Payne dealt with it as best he could, mostly by losing himself in his work. And that he did well.
When he was promoted to the rank of sergeant and transferred to the Homicide Unit, Matt Payne was given Badge No. 471, which previously had been worn by Sergeant Jack Moffitt, his father.
Other heroic incidents occurred—too many to be included here—but one of the most recent was among the most memorable, when the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line again found himself involved in a foot chase—and a shoot-out—with a murderer.
Payne happened to be at Temple University Hospital when Jesús Jiménez, a nineteen-year-old gang member, snuck into the third-floor Burn Unit and executed a patient. Payne pursued him out onto the streets, wounding him in the thigh, before Jiménez got away.
Jiménez, it turned out, belonged to a drug- and human-trafficking gang led by Juan Paulo Delgado, a Texican, age twenty-one. And the assassination in the hospital to settle a drug deal debt was only a part of Delgado’s reign of terror—one that stretched from the streets of Philadelphia to the dirt trails of the Texas–Mexico border.
When Delgado abducted for ransom Dr. Amanda Law—whose patient Jiménez had murdered—Payne, Detective Anthony Harris, and Sergeant Jim Byrth of the legendary Texas Rangers law enforcement agency were already hunting him.
The men, acting on a tip from their informant, tracked Delgado’s gang to a dilapidated row house on Hancock Street in Kensington. After a shoot-out, Delgado was dead. Payne and his associates then rescued Dr. Law, who they found bound and gagged in the kitchen, her head covered with a pillowcase.
And so now we come to today. One final time we declare Matt Payne a hero.
This courageous, dedicated son of Philadelphia gave the city his all. May he rest in peace.
“We know that Matt will always be a hero to the decent and law-abiding citizens of Philadelphia,” his wife, Dr. Amanda Law Payne, said as she held their toddler daughter on her hip and as their twin sons clung to her legs following a memorial service that overflowed with attendees. “But first and foremost, he was our family’s hero. While we must move forward, our children and I shall never ever forget that.”
Matthew Mark Payne is survived by his loving wife of five years, Mrs. Amanda Law Payne; his sons, Brewster Cortland Payne III and John Francis Xavier Moffitt Payne, age four; his daughter, Mandy Law Payne, age two; his sister, Dr. Amelia Payne; his parents, Mr. and Mrs. B. C. Payne II; and numerous other relatives and friends.
The family requests that, in lieu of flowers, memorials be made for other officers in Matthew Mark Payne’s name to the Widows & Orphans’ Fund at the Fraternal Order of Police Lodge #5, 11630 Caroline Road, Philadelphia, PA 19154-2110.
—
Matt, feeling the deep frustration that hit the first time he had read the obit, slowly refolded the papers and gently put them on the marble countertop.
Amanda said, “And now to that can be added you being declared Public Enemy No. 1 and getting shot by that damn drug dealer.”
“You know,” he said, “all that Public Enemy nonsense basically evaporated when Skinny Lenny got crushed to death. He was the problem, and now it’s over.”
“I truly hope so, Matt. Just the thought of someone else taking a shot at you, well . . .”
Jesus! Does she know about today?
It was on the TV news when I got out of the shower.
But I only heard Camilla Rose being mentioned.
What do I say?
After a while, he said, “I don’t know what to say.”
Amanda nodded.
She took a sip of her wine, then said, “At the hospital, I deal with death on a daily basis. I’m not going to wear the loss of the baby on my sleeve. But it is causing me a great deal of reflection. I can’t get past the emptiness.”
“So, first we lose the baby. And now . . . what?”
“Damn it, Matt! I almost lost you. That obit almost came true.”
She paused, bit her lower lip, then, clearly measuring her words, went on. “I am not in any way blaming the miscarriage on you. They happen in fifteen percent of pregnancies. That’s an unfortunate fact. My mother said she had two before she had me. Intelligently, clinically, I can understand losing the baby. Emotionally, is something else. Something that I’m learning I’m coming to terms with.”
She inhaled deeply, then slowly let it out.
“Matt, I let my mind get too far ahead, making plans for the baby, for us. And because of that, because now there won’t be a baby, there’s this . . . this horrible void deep inside me.”
She turned and pulled a tissue from the box on the counter and blew her nose.
“I’m disappointed and angry with myself,” she said. “I didn’t recognize the signs and I should have.”
“You were distracted. It’s understandable. I take all the blame for that.”
She remained silent, clearly in deep thought.
“But we can try again,” Matt said. “Right?”
He met Amanda’s eyes. They were puffy and red—and he saw that they did not appear to support what he just said.
“What I do know,” Amanda then said, softly, “is that we now have more time.”
“Time?”
She nodded. “Maybe . . . maybe we were rushing all this a bit because of the baby. And I think that maybe a little time apart can be helpful.”
Matt felt a huge knot in his stomach.
He glanced at her left hand and was relieved to see she still wore her engagement ring.
“Amanda, what are you saying?”
