“You’ll be in the lounge, Mr. Davis?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” the porter said.
He then went to a large board behind his porter’s stand. On it were listed, alphabetically, the names of the three-hundred-odd members of the Rittenhouse Club. Beside each name was an inch-long piece of brass, which could be slid back and forth in a track. When the marker was next to the member’s name, this indicated he was on the premises; when away from it, that he was not.
He moved the piece of brass to indicate that Davis, W. was now on the premises.
Davis examined the board. The names listed represented the power structure of Philadelphia. And their children. Both Nesbitt, C. III and Nesbitt, C. IV had small brass plates. As did Payne, B. and Payne, M.
Davis knew Payne, B. only by reputation, that of a founding partner of the most prestigious law firm in Philadelphia, Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester.
Payne, M. he had met. Payne, M. was a policeman. Davis had once taken Inspector Peter Wohl to lunch. They had gone in Wohl’s car, which had been driven by a Philadelphia police officer—Payne—in plainclothes. Officer Payne had played straight man to Wohl, while Wohl vented his annoyance at being kept waiting for Davis with “witty” remarks, and by taking him to a closet-size Italian greasy spoon in South Philadelphia for lunch, instead of to the elegant Ristorante Alfredo in Center City.
Davis had subsequently learned, from Isaiah J. Towne, his ASAC (Assistant Special Agent in Charge) for counterintelligence, just who Payne was. Not only that he was Brewster Cortland Payne’s son, or that he was the policeman who had, in Towne’s somewhat admiring description, “blown the brains of the Northeast Serial Rapist all over the inside of his van with his service revolver,” but why he had become a policeman instead of following in his father’s prestigious footsteps in the practice of law.
Towne, a tall, hawk-featured, thirty-nine-year-old balding Mormon, who took his religion seriously and who had once told Davis, dead serious, that he regarded the Com munists as the Antichrist, was in charge of what were called, somewhat confusingly, FBIs. The acronym stood for Full Background Investigation. FBIs were run before the issuance of federal security clearances, and before young men were commissioned into one of the Armed Forces.
An FBI had been run on Matthew Mark Payne during his last year at the University of Pennsylvania. He had then been enrolled in the USMC Platoon Leaders’ Program, which would see him commissioned a second lieutenant on his graduation.
At the last minute, young Payne had failed the precom missioning physical, and had not gone into the Marine Corps.
Towne’s FBI on him, however, had already been run, and it had provided some very interesting details about Payne, Matthew Mark. For one thing, he was a very wealthy young man, largely because of an investment program established for him at age three and administered—and generously contributed to—by his father thereafter.
It also revealed that he was not Brewster Cortland Payne II’s biological son. He was the biological son of Sergeant John Francis Xavier Moffitt, of the Philadelphia Police Department, who had been shot to death answering a silent burglar alarm call months before his only child was born.
The Widow Moffitt had gone to secretarial school and found employment with Lowerie, Tant, Foster, Pedigill and Payne, a top Philadelphia legal firm, as a typist.
Shortly thereafter, she had met the just-widowered Brewster Cortland Payne II, the son of the founding partner—and heir apparent to the Payne real estate fortune. Mrs. Brewster Cortland Payne II had been killed in an automobile accident returning from their summer home in the Pocono Mountains, leaving her husband and two infant children.
Brewster Cortland Payne II’s reaction to his father’s description of Patricia Moffitt as a gold-digging Irish trollop and his absence from their wedding had been to resign from Lowerie, Tant, Foster, Pedigill and Payne and strike out on his own.
Shortly after the birth of their first child—which coincided with the death of Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt, Jr., the chairman of the board of Nesfoods International; the assumption by Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III, Brewster Payne’s best friend, to that position; and the retention of what was then Payne & Mawson as Nesfood International’s Counsel—Brewster Cortland Payne went to his wife and announced that since he loved Matt as well as his other children, it seemed only logical that he adopt him, and requested her permission to do so.
Matthew Mark Payne’s rejection by the Marine Corps had been shortly followed by the death of his uncle, his biological father’s brother, another policeman, Captain Richard C. “Dutch” Moffitt. Moffitt, a colorful character, who had been the commanding officer of the Highway Patrol, had, off-duty, walked in on a holdup of the Waikiki Diner on Roosevelt Boulevard, and been shot to death trying to talk the robber, a drug addict, into handing over his .22-caliber pistol.
When Matthew Mark Payne had applied for appointment as a Philadelphia police officer immediately thereafter—the only graduate, summa cum laude, of the University of Pennsylvania to do so in anyone’s memory—it was generally agreed both that it was understandable—Matt’s masculinity, challenged by rejection by the Marines, would be restored by his becoming a policeman; and he probably had some childish idea about getting revenge for both his biological father and his uncle—and that his police career would end just as soon as he came to his senses.
When he surprised everyone by lasting through the rigors of the Police Academy, Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, who had graduated from the Police Academy with his best friend, John Francis Xavier Moffitt—who had knocked at Patty Moffitt’s door to tell her, “Honey, Jack just had some real bad luck,” and who had no intention of knocking on her door again to tell her Jack’s boy had been shot—arranged to have him assigned as administrative assistant to Inspector Peter Wohl.
