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“I don’t care what he’s doing, I want him in here with me.”
“Very curious,” she said.
“She said, in massive understatement,” Payne said.
When Mrs. Irene Craig pushed open the door to Brewster Cortland Payne’s office to admit Armando C. Giacomo, Esq., and Mr. Vincenzo Savarese, Mr. Payne, who was behind his desk, stood up. So did Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, a slim, dignified fifty-six-year-old, who had been seated in a green leather armchair to one side of a carved English (circa 1790) coffee table.
“Good morning, Counselor,” Giacomo said, walking to Payne with his hand extended. “Thank you for receiving us on such short notice.”
“Hello, Armando,” Payne said, and took the hand.
Giacomo crossed to Mawson. He did not seem surprised to find him in Payne’s office.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Colonel,” he said. “How nice to bump into you, so to speak, like this.”
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Armando,” Mawson said.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce Mr. Vincenzo Savarese?” Giacomo said.
Savarese was slight, and had very pale, almost translucent skin. His eyes were prominent and intelligent, and he was dressed in a conservative, nearly black single-breasted, vested suit.
This man is a thug, Payne thought, and if the stories are true, a murderer by his own hand when he was younger—and in many other ways a criminal. I don’t want to forget that.
Savarese crossed first to Payne.
“I am in your debt, Mr. Payne, for receiving me under these circumstances.”
He put out his hand. Payne took it and was surprised at how fragile and soft it was.
Didn’t I hear someplace that he is an accomplished violinist?
“Colonel Mawson and I were having a cup of coffee,” Payne said, gesturing toward the coffee table and the green leather furniture. “May I offer you a cup?”
“Thank you, no,” Savarese said. “I don’t want to take any more of your and Colonel Mawson’s time than I have to.”
“How may I be of service, Mr. Savarese?” Payne asked after Savarese had lowered himself gingerly onto the couch.
“I hope you will believe me that I would not have troubled you if it was not absolutely necessary,” Savarese said. “May I get directly to the point?”
“Please do,” Payne said.
“I come to you as a father and grandfather who needs help he cannot get elsewhere for his daughter and granddaughter.”
“Go on,” Payne said.
“My daughter is grown, a married woman, married to . . . Her husband is Randolph Longwood, of Bala Cynwyd. Perhaps you are familiar with the name?”
“The builder?” Colonel Mawson asked.
“Yes, the builder. I think I should say that I have no business relationship of any kind with my son-in-law.”
“You kn
ow Randy Longwood, Brew,” Mawson said. “He belongs to Rose Tree Hunt.”
“Of course,” Payne said, a little uncomfortably, and more than a little surprised that the identity of Longwood’s father-in-law had escaped the Rose Tree Hunt Club Membership Committee. He had had trouble getting Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson past it, as they had had questions about the suitability for membership of a lawyer practicing criminal law.
“My daughter has a daughter,” Savarese went on, “who has recently suffered some sort of emotional shock.”