“I’ve been approached to be a visiting professor in an emergency medicine residency program.”
“What? Where?”
“It’s a joint Army–Air Force facility, a military medical center in San Antonio.”
“Texas?”
She nodded.
“When?”
“Initially,” she said, “I turned them down—I’ve mentioned that I get requests regularly that I have to decline for many reasons, and this time I’d just found out about the pregnancy—and then I forgot about the offer. But then a follow-up e-mail came saying that the doctor who accepted it had had a family emergency and the position remained open. And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense to immerse myself in work in a fresh environment.”
She paused, then added, “A family emergency. Some irony, huh?”
“When?” Matt repeated.
“Next week. For an initial thirty days.”
Matt’s eyes grew wide.
“You’re leaving next week? For a month?”
Amanda bit her lower lip again. She nodded.
Matt could not believe what he was hearing. He absently reached up and loosened his necktie, then opened the collar button.
“Military medicine,” she then said, “particularly burn and trauma as a result of the wars, and the IEDs—those evil, improvised explosive devices—has been making huge, innovative leaps. It’s a chance for me to learn firsthand from their doctors’ methods and teach their residents about what I know from all the work we get here.”
Matt said nothing as he looked past Amanda, his mind racing.
After a long pause, Amanda said, “I think it’ll be good for both of us, Matt.”
He looked at her, then said, “I don’t know what I was thinking. Sure. I should have no trouble taking the time off. And San Antone is beautiful.”
She pursed her lips and shook her head.
“No,” she said finally, “I need to go alone.”
Matt tried to absorb that. The knot in his stomach grew even larger.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
Amanda’s stomach growled.
“Sorry,” she said. “That’s nerves, I guess.”
She took a healthy swallow of wine.
> He said, “Do you want to get something to eat?”
She shook her head slightly.
“I’m not really hungry,” she said. “Haven’t really had an appetite for some time.”
“I understand.”
“But you should eat. I’ll go—”
“No,” he interrupted, softly. “It’s okay. I guess I’m really not hungry, either.”
He drained his wine stem, then walked over to the bar. He took one of the squat heavy crystal glasses that Amanda had ordered for him—the monogram MPM was etched in an elegant, bold roman typeface—and reached past the bottle of black-label Irish whisky and grabbed the Macallan eighteen-year-old single malt. He filled the glass half full, then added water almost to its rim.
He took a big sip of the scotch whisky as he walked over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Wordlessly, he looked out at the view of the Delaware River, the massive Ben Franklin Bridge reflecting off it, and, far into the distance beyond, the twinkling lights of New Jersey.
He inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly. And then he swallowed the remainder of the single malt.
“Matt . . . ?” she said, almost in a whisper.
He turned and stared at her and frowned as he nodded slightly, then walked back to the kitchen island and put the empty glass in the sink.
He put his hands on her hips, then leaned in and softly kissed her on the cheek.
“I love you,” he said, softly, before pulling his head back.
She looked in his eyes.
“I love you, too, Matt.”
“I think—” he began, but his throat caught. He cleared it and went on. “I think it’d be best if I stayed at my place tonight.”
Amanda did not respond.
Matt looked deeply into her glistening eyes.
She is not exactly rushing to stop me.
He nodded gently. His eyes drifted past her toward the wall of windows, then back to her. An enormous tear was slipping down her cheek. He cradled her head as he kissed the tear, savored its warm saltiness, then lowered his hands to her shoulders, squeezed her tight, and released her.
“We can talk tomorrow?” he said, it coming out as a question.
“Certainly.”
He nodded again.
And then he turned and started down the hallway.
Luna got to her feet and padded over and intercepted him. He quickly knelt down and scratched her ears.
He stood and wanted to say “Good girl” but didn’t trust his voice not to break.
Matt, stepping into the hall, pulled the heavy oak front door shut. After he locked the dead bolt and removed the key, he could hear Amanda starting to sob.
Numb, he stared at the key.
He thought, It wasn’t long ago that she said hearing the sound of my key in the door made her think, Now the fun begins.
Now it’s causing exactly the opposite . . .
[ THREE ]
West Rittenhouse Square
Center City
Philadelphia
Thursday, January 5, 9 P.M.
Matt Payne, making a left off Walnut Street, had every intention on driving directly to his apartment. His mind spun, trying to put all that had happened in perspective. He realized the wine and whisky on an empty stomach had not exactly helped his thought process.
As he went past, he glanced at the enormous, century-old Romanesque façade of Holy Trinity Episcopal Church on the corner. Then the entrance to The Rittenhouse came into view.
“Oh, fuck it,” he said, and tugged the steering wheel. “That’s as sure a sign from God, if ever there was one.”
The Porsche made a fast right, its tires rumbling as it shot up the brick-paved drive.
“Welcome back, Mr. Payne,” a teenage valet said, holding open the door.
Payne, with some difficulty, climbed out of the car.
“How you doing, Ryan? How’s La Salle treating you?”
