"There is a place in Hartford," Grace said, "that's supposed to be the best in the country. The Institute for Living, something like that-"
"Instituteof Living," Payne said. "I know of it. It has a fine reputation."
"Anyway, she's going there," Grace Detweiler said.
"I had a hell of a time getting her in," H. Richard Detweiler said.
" 'I'?" Grace Detweiler snapped, icily sarcastic.
"Really?" Payne asked quickly. He had seen Grace Detweiler in moods like this before.
"There's a waiting list, can you believe that? They told Dotson on the phone that it would be at least three weeks, possibly longer, before they'd take her."
"Well, that's unfortunate, but-" Colonel Mawson said.
"Wegot her in," Detweiler said."We had to call Arthur Nelson-"
"Arthur Nelson?" Payne interrupted. "Why him?"
Arthur J. Nelson, Chairman of the Board of Daye-Nelson Publications, one of which was thePhiladelphia Ledger, was not among Brewster C. Payne's favorite people.
"Well, he had his wife in there, you know," Grace Detweiler answered for her husband. "She had a breakdown, you know, when that sordid business about her son came out. Arthur put her in there."
"Yes, now that you mention it, I remember that," Payne said. "Was he helpful?"
"Very helpful," H. Richard Detweiler said.
"Dick, you're such an ass," Grace said. "He was not!"
"He said he would do everything he could to minimize unfortunate publicity," H. Richard Detweiler said. "And he gave us Charley Gilmer' s name."
"Charley Gilmer?" Payne asked.
"President of Connecticut General Commercial Assurance. He's on the board of directors, trustees, whatever, of that place."
"Whose name, if you were thinking clearly," Grace Detweiler said, "you should have thought of yourself. We've known the Gilmers for years."
H. Richard Detweiler ignored his wife's comment.
"It was not very pleasant," H. Richard Detweiler said, "having to call a man I have known for years to tell him that my daughter has a drug problem and I need his help to get her into a mental institution."
"Is that all you're worried about, your precious reputation?" Grace Detweiler snarled. "Dick, you make me sick!"
"I don't give a good goddamn about my reputation-or yours, either, for that matter. I'm concerned for our daughter, goddamn you!"
"If you were really concerned, you'd leave the booze alone!"
"Both of you, shut up!" Brewster C. Payne said sharply. Neither was used to being talked to in those words or that manner and looked at him with genuine surprise.
"Penny is the problem here. Let's deal with that," Payne said. " Unless you came here for an arena, instead of for my advice."
"I'm upset," H. Richard Detweiler said.
"And I'm not?" Grace snapped.
"Grace, shut up," Payne said. "Both of you, shut up."
They both glowered at him for a moment, the silence broken when Grace Detweiler walked to the bar and poured an inch and a half of Scotch in the bottom of a glass.
She turned from the bar, leaned against the bookcase, took a swallow of the whiskey, and looked at both of the men.
"Okay, let's deal with the problem," she said.
"We're sending Penny up there tomorrow, Colonel Mawson," Detweiler said, "to the Institute of Living, in an ambulance. It's a six-week program, beginning with detoxification and then followed by counseling."
"They know how to deal with the problem," Mawson replied. "It's an illness. It can be cured."
"That'snot the goddamn problem!" Grace flared. "We're talking about Penny and thegoddamn gangsters!"
"Excuse me?" Colonel H. Dunlop Mawson asked.
"Let me fill you in, Dunlop," Payne said, and explained the statement Matt had taken and Penny's determination to testify against the man whom she had seen shoot Anthony J. DeZego.
Colonel Mawson immediately put many of the Detweilers' concerns to rest. He told them that no assistant district attorney more than six weeks out of law school would go into court with a witness who had a " medical history of chemical abuse."
The statement taken by Matt Payne, in any event, he said, was of virtually no validity, taken as it was from a witness he knew was not in full possession of her mental faculties, and not even taking into consideration that he had completely ignored all the legal t's that had to be crossed, and i's dotted, in connection with taking a statement.
