because she wanted to have a look at Mr. Daniels, with an eye to evaluating how he might be evaluated by a jury should he change his mind-which she thought was a distinct possibility-about his confession, and claim his right to be judged by a jury of his peers.
Outside the restaurant, just inside the airport property- where a four-engine B-24 Liberator stood permanently parked as a memorial to Captain Bill Benn, USAAC, Mr. Hagen’s uncle, who had gone down flying a B- 24 in World War II-a small coterie of more junior white shirts and their cars was also waiting for Mr. Daniels.
Captain Henry Quaire and Lieutenant Jason Washington of Homicide stood beside Captain David Pekach of Highway Patrol and the captains commanding the Eighth Police District and Northeast Detectives between the B-24 and the tarmac in front of the Nesfoods International Aviation Department hangar where the Citation would park.
Twenty or so uniforms-and their cars-waited in front of the hangar itself.
About three quarters of them, Deputy Commissioner Coughlin thought privately, had no real business being here. All that had to be done was to get Daniels off the airplane and into a patrol car and haul him off to the detention room in the Roundhouse basement. Sending a car- or even two-to go with the car with Daniels in it-there was a slight but real possibility of a flat tire, or a vehicular accident-would seem justified, but this was more like a circus than it should be. Homer C. Daniels was not the first-by a long shot-accused murderer to require transportation.
But Coughlin knew there was nothing he could do about it, even if he had the authority to order them all to go away. He understood their curiosity, their sense of proprietorship. This was a homicide, thus Quaire and Washington. Northeast Philadelphia Airport was in the area of responsibility of both the Eighth Police District and the Northeast Detectives Division, thus the presence of both of those captains commanding. And Highway Patrol had citywide authority, which is why Dave Pekach had felt free to come and watch Homer C. Daniels be returned to Philadelphia.
Mr. Michael J. O’Hara, who had gotten out of his seat the moment the Citation’s wheels had touched ground to take a final shot of Daniels in his seat-and had nearly lost his footing when it decelerated rapidly-was the first person off the plane.
He took up a position to get a shot of Daniels getting off the plane very much as Eddie, Colt’s “personal photographer, ” had taken when Colt had landed at the Northeast Airport.
Mr. Steven Cohen got off next, followed by Detective D’Amata, then Daniels, again wearing handcuffs, and finally Sergeant Payne.
The Eighth District commander and the Highway Patrol commander walked up to the airplane and a Highway car, an Eighth District car, and then another Highway car drove up.
Detective D’Amata put Daniels in the Eighth District car, then got in beside him. The three cars then drove off, leaving Mr. Cohen, Sergeant Payne, Mr. O’Hara, and the two captains standing beside the airplane.
“They want you over there,” Captain Pekach said, indicating the grouped VIPs.
Sergeant Payne looked carefully around the field. He did not see Detective Lassiter.
There had not been much for the press to record for posterity. It had taken less than a minute to get Daniels off the plane and into the Eighth District car. Having nothing else to do — something the mayor had counted on-the press turned their attention to him.
The mayor smiled first at Steven Cohen, Esq., and shook his hand, and then smiled at Sergeant Payne and shook his hand. District Attorney Solomon, also an elected official, was photographed shaking Mr. Cohen’s hand.
The mayor waved Mr. Nesbitt III to his side.
“I have a brief statement to make,” the mayor began. “A terrible tragedy took place in our city, and nothing can ever make that right. But I want to take this opportunity to say how proud I am not only of our police department and the office of the district attorney but of our concerned, involved citizens as well.
“As soon as it came to his attention that as the result of some really first-class investigative work by the police department, and some really first-class legal work by Mrs. Solomon and her associates, the man charged with this heinous crime was in custody in Alabama, Mr. Nesbitt, of Nesfoods International, called to offer the use of his corporate aircraft-at no cost whatever to the city-to bring the accused murderer to Philadelphia to face justice. Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt.”
“It seemed the least we at Nesfoods could do, Mr. Mayor,” Mr. Nesbitt said. “Nesfoods International likes to think we are responsible corporate citizens of Philadelphia.”
“And I have to say this,” the mayor went on, “there has been some unfortunate, and in my judgment, unfair comments in some of the press lately to the effect that certain police officers were spending too much time protecting my good friend Stan Colt from the ardor of his fans, when what they should have been doing was trying to apprehend a murderer. I think this proves beyond any doubt that our police can do both things at the same time.”
Mayor Martin did not take questions. He turned and ducked quickly into his waiting limousine.
Mr. Nesbitt III shook hands with Sergeant Payne and ducked into his waiting limousine. District Attorney Solomon said, “Good work, you guys,” and got into her unmarked Crown Victoria.
Commissioner Mariani shook Sergeant Payne’s hand and got into his Crown Victoria.
Captain Quaire and Lieutenant Washington walked up.
“What next, boss?” Sergeant Payne asked.
“Come to work in the morning,” Washington said, “after you finish your detail with Dignitary Protection. I understand Mr. Colt is leaving at eleven-fifteen tomorrow morning.”
“I was supposed to leave after the last thing tonight,” Stan Colt said. “But I didn’t want to leave without seeing you. I want to hear everything that happened.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Matt said.
“Bullshit. After this thing tonight, I’m throwing a little thank-you party at La Famiglia. You, Mickey, your pal Nesbitt Four, Terry, a handful of others.”
“Stan, I don’t know…”
“It’s all laid on. You can’t say no now. I gotta go. One more lunch-which I’m already late for-and this thing tonight, and then I’m done.”
Commissioner Coughlin nodded, which Detective Payne correctly interpreted to mean was an order to him to attend Mr. Colt’s little thank-you party tonight. And to tell him everything that happened.
Mr. Colt then punched Sergeant Payne in the shoulder and got in his limousine. Highway Patrol officers kicked their bikes into life and, sirens growling, led the way out of the airport.
“If my children,” Brewster C. Payne said, “don’t mind having lunch with a couple of old men, Denny and I are about to have ours.”
“He doesn’t have any choice in the matter,” Dr. Payne said. “I want to hear about this guy.”
“So do I,” Deputy Commissioner Coughlin said. “How about right here at the Flatspin? They do a really nice Mahi-Mahi.”
TWENTY
There was a telephone in a niche in the low fieldstone wall around the patio of the Payne house in Wallingford, but when it rang, Patricia Payne really didn’t want to answer it.
Feeling just a little ashamed of herself-this has to be prurient interest-the truth was that she was fascinated by the interrogation of her son by her husband and her daughter concerning his encounter with Homer C. Daniels.
She had known Amelia M. Payne, M.D., from before she had taken her first steps-and was in fact the only mother Amy had ever known-and she had given birth to Matt. They were her children.
And she had taken maternal pride in both. Amy was a certified genius, and while Matt wasn’t as smart, he had graduated summa cum laude from Pennsylvania. And she knew that her husband was a very good lawyer, and Amy a highly regarded psychiatrist, and Matt was carrying his father’s sergeant’s badge.
