They went in the small neighborhood restaurant. An obese woman brought coffee to the table for all of them.
“Miss Kathy, this is Lieutenant Foster, and his boy,” Woodrow said. “We go back a long way.”
“Way back,” Lieutenant Lewis agreed. “When I graduated from the Academy Officer Bailey sort of took me under his wing.”
“Is that so?” the woman said, and walked away.
“When Foster here finished the Academy, they sent him right to Special Operations, put him in plain clothes, and gave him a car,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “Things have changed, eh, Woodrow?”
“You like what you’re doing, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was thinking the other day that if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t,” Bailey said.
Lieutenant Lewis laughed.
“You don’t mean that, Woodrow,” he said.
“Yes, I do mean it. Don’t take this the wrong way, boy, but I’m glad I’m not starting out. I don’t think I could take another twenty-some years walking this beat.”
“I was telling Foster that walking a beat is what the police are all about,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
“Well, then, the country’s in trouble,” Bailey said. “Because we’re losing, Foster, and you know it. Things get a little worse every day, and there doesn’t seem to be anything that anybody can do about it.”
“What I was trying to get across to Foster was that there’s no substitute for the experience an officer like yourself gets,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
“Well, maybe you’re right, but the only thing my experience does is make me tired. Time was, I used to think I could clean up a place. Now I know better. All I’m doing is slowing down how fast it’s getting worse. And I only get to slow it down a little on good days.”
Lieutenant Lewis laughed politely.
“I was thinking, Woodrow,” he said, “that since Foster hasn’t had any experience on the streets, that maybe you’d be good enough to let him ride around with you once in a while. You know, show him the tricks of the trade.”
“Good Lord,” Officer Bailey laughed, “why would he want to do that?”
Lieutenant Lewis glanced at his son. He saw that it was only with a great effort that Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr., was able to keep his face straight, not let it show what he was thinking.
“My father is right, Mr. Bailey,” Tiny said. “I could probably learn a lot from you.”
That response surprised and then delighted Lieutenant Lewis, but the delight was short-lived:
“The only thing you could learn by riding around with me,” Officer Bailey said, “is that Satan’s having his way, and if you have half the brains you were born with, you already know that.”
Officer Lewis looked at his watch.
“Is there a phone around here, Mr. Bailey? I’ve got to check in.”
“There’s a pay phone outside,” Bailey said. “But most likely somebody ripped the handset off for the fun of it. You go see Miss Kathy, and tell her I said to let you use hers.”
“Thank you,” Tiny said.
When he was out of earshot, Officer Bailey nodded approvingly.
“Nice boy, Foster,” he said. “You should be proud of him.”
“I am,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
Men in light blue uniforms, suggesting State Police uniforms, with shoulder patches reading “Nesfoods International Security,” stood at the gates of the Detweiler estate. They were armed, Matt noticed, with chrome- plated Smith amp; Wesson. 357 caliber revolvers, and their Sam Browne belts held rows of shining cartridges.
“Anyone trying to shoot their way in here’s going to have his hands full,” Matt said softly as he slowed and lowered the window of Amy’s station wagon.
“You really have a strange sense of humor,” Amy said, and leaned over him to speak to the security man.
“I’m Dr. Payne,” Amy said, “and this is my brother.”
One of the two men consulted a clipboard.
“Yes, Ma’am, you’re on the list,” the security man said, and the left of the tall wrought-iron gates began to open inward.
Matt raised the window.
“And you’re back on Peter’s list, too, I see,” Matt said.
“Matt, I understand that you’re under a terrible strain,” Amy said tolerantly, either the understanding psychiatrist or the sympathetic older sister, or both, “but please try to control your mouth. Things are going to be difficult enough in here.”
“I wonder how long it’s going to be before Mother Detweiler decides that if I had only been reasonable, reasonable defined as resigning from the Police Department and taking my rightful position in society, Penny wouldn’t have stuck that needle in her arm, and that this whole thing is my fault.”
“That’s to be expected,” Amy said. “The important thing is that you don’t accept that line of reasoning.”
“In other words, she’s already started down that road?”
“What did you expect?” Amy said. “She, and Uncle Dick, have to find someone to blame.”
“Give me a straight answer, Doc. I don’t feel I’m responsible. What does that make me?”
“Is that your emotional reaction, as opposed to a logical conclusion you’ve come to?”
“How about both?”
“Straight answer: You’re probably still in emotional shock. Have you wept?”
“I haven’t had time to,” Matt said. “I didn’t get to bed until about three.”
“More people showed up at your apartment?” Amy said, annoyance in her voice.
“No, I went to the bar where the Homicide detectives hang out with Jason Washington. He was trying to make me palatable to them.”
“What does that mean?”
“When I go back on the job, I’m going to spend some time in Homicide.”
“What’s all that about?”
“It’s a long story. What I will ostensibly be doing is working on the Inferno job.”
“What’s the ‘Inferno job’?”
“Washington and I walked up on a double homicide on Market Street, in a gin mill called the Inferno Lounge.”
“The bar owner? They killed his wife? I heard something on the radio.”
“The wife and business partner had their brains blown out. The husband suffered a. 32 flesh wound to the leg.”
“Is there something significant in that?” Amy asked.
“Let us say the version of the incident related by the not-so-bereaved husband is not regarded as being wholly true,” Matt said.
“But why are you going to Homicide?” Amy asked.
She didn’t get an answer.
“Jesus Christ, what’s this?” Matt exclaimed. “It looks like a used-car lot.”
Amy looked out the windshield. The wide cobblestone drive in front of the Detweiler mansion and the last fifty yards of the road leading to it were crowded with cars, a substantial percentage of them Cadillacs and Lincolns. There were five or six limousines, including two Rolls Royces.
“Dad said family and intimate friends,” Amy said. “It’s apparently gotten out of hand.”
“Intimate friends, or the morbidly curious?” Matt asked. “With a soupcon of social climbers thrown in for good measure?”
“Matt, have those acidulous thoughts if they make you feel better, but for the sake of Uncle Dick and Aunt Grace-and Mother and Dad-please have the decency to keep them to yourself.”
“Sorry,” he said, sounding contrite.
“What were they supposed to say when someone called, or simply showed up? ‘Sorry, you’re not welcome’?”
