The Vigilantes boh-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  But there was one caveat: funding. And because of severe budgetary cutbacks this year, there were fewer corporal slots, and only the top five percent had been immediately promoted.

  Officer Suder had not been happy about that, to put it mildly.

  Shortly thereafter, Andy Hardwick had been buying a few rounds down the street at Liberties Bar, catching up on Roundhouse scuttlebutt with old buddies still on the force, and he’d heard all about Suder’s displeasure at getting the shaft thanks to City Hall bean counters.

  The next day, Hardwick had taken Suder to lunch. Before they’d even been served their desserts, Hardwick had effectively poached him from the Philadelphia Police Department with the offer of a salary that was almost twice what any corporal could ever dream of earning.

  But I simply could never do residential security, Payne thought.

  Fortunately, I don’t need the damn money. That’s moot.

  But more to the point: Where the hell’s the thrill in private security? The satisfaction?

  What’d be the equivalent of what I’m doing now?

  Heading up Task Force Operation Poolhouse Clogged Toilet?

  “Ma’am, the sign clearly states that no personal sanitary items are to be flushed. I’m afraid we’re going to have to write you a ticket on this one.”

  He snorted as the elevator made a ding, stopped, and the doors parted on the twenty-first floor.

  Then again, Marshal Earp, no one would be shooting at you.

  And you’re not exactly going gangbusters with collaring the doers in Op Clean Sweep.

  As he put the key in 2180’s heavy brass deadbolt lock, Matt could hear Luna softly whining on the other side of the door. Her wagging tail was thumping against the door.

  Having her so happy to see me is a nice welcome after a long lousy day.

  Now I only hope that I can get Amanda to wag her lovely tail, too.

  When he turned the knob and pushed the door inward, Luna stuck her black nose and curly-haired muzzle around its edge. Matt reached down to scratch her head as he opened the door.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Now take me to your gorgeous master.”

  As he stepped inside the doorway, Matt heard Amanda’s sultry voice: “She already has.”

  He looked up from Luna and saw Amanda standing there. She was barefoot, but wearing a stunning gold sequined cocktail dress. It clung flawlessly to her well-toned body, as if it was almost a second skin. And it shimmered miraculously. The front was cut low and wide, generously enough to show a great deal of incredible suntanned cleavage while not revealing more than a sexy suggestion of her marvelous bosom. Her thick wavy blond hair, hanging free and full, was silky and luminous.

  Wow! Payne thought. The goddess glows!

  She looks so full of life, her eyes so warm and inviting.

  And that dress! It radiates like a sea at sunset.

  Sorry, Luna. Your greeting just got bested.

  Far, far and away…

  And he saw that Amanda-Perhaps even better, though it’d be the absolute last damn thing I’d ever admit to-was holding a cocktail napkin wrapped around a squat, heavy crystal glass that was dark with what had to be an intoxicant.

  “Glad you could make it,” she said, her tone warm, genuinely meaning it. “I was beginning to worry.”

  As she turned her head slightly to the right, offering her left cheek, Matt said, “Sorry, baby, crazy day,” and kissed her affectionately.

  She held out the glass and flashed her dazzling smile.

  “Macallan Eighteen, half water, two ice cubes.”

  He took it and grinned. “You not only have an incredible mind, but also a very dangerous memory.”

  She smiled again. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you.”

  “That said, you’re not only an angel but a lifesaver. I’ve been longing for one of these all day.”

  As he took a big sip, she reached for his other hand and tugged him toward the interior of the condominium.

  “Come on and sit down. Relax.”

  With Luna leading the way, they went into the living room and sat on the big, soft, black leather couch. It faced the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the lights of the city twinkled far into the distance. From the high-fidelity digital music player that Matt had bought Amanda when she started spending so much time at home came the soft, soothing voice of Diana Krall singing “Besame Mucho.”

  Matt looked at Amanda, thought, Kiss me much, indeed-then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek again.

  She smiled almost shyly.

  He sat back and suddenly said, “You’re not having anything?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear and glancing back toward the kitchen.

  She pushed herself up off the couch and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  “How was your day, baby?” Payne asked as she went.

  Amanda called back, “Interesting. Thanks for asking. I was going to tell you about it. But first enjoy your drink.”

  Uh-oh.

  Was that a red flag, or maybe a yellow caution one, that just went up?

  Matt watched over his shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen. As he looked back at the lights outside, he could hear the sounds of her getting something out of the refrigerator and unwrapping it.

  Oh, shit. She’s had food prepared.

  So she was waiting for me to reply when I sent that text.

  But I was up to my ass in alligators…

  Then that made him think: Surreal.

  Four dead just three blocks from here.

  Absolutely surreal…

  He heard the soft padding sound of bare feet approaching.

  “Here you go, sweetie,” Amanda said, putting an enormous platter of antipasto on the low marble table in front of the couch. Her other hand held a crystal stem, its huge goblet full of red wine. “I thought we could do this instead of any dinner.”

  “It looks marvelous. I love it. Thank you.”