"And I think, Mr. Detweiler," Colonel Mawson concluded, "that there is even a very good chance that we can get the statement your daughter signed back from the police. If we can, then it will be as if she'd never signed it, as if it had never existed."
"How are you going to get it back?"
"Commissioner Czernick is a reasonable man," Colonel Mawson said. "He's a friend of mine. And by a fortunate happenstance, at the moment he owes me one."
"He owes you one what?" Grace Detweiler demanded.
Brewster C. Payne was glad she had asked the question. He didn't like what Mawson had just said, and would have asked precisely the same question himself.
"A favor," Mawson said, a trifle smugly. "A scratch of my back in return, so to speak."
"What kind of a scratch, Dunlop?" Payne asked, a hint of ice in his voice.
"Just minutes before I came in here," Mawson said, "I was speaking with Commissioner Czernick on the telephone. I was speaking on behalf of one of our clients, a public-spirited citizeness who wishes to remain anonymous."
"The point?" Payne said, and now there was ice in his voice.
"The lady feels the entire thread of our society is threatened by the unsolved murder of Officer Whatsisname, the young Italian cop who was shot out by Temple. So she is providing, through me, anonymously, a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and successful prosecution of the perpetrators. Commissioner Czernick seemed overwhelmed by her public-spirited generosity. I really think I'm in a position to ask him for a little favor in return."
"Well, that's splendid," H. Richard Detweiler said. "That would take an enormous burden from my shoulders."
"What do we do about the newspapers?" Grace Detweiler asked. "Have you any influence with them, Colonel?"
"Very little, I'm afraid."
"Arthur Nelson will do what he can, I'm sure, and that should take care of that," H. Richard Detweiler said.
"I don't trust Arthur J. Nelson," Grace said.
"Don't be absurd, Grace," H. Richard Detweiler said. "He seemed to understand the problem, and was obviously sympathetic."
"Brewster, will you please tell this horse's ass I'm married to that even if Nelson never printed the name Detweiler again in theLedger, there are three other newspapers in Philadelphia that will?"
"He implied that he would have a word with the others," H. Richard Detweiler said. "We take a lot of advertising in those newspapers. We' re entitled to a little consideration."
"Oh, Richard," Grace said, disgusted, "you can be such an ass! If Nelson has influence with the other newspapers, how is it that he couldn't keep them from printing every last sordid detail of his son's homosexual love life?"
Detweiler looked at Payne.
"I'm afraid Grace is right," Payne said.
"You can't talk to them? Mentioning idly in passing how much money Nesfoods spends with them every year?"
"I'd be wasting my breath," Payne said. "The only way to deal with the press is to stay away from it."
"You're a lot of help," Detweiler said. "I just can't believe there is nothing that can be done."
"Unfortunately thereis nothing that can be done. Except, of course, to reiterate, to stay away from the press. Say nothing."
"Just a moment, Brewster," Colonel Mawson said. "If I might say something?"
"Go ahead," Grace said.
"The way to counter bad publicity is with good publicity," Mawson said. "Don't you agree?"
"Get to the point," Grace Detweiler said.<
br />
He did.
TWENTY
Matt Payne was watching television determinedly. PBS was showing a British-made documentary of the plight of Australian aborigines in contemporary society, a subject in which he had little or no genuine interest. But if he did not watch television, he had reasoned, he would get drunk, which did not at the moment have the appeal it sometimes did, and which, moreover, he suspected was precisely the thing he should not do at the moment, under the circumstances.
He had disconnected his telephone. He did not want to talk to either his father, Officer Charles McFadden, Amanda Spencer, Captain Michael J. Sabara, or Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, all of whom had called and left messages that they would try again later.
All he wanted to do was sit there and watch the aborigines jumping around Boy Scout campfires in their loincloths and bitching, sounding like brown, fuzzy-haired Oxford dons, about the way they were treated.
His uniform was hanging from the fireplace mantelpiece. He had taken it from the plastic mothproof bag and hung it there so he could look at it. He had considered actually putting it on and examining himself in the mirror, and decided against that as unnecessary. He could imagine what he would look like in it as Officer Payne of the 12^th Police District.
