Well, that explains the three badges.
“… Sergeant John X. Moffitt and Captain Richard C. Moffitt…” Coughlin went on.
“That’s a proud tradition, Mrs. Moffitt,” the mayor said. “I’m honored to meet you.”
She nodded again.
“… and she is Detective Payne’s grandmother,” Coughlin finished.
“The tradition continues, then,” the mayor said. “This must be a proud moment for you.”
“If my grandson still carried his father’s name, it would be,” she said.
What the hell does that mean?
Detective Payne looked pained.
Whatever the hell it is, I’m not going to get into it here and now.
“Since you know full well, Mrs. Moffitt, that police work never ceases, I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I ask the commissioner if there have been any developments in the Roy Rogers case.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Mayor…”
Damn! The press will be in the conference room. It would have been a perfect place and time to announce the cops have finally bagged those animals.
“… but Commissioner Coughlin tells me there was a meeting last night of all the principals of the task force, plus Chief of Detectives Lowenstein.”
“Really? Well, I hope something good will come from it.”
“I feel sure that it will, Mr. Mayor,” Coughlin said. “We all feel there will be developments in the very near future.”
“I hope you’re right, Commissioner,” the mayor said. “Mrs. Moffitt, when we go into the conference room”-he looked at his watch-“and we’re going to have to do that right now, I think it would be very appropriate if you were to pin his new badge on your grandson.”
And a picture like that will certainly make the evening news.
“All right,” she said.
“Here it is, Mother Moffitt,” Coughlin said. “That’s Jack’s badge.”
“That’s Jack’s badge?” she asked, looking at the badge Coughlin was holding out to her.
“Yes, it is.”
“You told me, Dennis Coughlin, that it had been buried with him.”
“I was wrong,” Coughlin said.
“And where was it all these years? She had it, didn’t she?”
“Patricia’s Jack’s widow, Mother Moffitt.”
She snatched the badge out of his hand.
“Well, at least she won’t have it now,” Mother Moffitt said.
“If you will all go into the conference room now?” Dianna Kerr-Gally asked, gesturing at a door. “We can get the ceremony under way.”
When the mayor tried to follow the procession into the conference room, Dianna Kerr-Gally held up her arm, palm extended, to stop him.
He stopped.
Dianna Kerr-Gally, using her fingers and mouthing the numbers, counted downward from ten, then signaled the mayor to go into the conference room.
He walked briskly to the head of the table, where a small lectern had been placed. He looked around the room, smiling, attempting to lock eyes momentarily with everyone.
There were five promotees, all of whom looked older than Detective Payne, and all but Payne were in uniform. Two of the promotees were gray-haired. All the promotees were accompanied by family and/or friends. Dianna Kerr-Gally had put out the word no more than four per promotee, and apparently that had been widely ignored. The large room was crowded, just about full.
There were three video cameras at the rear of the room, and at least half a dozen still photographers. One of them was Michael J. O’Hara of the Bulletin.
I’ll have to remember to thank him for that front-page story about the task force.
Jesus, is that who I think it is? It damn sure is.
Brewster C. Payne in the flesh.
The last time I saw him was on Monday in Washington, in the Senate Dining Room. He was the “something really important has come up” reason our distinguished senior senator was sorry he couldn’t have lunch with me.
What’s his connection with Detective Payne?
When Dianna Kerr-Gally came to the lectern to hand him the three-by-five cards from which he would speak, he motioned her close to him and whispered, “The tall WASP in the back of the room?”
She looked and nodded.
“His name is Brewster Payne,” she whispered back.
“I know who he is. Ask him if he can spare me a minute when this is over.”
She nodded.
“If I may have your attention, ladies and gentlemen?” the mayor began, raising his voice so that it could be heard over the hubbub in the room.
The next time we do something like this, there should be a microphone.
“I realize you’re a busy man, Mr. Payne,” the mayor said, as Dianna Kerr-Gally ushered Brewster Payne into his office. “But I did want to say hello. I don’t think we’ve ever actually met, have we?”
“I don’t believe we have. But didn’t I see you in Washington on Monday?”
“Across the dining room,” the mayor said, waving him into a chair. “I need a cup of coffee. Do you have the time?”
“Thank you very much,” Payne said. “I’d love one.”
“Dianna, please?”
“Right away, Mr. Mayor.”
“Would it be impolitic for me to ask what you and the senator seemed to be talking so intently about?”
“My firm represents Nesfoods,” Payne said. “The senator chairs the Agricultural Subcommittee. We were talking about tomatoes, United States and Mexican.”
Nesfoods gave me one hundred thousand for my campaign. I wonder how much they gave to the senator?
“The tomato growers here are concerned about cheap Mexican tomatoes?”
“That issue has been resolved by the Free Trade Agreement. What I hoped to do-what I think I did-was convince the senator that it’s in everybody’s best interests for the Department of Agriculture to station inspectors in Nesfoods processing plants in Mexico, so that we can process the tomatoes there, and ship the pulp in tank trucks to the Nesfoods plants here and in California. That will both save Nesfoods a good deal of money and actually increase the quality of the finished product. Apparently, the riper the tomato when processed, the better the pulp.”
“And what was the problem?”
“As hard as it is to believe, there are those who are unhappy with the Free Trade Agreement,” Payne said, dryly, “and object to stationing Agriculture Department inspectors on foreign soil.”
“But after you had your little chat, the senator seemed to see the light?”
“I hope so, Mr. Mayor.”
Dianna Kerr-Gally came into the office with a silver coffee service and poured coffee.
When she had left them alone again, the mayor looked over his coffee cup and said, “I wasn’t aware until this morning that your son was a policeman.”
“I think of it as the firm’s loss is the city’s gain,” Payne said. “Actually, Matt’s my adopted son. His father-a police sergeant-was killed before he was born. I adopted Matt before he could walk.”
“You’d rather he would have joined Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and Lester?” the mayor asked.
“Wouldn’t your father prefer to see you in a pulpit?” Payne responded.
“Whenever I see him, he shakes his head sadly,” the mayor said. “I don’t think he’s given up hope that I will see the error of my ways.”