  He reached down and grabbed a giant black olive and wrapped it in a large, thin slice of salami, then shoved the whole thing in his mouth. He chewed, nodding appreciatively at her, his eyes following her as she dropped back onto the couch.

  She scooted closer beside him, holding her wineglass up and then tucking her bare feet under her golden-sequined fanny.

  Just beautiful, he thought. And so damn sexy.

  He touched his glass to hers, and said, “Cheers!”

  He then watched as she reached to the table and picked up a salad fork.

  She attempted to delicately spear a prosciutto-wrapped rectangle of cantaloupe. Twice. On the third attempt, made very slowly, she hit her target. She chewed the morsel and followed it with a very generous gulp of her wine.

  Over the top of her glass, she made eye contact with him. When she’d swallowed the wine, she smiled.

  My God, she truly is a goddess.

  But why do I suspect that may not be her first glass of vino?

  Or her second?

  And that is a huge glass…

  Matt drained the rest of his eighteen-year-old single-malt.

  “I’ll make you another, sweetie,” she said, immediately kicking her feet out from under her.

  He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead to keep her seated.

  “You stay. You’ve already made all this. I can pour my drink. Think I’ll move on to the cheap stuff.”

  He walked over to the wet bar. He filled his glass with ice cubes, then poured a hefty double of Jameson’s Irish whiskey. He looked over to the couch. Luna now had her head in Amanda’s lap as Amanda absently petted her and looked out the window while sipping more wine.

  This is certainly getting interesting.

  She’s clearly in thought about something.

  And damn near in her cups.

  He caught himself suddenly yawning.

  Oh, shit. Hope I don’t fall asleep. That will really ruin the mood.

  And leave it to me
to really piss her off.

  “I don’t see you forever and the few minutes you’re here, you fall asleep!”

  As he sat back on the couch, Amanda was holding the glass by the stem and swirling the wine around the goblet.

  Kind of anxiously… nervously.

  Then he noticed her left foot moving back and forth.

  If that was attached to a churn at an Amish dairy, she could be making butter for all of Lancaster County.

  Amanda turned to him.

  “Want to talk about your ‘crazy day’?” she said. “It’s horrible that more people are dead and just up the street. Do you know who did it? And are they-you, I guess I mean-close to catching them?”

  Matt took a sip from his drink, then said, “The simple answer is ‘no’-to all that. No, we really don’t know who. And I’m really mentally racked from thinking about the whole thing. So that means I’d really rather not talk about it. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way.”

  Amanda smiled.

  “Oh, not at all,” she said. “I do understand. Sometimes you have to step back.”

  “How about you? Anything at the hospital?”

  She nodded. Then she leaned forward and put her wineglass beside the antipasto platter on the marble table.

  She really is in deep thought.

  She turned to him, and suddenly he could see tears starting.

  My God. What the hell has got her so upset?

  “Matt, you saved my life. I will never forget that terrifying moment I realized who they were and what they’d done-and knew that was the end for me. But then… then you suddenly were there. And I heard your voice calling out to warn Tony Harris, ‘It’s me, Matt Payne!’ I truly thought I was hallucinating.”

  Oh, shit. In vino veritas…

  Matt stared into her eyes and felt his throat constrict.

  And I remember that moment, too.

  Inside that pillowcase they’d taped over her head, she whimpered.

  When I cut her free, the last person in the world I expected to find a prisoner in that hellhole was the woman I loved.

  It was an unimaginable moment.

  She reached back for her glass, took a big sip, and said, “You saved my life, Matt. Now it’s my turn.”

  [FOUR]

  “How does survivor’s guilt fit?” Matt Payne was saying, reaching for another slice of salami and wrapping it around another big black olive.

  Even though the platter was now nearly three-quarters empty, all the meat and cheese and fruit he’d eaten wasn’t keeping up with the alcohol he was washing it down with. He was starting to feel a bit tight.

  Or maybe it’s a combination of that and being exhausted.

  He’d made them both fresh drinks.

  Luna was asleep at their feet, snoring softly.

  “Survivor’s guilt,” Amanda Law said, “because Skipper died and Becca didn’t.”

  Twenty-five-year-old Becca Benjamin, just shy of two o’clock in the morning on September 9, had been sitting in her Mercedes SUV waiting for J. Warren “Skipper” Olde, her twenty-seven-year-old boyfriend, to come out of a seedy Philly Inn motel room. Which he did, right after the meth lab inside had blown up the damn place, turning it into an inferno. The blast demolished the Mercedes.

  Becca suffered a head injury from the blast that had almost killed her. Skipper was critically burned.

  Matt had known them while growing up, since they were all at Episcopal Academy. Both came from families of significant means. And both had a history of getting in trouble with booze and drugs.

  Because of the severity of their multiple injuries, both had been taken to Temple University Hospital’s advanced burn center, where the chief physician was one Amanda Law, MD, FACS, FCCM.

  “Matt, I’ll never tell anyone else this,” Amanda said, “but it’s my brutally cold assessment that Jesus Jimenez probably did Skipper a favor by killing him. Skipper was either going to die from his burns or suffer a long recovery and never be the same again.”