He had been on that job less than six months when, off-duty, he spotted the van used by the Northwest Serial Rapist, attempted to question the driver, nearly lost his life when the driver attempted to run him down with the van, and then shot him in the head.
Not quite a year after that, the Philadelphia Police Department planned and executed a massive operation intended to cause the arrest without firing a shot of a gang of a dozen armed robbers on warrants charging them with murder in connection with the robbery of Goldblatt’s Department Store in South Philadelphia.
Officer Payne’s role in this meticulously planned, theoretically foolproof operation was to “escort”—keep him (and incidentally himself) out of any possible danger—Michael J. “Mickey” O’Hara, the Pulitzer prize-winning Philadelphia Bulletin police reporter. They were to wait in an alley a safe distance from the building in which the robbers were known to be until the arrests had been successfully accomplished.
One of the robbers, wielding a .45 Colt automatic pistol, appeared where he wasn’t supposed to be, in the “safe alley,” and let off a volley of shots. One of them rico cheted, grazing Payne in the forehead. He was able to draw his revolver and return fire.
That evening’s Philadelphia Bulletin carried an “Ex clusive Photo By Michael J. O’Hara” that showed Officer Payne, blood streaming down his face—from a wound that looked a great deal worse than it was—standing, pistol in hand, over the felon he had fatally wounded in a shoot-out.
Ninety percent of police officers reach retirement without once having been forced to use their pistols. A cop who, in less than two years on the job, finds himself involved in two good shootings is obviously something out of the ordinary.
No one was surprised when Officer Payne passed the examination for Detective on the first attempt. He was, of course, a summa cum laude university graduate who had little trouble with the examination. He ranked second when the examination results were posted, and was promoted shortly thereafter.
It was said, however, that Mayor Carlucci would have had him promoted if it had been necessary to send two chief inspectors into the examination room with him to show him which
end of the pencil to use, and otherwise be helpful.
Neither were many people in the Philadelphia Police Department surprised to hear that Mayor Carlucci had “suggested” that Detective Payne be reassigned to Special Operations after a very short assignment to one of the detective divisions.
Mayor Carlucci was aware of the value of good public relations.
What Walter Davis thought when he saw Payne, M. on the membership board of the Rittenhouse Club was first that Payne was almost certainly a regular rather than non-voting, ex officio member, and second that the FBI was always looking for outstanding young men to join its ranks.
He had, he realized, had that thought before.
Why didn’t I follow through with it then?
His lunch with Randy Andy Tellman (turtle soup, London broil, and asparagus) went well until he called for the check to sign. Tellman snatched it from his hand and scrawled his initials on it.
“I didn’t know you belonged,” Davis blurted.
“Out-of-town member,” Randy Andy told him. “The firm picks it up.”
As soon as he returned to his office, Davis told his secretary to ask ASAC Towne if he could spare him a minute.
Towne answered the summons immediately.
“Correct me when I’m wrong, Isaiah,” Davis told him. “The subject is Detective Matthew Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department.”
“Yes, sir?”
“To the best of your recollection, nothing came up in your FBI that would disqualify him for the Bureau?”
“No, sir.”
“Including his physical condition? What caused the Marines to reject him?”
“It was some minor eye problem, as I recall, sir. I don’t think the Bureau even looks at that sort of thing.”
“And I think we have an agent to whom it was suggested that getting close to Detective Payne might be a good thing to do?”
“Yes, sir. Special Agent Jack—John D.—Matthews.”
“Refresh me. How did Matthews come to meet Detective Payne?”
“I believe it was in connection with the vice presidential threat,” Towne said. “We sent Matthews over to liaise with the Secret Service. The Special Operations Division of the Philadelphia Police Department was providing the Secret Service with bodies to help find that lunatic. I believe they became friendly while that was going on.”
“And, if memory serves, despite Agent Matthews’s best efforts, we have learned virtually nothing, via Detective Payne, of interesting things going on within the Philadelphia Police Department that we would not have learned of through other channels?”
“I’m afraid that’s true, sir.”
“That speaks well for Detective Payne, wouldn’t you say, Isaiah?”
“From the viewpoint of the Philadelphia Police Department, yes, sir, I would say it does.”
“It has occurred to me, Isaiah, that Detective Payne might very well have the makings of an outstanding FBI agent. How does that strike you?”
“Absolutely,” Isaiah Towne said. “He would bring to the Bureau a level of practical experience—”
Davis cut him off.
“See if Matthews is in the office, please,” he said. “If he is, why don’t you and I have a little chat with him about recruiting Detective Payne?”
Towne picked up one of the telephones on Davis’s desk, pushed the button marked “Duty Officer,” learned that Special Agent Matthews was in the office, and told the duty officer to send him to the office of the SAC.
EIGHT
Detective Matt Payne’s concentration was finally broken by the ringing telephone. He muttered a routine obscenity; pulled the dictating machine’s headset out of his ears; turned from the typewriter; looked around the office and saw that it was deserted and that it was dark outside; muttered another routine obscenity; glanced at his wristwatch, saw that it was half past seven; muttered a third routine obscenity; and picked up the telephone.
