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The Traffic cop got out of the way, and Matt ran down the stairs to ground level. He pushed open the door and found himself on 15^th Street. Ten yards away, he saw the nose of his Porsche sticking out of the garage and onto the sidewalk. There were a half dozen police cars, marked and unmarked, clustered around the entrance and exit ramps, half up on the sidewalk. A Traffic sergeant was in the narrow street, directing traffic.
When he reached the exit ramp, Amanda was talking to a man with a detective's badge hanging out of the breast pocket of a remarkably ugly plaid sport coat. When she saw him, Amanda walked away from the detective and up to Matt.
"How is she?"
"She's alive," Matt said. "They're taking her to the hospital. We' ve got to move the Porsche."
As if on cue, the emergency patrol wagon pulled up behind the Porsche and Officer Howard C. Sawyer impatiently sounded the horn. Matt jumped behind the wheel and pulled the Porsche out of the way, onto the sidewalk.
The EPW came off the exit ramp, turned on its siren and flashing lamps, and when the Traffic sergeant, furiously blowing his whistle, stopped the flow of traffic, bounced onto 15^th Street, turning left.
When Matt got out of the car, the detective was waiting for him.
"You're the boyfriend?" he asked, and then without waiting for a reply asked, "You found the victim? You're a cop? That's your car?"
Matt looked at Amanda when the detective said the wordboyfriend. She shrugged her shoulders and looked uncomfortable.
"My name is Payne," Matt said. "Special Operations. That's my car. We saw one of the victims on the ground when we drove onto the roof."
"You're Payne? The guy who blew the rapist away?"
Matt nodded.
"There's a Highway sergeant up there," Matt said. "He sent me to seal the building."
"It's been sealed," the detective said, gesturing up and down the street. "I'm Joe D'Amata, Homicide," he said. "You have any idea what went down?"
"Twovictims," Matt said. "I found a white male with his head blown off next to the stairwell. Looks like a shotgun." He looked at Amanda. "Did Miss Spencer tell you who the female is?"
"I was about to ask her," the detective said.
"She's Penny Detweiler," Amanda said.
"You know her? You were with her?"
"We know her. We weren't with her. Or not really."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"There's a dinner party. There's a wedding. She was supposed to be at it."
"A dinner party or a wedding?" D'Amata asked impatiently. "Which?"
"A wedding dinner party," Matt said, feeling foolish, and anticipated D'Amata's next question. "At the Union League."
D'Amata looked at Payne. Ordinary cops do not ordinarily go to dinner at the Union League. He remembered what he had heard about this kid. There had been a lot of talk around the Department about him. Rich kid. College boy from Wallingford. But it was also said that his father, a sergeant, had been killed on the job. And there was no question he'd blown away the serial rapist. There had been a picture of him in all the papers, with Mayor Carlucci's arm around him. The critter had tried to run him down with a van, and then the kid had blown the critter's brains out. The critter had had a woman, a naked woman, tied up in the back of the van when it happened. If the kid hadn't caught him when he did, the woman would have been another victim. The critter had tortured and mutilated his previous victim before he'd killed h
er. A real scumbag loony.
"The Union League," Detective D'Amata said as he wrote it down.
"Her parents are probably there now," Matt Payne said. "Somebody's going to have to tell them what happened."
"You mean, you want to?"
"I don't know how it's done," Matt confessed.
Detective D'Amata looked around, found what he was looking for, and raised his voice: "Lieutenant Lewis?"