  Matt nodded.

  “But Becca,” she went on, “nonetheless is feeling responsible, saying they wouldn’t have been there if Skipper hadn’t wanted to make her happy with some of those goddamned drugs. To get past this damned survivor’s guilt, I sent her to Amy.”

  “That’s interesting,” Matt said. “Amy never mentioned she was now Becca’s shrink.”

  “She’s a doctor, sweetie. Just because she’s your sister doesn’t mean she’s going to tell you and break the physician-patient confidentiality.”

  He shrugged.

  Amanda said, “There can be a variant of survivor’s guilt among doctors. They get a guilty feeling that they didn’t do enough to save a patient. Luckily, I’ve never had it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand it. And I know that those who do have it need to look at the glass as being half full, not half empty, confident in their skills that they did the right thing.”

  I’ve had a few of those myself, Matt thought.

  It wasn’t that long ago that I held Susan Reynolds in my arms as her very life poured out from that bullet hole in her head.

  And I loved her like I love Amanda.

  Right down to the roadside cottage with the picket fence.

  I endlessly questioned if I could’ve done anything different to save her from that madman of a killer.

  And, bottom line, the answer was I couldn’t.

  Still, finally realizing that didn’t ease the pain of loss.

  He took a sip of Scotch as he glanced at Amanda.

  Am I about to lose Amanda…?

  Amanda was saying: “I also understand that sometimes things play out the way they do no matter what anyone does. In fact, in some cases we probably prolong the inevitable by taking the heroic measures. Which was why someone in a wise moment came up with DNRs.”

  “Do Not Resuscitate orders,” Matt said.

  She nodded.

  He sipped his drink again and tried to understand where she was going with this.

  Maybe it’s her body clock ticking. The abduction was a real wake-up call for her sense of mortality.

  And maybe that’s some manifestation of survivor’s guilt-in part because she lived while that young teen Honduran girl, after being forced into prostitution, died a brutal death.

  Then she said: “Two months ago, Matt, I went to Hawaii for an M and M.”

  I know she can’t mean candy.

  “It’s a conference doctors attend,” she went on, as if reading his mind, “Morbidity and Mortality.”

  This is about mortality!

  He said, “I heard those conferences are really just an excuse to write off trips to fancy places, like Hawaii, so you can play and take a business deduction.”

  “The idea of M and Ms is peer review. We look at how others cared for patients and how it could have been done better. Particularly cases in which a mistake was made and the patient died. Being head of the burn unit, I tend to be the one doing the reviewing. It’s not exactly a pleasant task. No one likes to be told they screwed up, but we do want to do right by our patients-First do no harm-and the peer review, while sometimes painful, does help. You learn to modify behavior. And avoid repeating mistakes.”

  She looked at him a long moment.

  “Matt, I don’t like repeating mistakes. I can’t.”

  “Of course not. I understand. There’re lives at stake.”

  “Yes, there are. Ours.”

  What?

  She said: “We’re at a critical time in our lives. I feel we’ve both been given second chances, and I want us to get this next one right.”

  “Oh.”

  “I had a long talk with my father.”

  Matt had met Charley Law only once, but had heard stories about him from Jason Washington, who’d known Law during his twenty years with the department in Northeast Detectives. Washington had said that her old man always had been full of commonsense gems, that he’d been a good cop because he could quickly strip away the bullsh
it and cut right to the chase.

  Law had been off duty when he took a bullet to the hip. He’d walked in on a robbery of a gas station on Frankford Avenue. Returning fire, he’d shot the critter dead then and there-and wound up being offered disability and retirement. And he’d taken it, saying he was glad to get the hell out, if only to get past all the lame jokes about his name-“Well, well, here comes The Law.”

  When Matt had first tried dating Amanda-right before the abduction-she had made it damn perfectly clear what a toll her father’s job had taken on their family. She told him about the daily pain of watching him go to work, and fearing that that would be the last time they’d see him alive.

  Amanda went on: “When I turned thirteen, Dad sat me down at the kitchen table. He said, ‘This is your birds-and-bees speech. Pay attention. We’re on this planet basically to do two things: eat and reproduce. And we eat in order to have the energy to reproduce. Everything else-your clothes, TV, music, vacations, whatever-it’s all filler for between the reproduction times. That’s what we’re hardwired to do. Understanding that, you will know that boys want nothing more than to get in your pants and will tell you whatever you want to hear to accomplish that. So, understand that you-and only you-can control who gets in your pants.’”

  Payne avoided eye contact as he took a long, slow sip of his drink.

  Then he said, “I’m afraid to ask, but am I supposed to respond to that?”

  She smiled. “No, I’m just trying to paint a picture.”

  He chuckled nervously. “That’s one helluva picture.”

  “The picture I’m painting is that my dad and I have a close connection. And recently, Dad and I were talking about relationships. He told me that ‘nobody has the first damn answer why two people ever get together,’ only that there was the hardwiring. But he could offer me the benefit of looking back, at his marriage and those of others. His experience.