If there was one thing that could be said about the uniform specified for officers of the Philadelphia Police Department, it did not have quite the class or the elan of the uniform prescribed for second lieutenants of the United States Marine Corps.
He had actually said, earlier on, "Damn my eyes," which sounded like a line from a Charles Laughton movie. But if it wasn't for his goddamn eyes, he would now be on his way to Okinawa and none of this business with the cops would have happened.
He would have gone to Chad and Daffy's wedding as a Marine officer and met Amanda, and they would have had their shipboard romance, as she called it, in much the same way. And things probably would have turned out much the same way, except that what had happened between them in the apartment would have happened in a hotel room or something, for if he had gone into the Marines, ergo, he would not have gotten the apartment.
But he had not gone into the Marines. He had gone into the cops and as a result of that had proven beyond any reasonable doubt that he was a world-class asshole with a naivete that boggled the imagination, spectacular delusions of his own cleverness, and a really incredible talent for getting other people-goddamngood people, Washington and Wohl, plus of course his father-in trouble because of all of the above. Not to mention embarrassing Uncle Denny Coughlin.
And now, having sinned, he was expected to do penance. He had not told Wohl the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about whether he thought he was too good to ride around in an RPW hauling drunks off to holding cells and fat ladies off to the hospital. He didn't want to do it. Was that the same as thinking he was too good to do it?
Presuming, of course, that he could swallow his pride and show up at the 12^th District on Monday, preceded by his reputation as the wiseass college kid who had been sent there in disgrace, what did he have to look forward to?
Two years of hauling the aforementioned fat lady down the stairs and into the wagon and then off to the hospital, perhaps punctuated, after a while, when they learned that within reason I could be trusted with exciting assignments, like guarding school crossings and maybe even-dare I hope?-filling in for some guy on vacation or something and actually getting to go on patrol in my RPC.
Then I will be eligible to take the examination for detective or corporal. Detective, of course. I don't want to be a corporal. And I will pass that. I will even study to do well on it, and I will pass it, and then what?
Do I want to ride shotgun in a wagon for two years to do that?
Amanda would, with justification, decide I was rather odd to elect to ride shotgun on a wagon. Amanda does not wish to be married to a guy who rides shotgun on a wagon. Can one blame Amanda? One cannot.
There was a rustling, and then a harsher noise, almost metallic.
The building is empty. I carefully locked the door to my stairs; therefore it cannot be anything human rustling around my door. Perhaps the raven Mr. Poe spoke of, about to quote "Nevermore" to me, as in " Nevermore, Matthew Payne, will you be the hotshot, hotshit special assistant to Inspector Wohl."
It's a rat, that's what it is. That's all I need, a fucking rat!
"You really ought to get dead-bolt locks for those doors," a vaguely familiar voice said.
Matt, startled, jumped to his feet.
Chief Inspector August Wohl, retired, was standing just inside the door, putting something back in his wallet.
"How the hell did you get in?" Matt blurted.
"I'll show you about doors sometime. Like I said, you really should get dead-bolt locks."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Wohl?"
"You could offer me a drink," he said. "I would accept. It's a long climb up here. And call me Chief, if you don't mind. It has a certain ring to it."
Matt walked into the kitchen and got out the bottle of Scotch his father had given him.
"Well, I'm glad to see there's some left," Chief Wohl said.
"Sir?"
"I really expected to find you passed out on the floor," Chief Wohl said. "That's why I let myself in. People who drink alone can get in a lot of trouble."
"I'm already in a lot of trouble," Matt said.
"So I understand."
"Water all right?"
"Just a touch. That's very nice whiskey."
"How'd you know I was here?"
"Your car's downstairs. There's lights on. There was movement I could see-shadows-from the street. It had to be either you or a burglar. I'm glad it was you. I'm too old to chase burglars."
Matt chuckled.
"Why'd you come?" he asked.
"I wanted to talk to you, but I'll be damned if I will while drinking alone."
"I'm not so sure that drinking is what I need to be doing just now."
