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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?”
