call it, ‘The Don’t Go To Chad’s Birthday Party Virus.’ ”

  “You want to tell me why not?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I really want to know.”

  “Okay. Daffy will try to fix me up with one of her airheaded friends.”

  “I promise that won’t happen.”

  “Reason number two: At least one of our friends will ask me to fix a little ticket he got for running through a red light into a busload of nuns while under the influence.”

  “If that happens, tell him to go fuck himself. You’re very good at that.”

  “Reason three: Daffy, carried away with her notions of having become a wife, mother, and homemaker, will probably try to cook.”

  “It’s being catered, of course. So you will be there, right?”

  “Chad, I don’t want to.”

  “Do it for me, buddy. We’ve been going to each other’s birthday parties since we were in diapers. And hell, we never see each other anymore. Penelope Alice is your goddaughter.”

  That was all true. Chad Nesbitt had been Matt Payne’s best friend since they had worn short pants. And they rarely got together anymore. And Penelope Alice Nesbitt, Chad and Daffy’s firstborn, named after the late Penelope Alice Detweiler, with whom, before she inserted too much—or bad—heroin into her veins, Matt had fancied himself in love, was indeed his goddaughter.

  He sighed.

  “I’ll be there,” Matt said. “Against my better judgment.”

  He hung up before Chad could reply and went back to work.

  The festivities that would commemorate the birth twenty-five years before of Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV were, in the opinions of his mother and his mother-in-law (Mrs. Soames T. Browne), far more important than a simple birthday party.

  It would, so to speak, if not introduce, then reintroduce the young couple to Philadelphia society. There had been a number of problems. For one thing, Chad had gone off into the Marines three days after graduating from the University of Pennsylvania.

  A suitable wedding, given that, would have been difficult under any circumstances, but it had been further complicated by the unfortunate business of Daffy’s best friend—Penny Detweiler, who was to have been her maid of honor—getting herself involved with drugs and gangsters.

  Their hearts went out, of course, to Grace and Dick Detweiler, who were old and dear friends, but that didn’t change the fact that Penny not being Daphne’s maid of honor because she was in Hahnemann Hospital recuperating from being shot did cast a pall upon a wedding.

  And then the Marines had sent Chad off to Okinawa, without Daffy, for more than two years. She had waited for him in her parents’ home in Merion—married woman or not, her taking an apartment alone didn’t make any sense—and then Chad had come home, and the second thing he’d done after taking off his hat was to get her in the family way.

  And while she was pregnant, Chad had gone to work for Nesfoods, starting at the bottom, of course, as a retail salesman. His father—now chairman of the Executive Committee of Nesfoods International—had started out that way. And, for that matter, so had his grandfather. And Dick Detweiler, Nesfood’s chief executive officer. And his father.

  But you can’t really have much of a social life when you’re working as a retail salesman at the bottom of the corporate ladder, and with a pregnant wife.

  Things were a good deal better now. Chad had proved his worth, and shortly before the baby was born, had been promoted. He was now an assistant vice president, Sales.

  And the baby was healthy and adorable. Chad and Daffy had named her Penelope Alice, after Penny Detweiler, who had broken everyone’s heart, not just her parents’, by taking one illegal drug too many and killing herself.

  Both Grandmother Nesbitt and Grandmother Browne believed that naming the baby after poor Penny wasn’t the wise thing to do, but there’s no talking to young people.

  Look to the good, look to the future.

  At least they had their own place now. Number 9 Stockton Place, in Society Hill. Large enough, and nice enough, to have their first real party.

  Society Hill—around Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell in central Philadelphia—was where the social elite of pre-Revolutionary Philadelphia made their homes. It was said, with some accuracy, that Society Hill had gone downhill from the moment the loyal subjects of His Maj esty King George III, alarmed at the presence in nearby Valley Forge of a rebel named George Washington and his ragtag revolutionary army, had begun to leave town.

  Society Hill had continued its slow but steady decl
ine to a slum for the next century and a half. Then a real estate developer had decided there was probably a good deal of money to be made by gutting the old houses and converting them into upscale accommodations for the affluent.

  In the process of gaining clear title to the blocks of property involved, it was discovered that an alley called Stockton Place had never been deeded to the City of Philadelphia. That being the case, it was the prerogative of the owner to declare it private property and keep the riffraff out. Exclusiveness sells, as they say in the real estate trade.

