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Detective D’Amata put Daniels in the Eighth District car, then got in beside him. The three cars then drove off, leaving Mr. Cohen, Sergeant Payne, Mr. O’Hara, and the two captains standing beside the airplane.
“They want you over there,” Captain Pekach said, indicating the grouped VIPs.
Sergeant Payne looked carefully around the field. He did not see Detective Lassiter.
There had not been much for the press to record for posterity. It had taken less than a minute to get Daniels off the plane and into the Eighth District car. Having nothing else to do — something the mayor had counted on-the press turned their attention to him.
The mayor smiled first at Steven Cohen, Esq., and shook his hand, and then smiled at Sergeant Payne and shook his hand. District Attorney Solomon, also an elected official, was photographed shaking Mr. Cohen’s hand.
The mayor waved Mr. Nesbitt III to his side.
“I have a brief statement to make,” the mayor began. “A terrible tragedy took place in our city, and nothing can ever make that right. But I want to take this opportunity to say how proud I am not only of our police department and the office of the district attorney but of our concerned, involved citizens as well.
“As soon as it came to his attention that as the result of some really first-class investigative work by the police department, and some really first-class legal work by Mrs. Solomon and her associates, the man charged with this heinous crime was in custody in Alabama, Mr. Nesbitt, of Nesfoods International, called to offer the use of his corporate aircraft-at no cost whatever to the city-to bring the accused murderer to Philadelphia to face justice. Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt.”
“It seemed the least we at Nesfoods could do, Mr. Mayor,” Mr. Nesbitt said. “Nesfoods International likes to think we are responsible corporate citizens of Philadelphia.”
“And I have to say this,” the mayor went on, “there has been some unfortunate, and in my judgment, unfair comments in some of the press lately to the effect that certain police officers were spending too much time protecting my good friend Stan Colt from the ardor of his fans, when what they should have been doing was trying to apprehend a murderer. I think this proves beyond any doubt that our police can do both things at the same time.”
Mayor Martin did not take questions. He turned and ducked quickly into his waiting limousine.
Mr. Nesbitt III shook hands with Sergeant Payne and ducked into his waiting limousine. District Attorney Solomon said, “Good work, you guys,” and got into her unmarked Crown Victoria.
Commissioner Mariani shook Sergeant Payne’s hand and got into his Crown Victoria.
Captain Quaire and Lieutenant Washington walked up.
“What next, boss?” Sergeant Payne asked.
“Come to work in the morning,” Washington said, “after you finish your detail with Dignitary Protection. I understand Mr. Colt is leaving at eleven-fifteen tomorrow morning.”
“I was supposed to leave after the last thing tonight,” Stan Colt said. “But I didn’t want to leave without seeing you. I want to hear everything that happened.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Matt said.
“Bullshit. After this thing tonight, I’m throwing a little thank-you party at La Famiglia. You, Mickey, your pal Nesbitt Four, Terry, a handful of others.”
“Stan, I don’t know…”
“It’s all laid on. You can’t say no now. I gotta go. One more lunch-which I’m already late for-and this thing tonight, and then I’m done.”
Commissioner Coughlin nodded, which Detective Payne correctly interpreted to mean was an order to him to attend Mr. Colt’s little thank-you party tonight. And to tell him everything that happened.
Mr. Colt then punched Sergeant Payne in the shoulder and got in his limousine. Highway Patrol officers kicked their bikes into life and, sirens growling, led the way out of the airport.
“If my children,” Brewster C. Payne said, “don’t mind having lunch with a couple of old men, Denny and I are about to have ours.”
“He doesn’t have any choice in the matter,” Dr. Payne said. “I want to hear about this guy.”
“So do I,” Deputy Commissioner Coughlin said. “How about right here at the Flatspin? They do a really nice Mahi-Mahi.”
TWENTY
There was a telephone in a niche in the low fieldstone wall around the patio of the Payne house in Wallingford, but when it rang, Patricia Payne really didn’t want to answer it.
Feeling just a little ashamed of herself-this has to be prurient interest-the truth was that she was fascinated by the interrogation of her son by her husband and her daughter concerning his encounter with Homer C. Daniels.
She had known Amelia M. Payne, M.D., from before she had taken her first steps-and was in fact the only mother Amy had ever known-and she had given birth to Matt. They were her children.
