There were now answers to the questions raised by what Detective Payne had learned at the Northampton County Court House: Seven months before, for one dollar and other good and valuable consideration, all assets, real estate, inventory and goodwill of the property privately held by John Paul Cassidy at 2301 Tatamy Road, Easton, had been sold to the Shamrock Corporation. The building at 2301 Tatamy Road housed both Johnny Cassidy’s Shamrock Bar and, above it, four apartments on two floors.
It would appear on the surface-he would nose around a little more, of course-that there was a perfectly good reason for Captain Cassidy’s sudden affluence. If the brother had insurance, which seemed likely-and the mother did, which also seemed likely-that would explain where he had gotten the cash to buy the condominium at the shore. And it seemed reasonable that getting a check every month for his share of the profits would explain why Captain Cassidy felt he could afford to give his old Suburban to his daughter and buy a new Yukon XL, no money down, to be paid for with the monthly check.
Detective Payne had a third beer “on the house” and another pickled egg, and then got back in his Porsche to return to Philadelphia.
The temptation to take the very interesting winding road beside the old Delaware Canal was irresistible. But he didn’t want to go back through Doylestown-past the Crossroads Diner-so he turned off Route 611 onto Route 32 a few miles south of Riegelsville, and followed it along the Delaware.
A few miles past New Hope, his cellular phone tinkled. He looked at his watch and saw that it was quarter to five.
That’s probably Peter. Despite what he said about filling him in in the morning, he wants to know what I found out.
“Yes, sir, Inspector, sir. Detective Payne at your service, sir.”
“Hey, Matt,” a familiar voice said. It was that of Chad Nesbitt. They had been best friends since kindergarten.
“The Crown Prince of tomato soup himself? To what do I owe the honor?”
“Where are you?” Chad asked, a tone of exasperation in his voice.
“About five miles south of picturesque New Hope on Route 32. I presume there is some reason for your curiosity?”
“What are you doing way up there?”
“Fighting crime, of course. Protecting defenseless citizens such as yourself from evildoers.”
“Daffy wants you to come to supper. Can you?”
Daffy was Mrs. Nesbitt.
“Why does that make me suspicious?”
“Matt, for Christ’s sake, make peace with her. It gets to be a real pain in the ass for me with you two always at each other’s throat.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“There’s a girl she wants you to meet.”
“Not only no, but hell no.”
“This one’s nice. I think you’ll like her.”
“She’s a nymphomaniac who owns a liquor store?”
“Sometimes, Matt, you can be a real pain in the ass,” Chad said.
There was a perceptible silence.
“Come on, Matt. Please.”
“If you give me your solemn word that when I get there, we can go directly from ‘How do you do?’ to carnal pleasures on your carpet without-”
“Fuck you. Come or don’t.”
“When?”
“As soon as you can get here.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “Take me half an hour, depending on the traffic on Interstate 95.”
The Wachenhut Security guards who stood in the Colonial-style guard shack at the entrance to Stockton Place in Society Hill were chosen by Wachenhut with more care than their guards at the more than one hundred other locations Wachenhut protected in the Philadelphia area.
Not only was Wachenhut’s regional vice president for the Philadelphia area resident in one of the luxury apartments behind the striped-pole barrier, but so were executives of other corporations, which employed large numbers of Wachenhut Security personnel.
Number 9 Stockton Place, for example, a triplex constructed behind the facades of four of the twelve pre- Revolutionary brownstone buildings on the east side of Stockton Place, was owned by NB Properties, Inc., the principal stockholder of which was Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III and was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick T. Nesbitt IV.
Mr. Nesbitt IV was working his way upward in the corporate ranks-he had recently been named a vice president-of Nesfoods International, of which his father was chairman of the executive committee. Four of Nesfoods International’s Philadelphia-area manufacturing facilities employed the Wachenhut Corporation to provide the necessary security, as did many other Nesfoods establishments around the world.
It therefore behooved Wachenhut to put its best security foot forward, so to speak, on Stockton Place.
It wasn’t only a question of providing faultless around-the — clock security-Wachenhut had learned how to do that splendidly over the years-but to do so in such a manner as not to antagonize those being protected, and their guests.
The senior security officer on duty in the shack when the Porsche Carrera rolled up was a retired soldier who had spent twenty years in the Corps in the military police. His retirement pay wasn’t going as far as he’d thought it would, and since he had enlisted at seventeen and retired at thirty-eight, he’d still been a young man who wanted to work.
Wachenhut had been glad to have him, assigned him- with a raise in pay-to Stockton Place after only six months on the job, and made him a supervisor eighteen months after he had joined the firm. His superiors thought he would be capable of handling the sometimes delicate Stockton Place assignment, and he had proven them right.
When the silver Porsche Carrera slowed as it approached the barrier, the senior security officer on duty nodded at it, then spoke softly to the trainee.
“Now this guy doesn’t look like he’s either about to break into an apartment, or try to sell something. Very few burglars drive cars like that. So you smile at him, ask him who he wishes to see, and then for his name. Then you say ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ raise the barrier, and call whoever he said he’s going to see and tell them he’s coming.”
“Got it,” the trainee said, and stepped out of the guard shack.
“Good evening, sir,” he said to the driver. “How may I help you?”
“Matthew Payne to see Mr. Nesbitt,” Matt said.
“Thank you, sir,” the trainee said, and stepped inside the guard shack, and pushed the button that raised the barrier. Before the Porsche was past the barrier, the Wachenhut supervisor was on the interior telephone.
“Like this,” he said, and then when the phone was answered, said, “This is the gate. We have just passed a Mr. Payne to see Mr. Nesbitt.”
Matt pulled the Porsche to the curb in front of Number 9, got out, walked to the red-painted door, and pushed the doorbell.
The door was opened almost immediately by Mr. Nesbitt IV, who looked very much like Matt Payne but a little shorter and a little heavier.
“Hello, you ugly bastard,” he said. Then he raised his voice. “Dump the dope! The cops are here!”
Then he embraced Matt.
“Thanks for coming. And for Christ’s sake, behave yourself. ”
The ground floor foyer of Number 9 was open to a skylight in the roof, invisible from the street. To the right was the door to the elevator, and to the left the door to the stairs. There were balconies on the first and second floors of the atrium.
Mrs. Chadwick T. Nesbitt IV, the former Daphne Elizabeth Browne, known for most of her life as “Daffy,” a tall, attractive blonde, appeared on the upper balcony, looked down, smiled, and called, “Matt, how nice! Come
