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It would appear on the surface-he would nose around a little more, of course-that there was a perfectly good reason for Captain Cassidy’s sudden affluence. If the brother had insurance, which seemed likely-and the mother did, which also seemed likely-that would explain where he had gotten the cash to buy the condominium at the shore. And it seemed reasonable that getting a check every month for his share of the profits would explain why Captain Cassidy felt he could afford to give his old Suburban to his daughter and buy a new Yukon XL, no money down, to be paid for with the monthly check.
Detective Payne had a third beer “on the house” and another pickled egg, and then got back in his Porsche to return to Philadelphia.
The temptation to take the very interesting winding road beside the old Delaware Canal was irresistible. But he didn’t want to go back through Doylestown-past the Crossroads Diner-so he turned off Route 611 onto Route 32 a few miles south of Riegelsville, and followed it along the Delaware.
A few miles past New Hope, his cellular phone tinkled. He looked at his watch and saw that it was quarter to five.
That’s probably Peter. Despite what he said about filling him in in the morning, he wants to know what I found out.
“Yes, sir, Inspector, sir. Detective Payne at your service, sir.”
“Hey, Matt,” a familiar voice said. It was that of Chad Nesbitt. They had been best friends since kindergarten.
“The Crown Prince of tomato soup himself? To what do I owe the honor?”
“Where are you?” Chad asked, a tone of exasperation in his voice.
“About five miles south of picturesque New Hope on Route 32. I presume there is some reason for your curiosity?”
“What are you doing way up there?”
“Fighting crime, of course. Protecting defenseless citizens such as yourself from evildoers.”
“Daffy wants you to come to supper. Can you?”
Daffy was Mrs. Nesbitt.
“Why does that make me suspicious?”
“Matt, for Christ’s sake, make peace with her. It gets to be a real pain in the ass for me with you two always at each other’s throat.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“There’s a girl she wants you to meet.”
“Not only no, but hell no.”
“This one’s nice. I think you’ll like her.”
“She’s a nymphomaniac who owns a liquor store?”
“Sometimes, Matt, you can be a real pain in the ass,” Chad said.
There was a perceptible silence.
“Come on, Matt. Plea
se.”
“If you give me your solemn word that when I get there, we can go directly from ‘How do you do?’ to carnal pleasures on your carpet without-”
“Fuck you. Come or don’t.”
“When?”
“As soon as you can get here.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “Take me half an hour, depending on the traffic on Interstate 95.”
