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“Why did Jack Mawson say you were a damned fool?”
“I told him I thought we should decline a certain client,” he said. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Would you like a sworn deposition? ‘Now comes Patricia Payne who being duly sworn states that the only thing she loves more than her unborn child, and her husband’s children, and her son, is her husband’?”
“A simple yes will suffice,” Brew Payne said, and put his arms around her. “Thank you very much.”
That was her sin, which had made her a godless whore, in the eyes of Gertrude Moffitt: marrying outside the church, living in sin, bearing Brewster’s child, and allowing that good man to give his name and his love to a fatherless boy.
Patricia was worried about her son. There had been, over the past two or three weeks, something wrong. Brewster sensed it too, and suggested that Matt was suffering from the Bee Syndrome, which was rampant among young men Matt’s age. Matt was driven, Brewster said, to spread pollen, and sometimes there just was not an adequate number, or even one, Philadelphia blossom on which to spread it.
Brewster was probably right—he usually was—but Patricia wasn’t sure. From what she had reliably heard about what took place on the University of Pennsylvania campus, and particularly along Fraternity Row, there was a large garden of flowering blossoms just waiting to be pollinated. Matt could be in love, of course, with some girl immune to his charms, which would explain a good deal about his behavior, but Patricia had a gut feeling that it was something else.
And whatever was bothering him, the murder of his uncle Dutch was going to make things worse.
The traffic into Philadelphia was heavy, and it took Patricia Payne longer than thirty minutes to get into town, and then when she got to the University of Pennsylvania campus, there was a tie-up on Walnut Street by the Delta Phi Omicron house, an old and stately brownstone mansion. A car had broken down, against the curb, forcing the cars in the other lane to merge with those in the inner; they were backed up for two blocks, waiting their turn.
And then she drew close and saw that the car blocking the outside lane, directly in front of the fraternity house, was a black Oldsmobile. There was an extra radio antenna, a short one, mounted on the inside shelf by the rear window. It was Denny Coughlin’s car.
When you are a chief inspector of the Philadelphia Police Department, Patricia Payne thought wryly, you park any place you damned well please.
She pulled in behind the Oldsmobile, slid across the seat, and got out the passenger side. Denny was already out of the Oldsmobile, and another man got out of the driver’s side and stepped onto the sidewalk.
She kissed Denny, noticing both that he was picking up some girth, and that he still apparently bought his cologne depending on what was cheapest when he walked into Walgreen’s Drugstore.
“By God, you’re a good-looking woman,” Denny said. “Patty, you remember Sergeant Tom Lenihan?”
“Yes, of course,” Pat said. “How are you, Sergeant?”
“Tom, you think you remember how to direct traffic?” Coughlin said, pointing at the backed-up cars.
“Yes, sir,” Lenihan said.
“We won’t be long in here,” Coughlin said, and took Pat’s arm in his large hand and walked her up the steep, wide stone stairs to the fraternity house.
“Can I help you?” a young man asked, when they had pushed open the heavy oak door with frosted glass inserts and were in the foyer of the building.
“I’m Mrs. Payne,” Pat said. “I’m looking for my son.”
The young man went to the foot of the curving staircase.
“Mr. Payne, sir,” he called. “You have visitors, sir. It’s your mommy!”
Denny Coughlin gave him a frosty glance.
Matthew Mark Payne appeared a moment later at the head of the stairs. He was a tall, lithe young man, with dark, thick hair. He was twenty-one, and he would graduate next month, and follow his father into the marines. He had taken the Platoon Leader’s Course, and was going to be a distinguished graduate, which meant that he could have a regular marine commission, if he wanted it, and another of Patricia Payne’s worries was that he would take it.
His eyes were dark and intelligent, and they flashed between his mother and Coughlin. Then he started down the stairs, not smiling. He was wearing gray flannel slacks, a button-down collared blue shirt, open, and a light gray sweater.
Coughlin turned his back to him, and said, softly. “He’s a ringer for Johnny, isn’t he?”
“And as hardheaded,” Pat Payne said.
Matt Payne kissed his mother without embarrassment, and offered his hand to Coughlin.
“Uncle Denny,” he said. “What’s all this? Has something happened? Is it Dad?”
“It’s your uncle Dick,” Patricia Payne told her son, watching his face carefully. “Dutch is dead, Matt.”
