“Amy. That’s her Yukon.”
“Back home, that and its twin, the Suburban, is called the National Truck of Texas. Damn near every elementary and middle-school drop-off/pickup lane is packed bumper to bumper with those twice a day.”
“Not Amy. No kids.”
“That’s a late-model Yukon,” Byrth said. “What the hell happened with all those dents and scratches? A Demolition Derby? And was it parked there-or deserted?”
Payne looked at it and chuckled at the observation.
The SUV had originally belonged to Brewster Payne. He had made it a gift to his daughter, Amelia Payne, MD. It wasn’t that she needed it for its large size. She had yet to marry and, appropriately, she had no children. Which may have been fortuitous in and of itself, as any husband or child would have been terrified to be a passenger of a motor vehicle operated by Amy Payne.
Amy Payne had many fine qualities. For whatever reason, being a decent driver was not among them. And it baffled everyone why she even bothered getting behind the wheel. Her mishaps with her various motor vehicles on (and occasionally off) the roads of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania bordered on the legendary. No curb, street sign, light pole, or other vehicle in her path was safe.
And knowing all this, Brewster Payne passed his Yukon to her in the hope that the big truck just might keep her alive.
Matt Payne put the rental Ford in park, turned off the engine, and looked at Jim Byrth. “You know, if you’re feeling brave, I’ll let you ask its owner. My sister just loves nothing more than to talk cars.”
“Why do I suspect you’re setting me up?” Byrth replied.
Payne’s cellular phone started ringing.
“Excuse me.”
He pulled it from his pants pocket and saw from the screen who was calling. He pushed the key to answer. “Yes, sir?” he said into it. There was a pause. Then he said: “No, Jason, no problems in the ECC. Thanks for asking. We left it not twenty minutes ago. I’m about to introduce Jim to the stubby Statue of Liberty-” He paused again.
Byrth grinned as he looked out the windshield. On the sidewalk in front of the bar’s window was a scale model of the Statue of Liberty. It was green and stood about five feet tall. The bar itself was a narrow three-story brick-faced structure that was at the end of a block-long building. Its wooden front door was on the left, under a half-circle canvas awning.
Payne went on: “Right. And he’s about to meet our favorite family shrink. I thought we could combine a welcome party with some shop talk. Care to join us?” Payne listened a moment. “Great. See you shortly.”
Payne ended the call and looked at Byrth. “Good news. The Black Buddha is going to join us.”
Byrth laughed aloud at that.
“You’ve got the cojones to call him that behind his back?”
Payne, now that he knew the translation, grinned at the term.
“I’ve got the co-hone-ees to call him that to his face,” Payne said. “It doesn’t offend him. He once told me that he believed Buddha to be a very wise man. Then he added, ‘And, Good Lord, there’s no denying I’m black.’ ”
Byrth chuckled. “He strikes me as a good man.”
Payne, his tone serious, said, “Yeah, a very good man. He’s one of my favorite people. And one of the best homicide detectives anywhere. I’m glad he’s joining us.”
They got out of the car. As they started for the door to the bar, Payne motioned at the stubby Statue of Liberty.
“Meet Miss Liberty,” he said formally. “And welcome to Liberties, sometimes referred to as the preferred watering hole of Philly’s Homicide Unit.”
Inside Liberties, Matt found the place was maybe a third full. Along the left wall were wooden tables with booths. They all were taken by patrons. A large wooden bar ran a good part of the opposite wall, from the front window almost back to the wooden stairs leading upstairs. It was mostly empty. In the middle were more tables and chairs. There, Matt saw Amy sitting at a table, her head down. She apparently was reading the screen of her cellular telephone.
“There she is,” Payne said to Byrth.
Byrth followed him across the room. He saw that Amy Payne looked to be about thirty years old, petite and intense, her brown hair snipped short. She wasn’t necessarily pretty, but was an attractive, natural-looking young woman.
As they approached Amy’s table, she looked up from her cell phone. Byrth was removing The Hat from his head, and she was unable to hide her surprise.
“Hi, Amy,” Matt said. “I want you to meet a friend of Liz Justice’s.”
Amy Payne well knew the family and police connections with the Justice family. She recovered from her initial shock and smiled warmly.
“Jim Byrth, this is my sister, Amy Payne. Amy, Jim.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Byrth said, offering his hand.
Amy took it.
“Jim is a sergeant with the Texas Rangers.”
“Really? I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds impressive.”
“It is,” Matt said, then added, “The Black Buddha is going to join us.”
“The more the merrier,” Amy said without much conviction.
Jesus Christ. Is she in one of her moods?
It’s been too long a day for that.
Matt looked at her. “Everything okay?”
“Should I be asking the same of you, Wyatt Earp?”
“You two want to be alone?” Byrth asked.
Matt made a face. “No, Jim. You’re fine.”
“Sorry about that, Jim,” Amy said. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
“No apology. I’m a big boy. I just thought you might want some privacy for when you punched Matt.”
She looked at him and smiled. It was a genuine one.
“C’mon, Amy,” Matt said. “That was a good shooting. For Christ’s sake, that sonofabitch pumped thirteen rounds into Skipper. It was an assassination. And there’s video that proves I got shot at.”
He stared at her.
After a moment, he said, “Can we not get into this right now? It’s been one helluva day, and Jim and I could use a drink. Or three.”
He looked at the table. All that was there was the usual centerpiece. It held salt and pepper shakers and a container with packets of sugar and sugar substitute. But there was no drink, not even water.
“You’re not drinking, Amy?”
“We haven’t ordered. We just got here.”
We? Matt thought.
She glanced toward the back of the bar, where the steps led to the second-floor dining area and, beyond the steps, the men’s and ladies’ rooms.
Matt’s eyes followed hers back there-and he thought he was going to have a heart attack.
Coming out from the very back, by the restrooms, was an absolutely gorgeous blonde who was running the fingers of her right hand through her thick, luxurious hair.
Good God! Amanda Law!
In Liberties!
Be still, my heart!
VIII