"And the pain of feeling sorry for yourself is sharper when you're stone sober, right? And you like that?"
"What the hell," Matt said, and poured himself a drink.
"I see you have your uniform out," Chief Wohl said. "Does that mean you're going to report to the 12^th on Monday?"
"It means I'm thinking about it," Matt said.
"Which side is winning?"
"The side that's wondering if I can find anybody interested in buying a nearly new set of uniforms, size forty regular," Matt said.
"You going to ask me if I want to sit down?" Chief Wohl said.
"Oh! Sorry. Please sit down."
"Thank you," Chief Wohl said. He sat in Matt's chair and put his feet up on the footstool. Matt sat on the window ledge.
"I told Peter that I think he's wrong about you needing the experience you'll get-if you decide to go over there on Monday-at the 12^th," Chief Wohl said. "Incidentally, Peter feels lousy about the way that happened. I want you to understand that. It was out of his hands. That's one of the reasons I came here, to make sure you understood that."
"I thought it probably was," Matt said. "I mean the commissioner's decision."
"Reaction, not decision," Chief Wohl said. "There's a difference. When you decide something, you consider the facts and make a choice. When you react, it's different. Reactions are emotional."
"I'm not sure I follow you."
"Right or wrong wasn't on Czernick's agenda. What he saw was that Jerry Carlucci was going to be pissed off at Peter because of your little escapade with the Detweiler girl. He wanted to get himself out of the line of fire. Hereacted. By jumping on you before Carlucci said anything, he was proving, he thinks, to Jerry Carlucci, that he's one of the good guys."
Matt took a pull at his drink.
"You're not going to learn anything," Chief Wohl said, "if you decide to go over there on Monday, hauling fat ladies with broken legs downstairs-"
Matt laughed.
"I say something funny
?" Chief Wohl snapped.
"I'm sorry," Matt said. "But I was thinking in exactly those terms-hauling fat ladies-when I was thinking about what I would be doing in the 12^th."
"As I was saying, you won't learn anything hauling fat ladies except how to haul fat ladies. The idea of putting rookies on jobs like that is to give them experience. You've already had your experience."
"Do you mean because I shot the serial rapist?" Matt asked.
"No. As a matter of fact, I didn't even think about that," Chief Wohl said. "No, not that. That was something else. What I meant was the price of going off half-cocked before you think through what's liable to happen if you do what seems like such a great idea. The price of doing something dumb is what I mean."
"It's obviously expensive," Matt said. "I lose my job. I get my boss in trouble. I get to haul fat ladies. And because I was dumb, the scumbags who shot the other scumbag and Penny Detweiler get away with it. That really makes me mad. No, not mad. Ashamed of myself."
He became aware that Chief Wohl was looking at him with an entirely different look on his face.
"Chief, did I say something wrong?" Matt asked.
"No," Chief Wohl replied. "No, not at all. Can I have another one of these?"
"Certainly."
When Matt was at the sink, Chief Wohl got up and followed him.
"They may not get away with it," he said. "I have just decided that if I tell you something, it won't go any further. Am I right?"
"Do you think, after the trouble I've caused, that I am any judge of my reliability?"
"I think you can judge whether or not you can keep your mouth shut,particularly since you have just learned how you can get other people in trouble."
"Yes, sir," Matt said after a moment. "I can keep my mouth shut."
Chief Wohl met his eyes for a moment and then nodded.
"There is a set of rules involving the Mob and the police. Nobody talks about them, but they're there. I won't tell you how I know this, but Vincenzo Savarese got word to Jerry Carlucci that the Mob-Mobs, there's a couple of them-had nothing to do with the shooting of that Italian cop… what was his name?"
"Magnella. Joseph Magnella," Matt furnished.
"We believe him. The reason he told us that is not because he gives a damn about a dead cop but because he doesn't want us looking for the doer, doers, in the Mob. We might come across something else he doesn't want us to know. Since we're taking him at his word, that means we can devote the resources to looking elsewhere. You with me?"
The Victim boh-3 Page 34