“School’s okay, thanks,” he said, then nodded toward the row of cars parked nearby. “You want me to leave it out, close, like usual?”
“Hell no! Don’t you know what happens to cars that get parked there?”
The valet’s eyebrows went up.
“Yeah,” Ryan said, “we all heard about that. I just remembered they said you were here when it happened. I heard that Melody said you were amazing.”
“Just lucky. Others were not so fortunate.”
The valet nodded, then moved to get in the driver’s seat.
“Ryan, are you familiar with Saint Timothy?”
“As in the Bible, sir?” he said, looking up.
“The good book indeed. Saint Timothy says, ‘Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake and thine often infirmities.’ You can confirm that next door, if you wish. Regardless, I’ll be in the Library Bar, trying to drink away any memory of this day and my ‘often infirmities.’ Then, at some point, I plan to walk—quite possibly, stagger—to my place around the corner.” He patted the roof of the 911. “Park this in a safe place. I’ll get it tomorrow. Do not under any circumstances allow me to have its key until then.”
The valet chuckled. “Yessir.”
“And, Ryan, despite the fact that I may drive it like I stole it, you may not.”
The valet, shaking his head, chuckled again as he closed the door.
A second later, the window came down.
“Can I ask a question?” Ryan said.
Payne saw that the teenager’s expression had turned serious.
“Sure,” he said, his tone no longer light. “What’s on your mind?”
“If someone may have overheard something about what happened today, what’s the procedure to—?”
“What did you hear?” Payne interrupted.
“Not me.”
“Then who? The shooting is an active homicide case. We really need information and now.”
“I only said if someone . . .”
Payne quickly pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to him.
“My phone numbers are on there. And the tip line’s. Give it to anyone.”
“You can keep anonymous, right? And there’s a cash reward?
“Yeah. Up to twenty grand. It’s that important, Ryan.”
“Right. Thanks.”
As Payne watched the Porsche slowly rumble away, he thought, That service industry is a huge network. Valets, bartenders, maids—they see and hear everything.
He sure as hell knows something.
Just wonder if it’s something useful?
—
The Library Bar was an open, airy venue that created the feel of being in a very expensive, very modern mansion. It featured crisp backlighting and highly polished dark wood trim. There were deep couches and leather-upholstered armchairs arranged facing one another over low tables. The white marble bar itself was an intimate affair, lined with only a half dozen tall chairs. The bookshelves on either side of the stone fireplace, containing rare volumes on Philadelphia history, projected the impression of an exclusive private library.
Payne could hear the elevated murmur from the bar well before he reached its ornate, double-door entrance. And he started having second thoughts about going inside at all.
“What the hell am I doing?” he muttered. “I’m not up for this.”
When he glanced in, he saw that the room was nearly full, with a nicely dressed, animated crowd.
I’m not thinking clearly. I shouldn’t be here now.
He turned on his heels and headed for the door, wondering if the bar at the Union League would be quiet at this hour and he could drown his misery in peace there.
“Matthew!” a woman’s voice called behind him. “I thought that was you. Please wait.”
As he turned, Camilla
Rose Morgan, looking stunning in a black satin cocktail dress and extravagant high heels, came toward him. She was balancing a full martini glass in her right hand.
“What a wonderful surprise,” she said, grasping his arm and giving him an exaggerated head-to-toe glance. “And, my, how you do clean up quite nicely.” She motioned with her glass. “Please come and join me . . . join us. I owe you that drink.”
Payne looked closely at her. She had a flushed face and somewhat glassy, dilated eyes. He could tell that while she more or less was holding her own, she was far from sober.
Which is not surprising. She started drinking in the car—what?—some six hours ago.
Hail, hail, the return of the prodigal party girl!
But, what the hell? One friend is dead. And Johnny Austin almost dead.
Who can blame her? Certainly not me. I’m ready to crawl into a bottle just over a rocky relationship . . .
“I was looking for someone,” Payne said, “and they’re clearly not here. Thank you for the offer, Camilla Rose. But I should head home.”
“Please stay. Just for one drink?” she said, stroking his arm. She then took one of the olives and slipped it slowly between her lips.
My God, he thought. My brain really is not working.
She made that look damn suggestive—borderline seductive.
But it couldn’t have been.
She smiled and gave him a questioning look.
He glanced beyond her toward the crowd. He thought he recognized a couple of somewhat famous faces.
“I really can’t. But, thank you.”
She saw where his eyes went.
“You’re right. That is a boring scene,” she said, touching his arm again. “Listen, I’ve been thinking since we spoke and there’s something else I really should tell you.”
“Great.”
“Not here. Not in public.”
“Okay. Where?”
She glanced over her shoulder toward the bar, then turned the opposite way.
“Follow me,” she said, and began walking quickly toward the lobby, sipping her martini.
As she went, Payne’s eyes automatically dropped to her derriere. The black satin dress clung to her firm hourglass figure. She turned a corner.
Broken Trust Page 6