  At considerable expense, a sufficient quantity of cobblestones had been acquired, and Stockton Place was re-paved with them. As soon as that was done, one end of the alley was permanently closed with a brick wall, and at the other end, a Colonial-style guard shack was erected. A striped pole, controlled by a Wachenhut Corporation rent-a-cop, ensured that no one but the residents or their authorized guests was permitted to tread, or drive upon, the newly laid cobblestones.

  Number 9 Stockton Place, which had been purchased by NB Properties, Inc., was arguably the most desirable of all the residences. It was a triplex constructed behind the facades of four of the twelve pre-Revolutionary brownstone buildings on that block of Stockton Place. The entrance was at Number 9. Cleverly concealed behind the facade of Number 11 was the entrance to the underground garage, with space for three vehicles.

  The property was leased by NB Properties, Inc., to Mr. and Mrs. Nesbitt IV at a rate a good deal lower than it would have brought on the open market. At the time they had moved in, young Chad was being paid no more and no less than any other retail salesman employed by Nesfoods International, and it seemed the least his father—who was the sole stockholder of NB Properties, Inc.—could do for him. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III well remembered when he had been starting out with the company, on the bottom rung of the ladder.

  There would be more than two hundred guests. A buffet, of course. Chad and Daffy’s apartment was large, but not large enough to have that many people seated for dinner. Mrs. Nesbitt III had toyed with the idea of giving the party at the Merion Country Club, and Mrs. Browne had offered the Brownes’ home—a forty-two-room copy of an English manor house, circa 1600, in Merion—for the occasion, but in the end she decided the thing to do was have Daffy give the party at her own home—with, of course, the help of her mother and her mother-in-law.

  Daffy didn’t really have the experience to do it, and she was busy with Penelope—both grandmothers were determined that the child never be called “Penny”—and it just had to be right.

  The guest list had been difficult. Chad and Daffy’s friends had to be invited, of course, but after Daffy had presented her list, that criterion was changed to “Chad and Daffy’s oldest and dearest friends,” which cut it down to less than a hundred, and left about that number of spaces for people who were important to the young couple, socially and business-wise. All six vice presidents of Nesfoods International and their wives were invited, of course, and some other businessmen connected to the company. And the Episcopal bishop of Philadelphia, of course, and the cardinal archbishop of Philadelphia. And the mayor. And the senator. And then the friends, most of whom had known Daffy and Chad all their lives.

  Bailey, Banks & Biddle did the invitations, and the Rittenhouse Club was engaged to cater the affair.

  There was a reception line, the birthday couple (a privileged few would be taken upstairs, later, to view Penelope Alice) and both sets of grandparents.

  Matthew M. Payne entered the line at seven-fifty, a moment after Mrs. Nesbitt III had given Mrs. Browne a significant look, indicating that she believed they should abandon the line to mingle with the children’s guests.

  “Hello, Matt,” Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III said.

  “Good evening, sir,” Matt said.

  “You look so nice in black tie, Matt,” Mrs. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III said.

  “Please tell my mother,” Matt said.

  “Your mother and dad are here,” Mr. Soames Browne said.

  “Daphne was afraid you wouldn’t be coming, Matt,” Mrs. Soames Browne said.

  “That was when I thought Daffy was going to do the cooking.”

  “Matt, must I ask you yet again not to call her that?” Mrs. Soames Browne said.

  Matt snapped his fingers in mock chagrin, indicating he had forgotten.

  “Well, the birthday boy himself,” he said, extending his hand to Mr. Nesbitt IV. “Congratulations!”

  “Thank you for coming, buddy.”

  “And the mother of my goddaughter! About to spill out of her dress!”

  “Oh, fuck you, Matt,” Mrs. Nesbitt IV said.

  The grandparents pretended not to hear.

  Mrs. Soames Browne remembered again, as she usually did on such occasions, that at age five Matt Payne had talked Daphne into playing doctor and that she had concluded at that time that there was something wrong with him.

  Over the years, he had done nothing to disabuse her of that notion.

  There is a screw loose in him somewhere, she thought. The policeman business was another proof of that. The very idea of someone with a background like his being an ordinary cop is absurd.

