building in the Philadelphia suburb.
It had been during his last year at Episcopal Academy. He had been in the company of Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV and two females, all of them bound for the Rose Tree Hunt Club. One of the females had been Daffy Browne, he remembered, but he could not recall either the name or the face of the one he’d been with in the backseat of Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III’s Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow.
He remembered only that he had finally managed to disengage the fastening of her brassiere only moments before a howling siren and flashing lights had announced the presence of the Media Police Department.
Chad was charged with going sixty-eight miles per hour in a forty-mile-per-hour zone; with operating a motor vehicle under the influence of alcohol; with operating a motor vehicle without a valid driver’s license in his possession; and operating a motor vehicle without the necessary registration documents therefore.
Chad didn’t have a driver’s license in his possession because it had been confiscated by his father to make the point that failing two of four Major Curriculum subjects in Mid-Year Examinations was not socially acceptable behavior. He didn’t have the registration for the Rolls because he was absolutely forbidden to get behind the wheel of the Rolls under any circumstances, not only while undergoing durance vile. He was driving the Rolls because his parents were spending the weekend in the Bahamas, and he thought they would never know.
Everyone in the Rolls had been charged with unlawful possession of alcoholic beverages by minors. The Rolls was parked on the side of the Baltimore Pike, and all four miscreants (the females sniffling in shame and humiliation) were hauled off to Media Police Headquarters and placed in a holding cell.
It had been necessary to telephone Brewster Cortland Payne II at five minutes to two in the morning. Mr. Payne had arrived at the police station a half hour later, arranged the appropriate bail for the females, and taken them home, leaving a greatly surprised Matt and Chad looking out from behind the holding cell bars.
Brewster Cortland Payne II had a day or two later informed Matt that he had decided spending the night in jail would have a more efficacious effect on Matt (and Chad) than anything he could think of to say at the time.
Matt got out of the Porsche and walked into Police Headquarters.
“Help you?” the sergeant behind the desk asked.
“I’m Detective Payne,” Matt said. “I’m supposed to meet Sergeant Washington in Lieutenant Swann’s office?”
“Down the corridor, third door on the right.”
Washington and Lieutenant Swann, a tall, thin man in his forties, were drinking coffee.
“How are you, Payne?” Lieutenant Swann said after Washington made the introduction. “I know your dad, I think. Providence Road, in Wallingford?”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
“Known him for years,” Lieutenant Swann said.
Is he laughing at me behind that straight face?
“Lieutenant Swann’s been telling me that Mr. Atchison is a model citizen,” Washington said. “An officer in the National Guard, among other things.”
“When we heard about what happened, we thought it was the way it was reported in the papers,” Swann said. “This is very interesting.”
“Strange things happen,” Washington said. “It may have been just the way it was reported in the papers.”
“But you don’t think so, do you, Jason?”
“I am not wholly convinced of his absolute innocence,” Washington said.
“You want me to go over there with you, Jason?”
“I’d rather keep this low-key, if you’ll go along,” Jason said. “Just drop in to ask him about Mr. Foley.”
“Whatever you want, Jason. I owe you a couple.”
“The reverse is true, Johnny,” Washington said. “I add this to a long list of courtesies to be repaid.”
Lieutenant Swann stood up and put out his hand.
“Anytime, Jason. Nice to see you-again-Payne.”
Goddamn it, he does remember.
“It was much nicer to come in the front door all by myself,” Matt said.
“Well, what the hell,” Lieutenant Swann said, laughing. “We all stub our toes once in a while. You seem to be on the straight and narrow now.”
“I don’t know what that was all about,” Washington said, “but appearances, Johnny, can be deceiving.”
320 Wilson Avenue, Media, Pennsylvania, was a two-story brick Colonial house sitting in a well-kept lawn on a tree-lined street. A cast-iron jockey on the lawn held a sign reading “320 Wilson, Atchison.” There was a black mourning wreath hanging on the door. Decalcomania on the small windows of the white door announced that the occupants had contributed to the Red Cross, United Way, Boy Scouts, and the Girl Scout Cookie Program. When Washington pushed the doorbell, they could hear chimes playing, “Be It Ever So Humble, There’s No Place Like Home.”
A young black maid in a gray dress answered the door.
“Mr. Atchison, please,” Jason said. “My name is Washington.”
“Mr. Atchison’s not at home,” the maid said. The obvious lie made her obviously nervous.
“Please tell Mr. Atchison that Sergeant Washington of the Philadelphia Police Department would be grateful for a few minutes of his time.”
She closed the door in their faces. What seemed like a long time later, it reopened. Gerald North Atchison, wearing a crisp white shirt, no tie, slacks, and leaning on a cane, stood there.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said cordially. “Do you remember me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“How’s the leg?” Washington asked.
For answer, Atchison raised the cane and waved it.
“You remember Detective Payne?”
“Yeah, sure. How are you, Payne?”
“Mr. Atchison.”
“We really hate to disturb you at home, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said. “But we have a few questions.”
“I was hoping you were here to tell me you got the bastards who did…”
“We’re getting closer, Mr. Atchison. It’s getting to be a process of elimination. We think you can probably help us, if you can spare us a minute or two.”
“Christ, I don’t know. My lawyer told me I wasn’t to answer any more questions if he wasn’t there.”
“Sidney Margolis is protecting your interests, as he should. But we’re trying to keep this as informal as possible. To keep you from having to go to Mr. Margolis’s office, or ours.”
“Yeah, I know. But…”
“Let me suggest this, Mr. Atchison, to save us both time and inconvenience. I give you my word that if you find any of my questions are in any way inconvenient, if you have any doubt whatever that you shouldn’t answer them without Mr. Margolis’s advice, you simply say ‘Pass,’ and I will drop that question and any similar to it.”
“Well, Sergeant, you put me on a spot. You know I want to cooperate, but Margolis said…”
“The decision, of course, is yours. And I will understand no matter what you decide.”
Atchison hesitated a moment and then swung the door open.
“What the hell,” he said. “I want to be as helpful as I can. I want whoever did what they did to my wife and Tony Marcuzzi caught and fried.”
“Thank you very much,” Washington said. “There’s just a few things that we’d like to ask your opinion about.”
“Whatever I can do to help,” Atchison said. “Can I have the girl get you some coffee? Or something stronger?”
“I don’t know about Matt here, but the detective in me tells me it’s very likely that a restaurateur would have some drinkable coffee in his house.”
“I have some special from Brazil,” Atchison said. “ Bean coffee. Dark roast. I grind it just before I brew it.”
“I accept your kind invitation,” Washington said.