It had been a long, tiring, and not very productive day. He had been working without interruption on the obscenity-deleted tapes since Weisbach’s meeting in the morning.
All he had had to eat all day was a hamburger and a small fries. Jason Washington, who had felt sorry for him, had brought that to him in the middle of the afternoon.
He was nowhere near finished, and at half past four, Sergeant Sandow had informed him he was expected in Personnel in the Roundhouse anytime after half past nine, to go through the records of the men on Five Squad.
“Special Investigation, Detective Payne,” Matt said, as courteously as he could manage.
“As an act of Christian charity, your friendly local FBI agent is prepared to spring for supper,” his caller said.
“Jack, I’m really up to my ass in work.”
“You have to eat,” Special Agent Jack Matthews said, reasonably.
“Where are you?”
“At the FOP.”
The Fraternal Order of Police Building was on Spring Garden Street, just off North Broad Street. The well-patronized bar was in the basement. Matt could hear bar sounds; Matthews was using the phone on the bar.
“This is social, then, rather than official?”
“A little of each, actually,” Matthews said, surprised at the question. “Why did you ask?”
“You’re going to deliver a friendly lecture on the criminal penalties provided for interfering with FBI agents, right?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re right. I have to eat. You said you’re paying?”
“Right.”>
“In that case, since I really deserve it, something expensive. A lobster comes immediately to mind. Does Bookbinder’s, the Old Original, on Second Street, make you want to regret your kind offer?”
“Not at all. This feast goes on the expense account.”
“So those assholes did report me? I thought they’d be too embarrassed.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. You want to meet me there? Or should I pick you up?”
“I’ll meet you there. When can you leave?”
“As soon as I can turn out the lights. I’m starved.” He hung up, looked out the window and saw that it was not only dark but raining, and went to what had been the classroom’s cloakroom for his trench coat. When he picked it up, there was something heavy in the pocket. He fished it out. It was the small tape recorder that had come with the dictation system he had bought to transcribe the Kellog tapes, still in its box with compartments for the device, batteries, and three tape cassettes.
He started to put it on his desk, but changed his mind when he thought it might be useful to transcribe information at the Roundhouse. He put it back in the trench-coat’s pocket, turned off the lights, and left.
“If you had a decent paying job, you wouldn’t have to put in so much overtime,” Special Agent Matthews, a tall, muscular, fair-skinned man in his late twenties, said to Detective Payne when Matt slid onto a stool beside him in the bar.
“Why do I suspect there is something significant in that remark?” Matt said. “What are you drinking?”
“Johnny Walker Black,” Matthews said. “Would you like one?”
“You’re paying?”
“The Bureau is paying.”
“In that case, yes, thank you, I will,” Matt said. He caught the bartender’s eye and signaled for the same thing. “I will ask why the Bureau is paying later. I would have thought they would be just a little annoyed with me.”
“Whatever for? The purpose of this little rendezvous is to point out to you all the nice things that would happen if you joined us.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. Davis called me into his office and ordered me to wine and dine you with that noble purpose in mind.”
Matt chuckled.
“You can tell Mr. Davis what I told the two assholes. One of my best friends is an FBI agent, but I wouldn’t want my sister to marry one of
them.”
“Which two assholes would that be?”
“The two I led on a wild-goose chase up and down the alleys of North Philadelphia.”
“FBI agents?” Matthews asked. Matt nodded. “Did they have names?”
Matt called the names from his memory.
“Jernigan and Leibowitz,” he said. “Leibowitz seemed to be the brighter of the two.”
“Never heard of them,” Jack Matthews said. “Why did you lead them on a wild-goose chase?”
“They annoyed me,” Matt said.
“Why did they annoy you?”
“They thought I had kidnapped an innocent maiden.”
“You don’t know any innocent maidens. There may not be an innocent maiden over the age of eleven in Philadelphia. Kidnapped? What the hell are you talking about, Matt? Try starting at the beginning.”
“This is really the first time you’re hearing this?” Matt asked.
Matthews held up his hands in a gesture of innocence.
“Somewhat reluctantly, I will take you at your word,” Matt said, and told him of his encounter with Special Agents Leibowitz and Jernigan.
“We don’t have any agents by those names in our office, Matt,” Matthews said when Matt had finished. “Are you sure they were FBI agents? Not Treasury, or Secret Ser—”
“They had FBI credentials,” Matt shut him off. “Which they shoved close enough under my nose for me to take a good look.”
“I don’t understand this at all,” Matthews said. “And your lady friend was not kidnapped at all?”
“How do you get ‘kidnapped at all’? Wouldn’t that be like being a little pregnant?”
Matthews chuckled.
“Have you told anyone else about this?” he asked. “Wohl, for example?”
“Not a soul. And especially not Wohl. That would have triggered his ‘we must be kind to the FBI’ speech.”
“I have no idea—”
“Let’s get a table and eat,” Matt said. “I’m starved. And when I’m finished, I have another couple of hours’ work at the Roundhouse, which means I better not have another drink, even if the FBI is paying for it.”
The Investigators Page 13