  If the truth were known, he probably had more to do with Penny getting on dope than anyone knows. When you roll around in the mud with pigs, you’re going to get dirty.

  FOUR

  Matt Payne took a look at the buffet laid out in the game room, then at the line waiting to get at the food, and walked to the bar.

  “A glass of your very best ginger ale, if you please, my good man,” he said, but then changed his mind. “Oh, to hell with it, give me a scotch, no ice, and soda.”

  The barman smiled at him.

  “My mother’s here. What I was going to do, was wait for the question, phrased accusingly, ‘What are you drinking? ’ to which I would have truthfully responded, ‘Ginger ale.’ Just to get her reaction.”

  “What changed your mind?” the barman asked as he made the drink.

  Matt gestured around the crowded room.

  “I need a little liquid courage to face all these merry-makers.”

  The barman chuckled.

  And then Matt spotted a familiar face.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “There is someone human here, after all.”

  He crossed the room to a small, wiry, blond-headed man standing beside a somewhat taller female. There was a thick rope of pearls around the woman’s neck, reaching down to the valley between her breasts, and on the third finger of her left hand was an engagement ring with a four-carat emerald-cut stone in it.

  “Hello, Matt,” the woman said, smiling at him. “How are you?”

  “Feeling sorry for myself,” Matt said.

  “How’s that?” she asked.

  “My superiors are cruel to me. You wouldn’t believe what they’ve had me doing all day. And all day yesterday.”

  The man smiled.

  “The tapes?”

  “The obscenity-deleted tapes,” Matt agreed.

  “Getting anything?” the man asked.

  “Stop right there, the two of you,” the woman ordered firmly. “No shop talk! Really, precious!”

  Precious was also known as Captain David R. Pekach. He was commanding officer of the Highway Patrol, and one of the two captains in Special Operations. The lady was his fiancée, Miss Martha Peebles.

  In the obituary of Alexander F. Peebles in the Wall Street Journal, it was reported that he had died possessed of approximately 11.5 percent of the known anthracite coal reserves of the United States. Six months later, the same newspaper reported that Miss Martha Peebles’s lawyers had successfully resisted efforts by her brother to break her father’s will, in which he had bequeathed to his beloved daughter all of his worldly goods of whatever kind and wherever located.

  One night six months before, Captain Pekach had twice gone, at the “suggestion” of Mayor Carlucci, to 606 Glengarry Lane in Chestnut Hill to personally assure the citizen
resident therein that the Philadelphia Police Department generally and the Highway Patrol in particular was going to do everything possible to apprehend the thief, or thieves, who had been burglarizing the twenty-eight-room turn-of-the-century mansion set on fourteen acres.

  On his first visit that night, Captain Pekach had assured Miss Peebles that he would take a personal interest in her problem, to include driving past her home himself that very night when he was relieved as Special Operations duty officer at midnight. Miss Peebles inquired if his work schedule, quitting at midnight, wasn’t hard on his wife. Captain Pekach informed her he was not, and never had been, married.

  “In that case, Captain, if you can find the time to pass by, why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee? I rarely go to bed before two.”

  During Captain Pekach’s second visit to 606 Glengarry Lane that night, Miss Peebles had gone to bed earlier than was her custom, and for the first time in her thirty-five years not alone. Their engagement to be married had been announced three weeks before by her attorney, and her father’s lifelong friend, Brewster Cortland Payne, Esq., of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester, at a dinner party at 606 Glengarry Lane.

  “There’s something there, captain,” Detective Payne answered, ignoring her.

  “Matt, please!” Miss Peebles said.

  “Matt, I worked Narcotics for four years,” Captain Pekach said. “If there was something, I would know!”

  “Matt, go away,” Miss Peebles said.

  “Well, I hope you’re right,” Matt said. “But . . .”

  “Precious!” Miss Peebles said firmly.

  “Nice to see you, Matt,” Captain Pekach said.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Matt said, smiling, “I think I’ll mingle.”

  “Why don’t you?” Miss Peebles said, smiling.

  Matt looked around the room for his parents, and when he didn’t find them, climbed the stairs from the game room to the dining room on the floor above. There he saw them, at the far end of the room. Talking with Penny’s parents.