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“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Byrth said, offering his hand.
“My pleasure, Jim,” Coughlin replied, meeting his firm grip. “Liz Justice speaks highly of you. That goes a long way in my book.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Payne waved for the bartender to come over.
“Uncle Denny,” Payne said, “do you want another double Bushmills 21?”
Byrth caught the “uncle” and looked to see how the commissioner of police was going to respond.
“No, thank you, Matty. I don’t need to start slurring in there.”
Byrth then decided that Payne and Coughlin had to be uncle and nephew.
“Jim,” Coughlin said, “I’m going to put you on the spot here.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m speaking tonight about what’s been going on recently, particularly today. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but today’s murders weren’t our fair city’s first. But it might be a first for them to happen at almost the same time. I plan to go over that and the illegal drugs behind it. I’m hoping you might speak to the crowd about your perspective of it.”
Byrth nodded once. “Absolutely. It would be my honor.”
Payne passed out the bourbons to Byrth and Harris, then held up his glass. “To our health-and to our catching that bastard who killed that poor girl. And all the other bastards.”
The four of them touched glasses and drank to that. Denny Coughlin wound up chewing on an ice cube.
“What happened at the morgue?” Coughlin then said. “What’d you find out?”
Payne told him.
Coughlin shook his head slowly in disgust. Then he checked his watch and said, “These things never start on time. But we need to get the show going. Bring those drinks with you.”
Then First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. Coughin marched out of the bar and through the doorway.
When Matt Payne, Jim Byrth, and Tony Harris entered the Grant Room, Commissioner Coughlin was already standing beside the dark wood lectern at the front of the room. He was talking to Captain Frank Hollaran, who stood in front of a flag of the United States of America. The flag was on a wooden staff that was held upright on the floor by a round golden stand.
All the tables were full except the one at the back of the room. Payne, Byrth, and Harris got to three of its five empty seats just as Hollaran stepped up to the lectern.
Exactly at the time that they sat down, Hollaran used his left hand to pull the microphone from the lectern.
He said, “Good evening, all. As most of you know, I’m Captain Frank Hollaran of the Philadelphia Police Department. Thank you for being here tonight. Now, if you’ll please stand and join me, we’ll get the formalities of tonight’s meeting out of the way.”
The room rose to its feet en masse. Everyone faced the American flag and placed their right hands over their hearts.
Hollaran, microphone to his lips, then surprised the hell out of Byrth by belting out in a rich baritone voice “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Everyone near Byrth, including Matt Payne and Tony Harris, sang along with gusto. But none in harmony. Nor in tune. And all seemed oblivious to that fact.
As they all sang, “… the land of the free and the home of the brave!” Byrth couldn’t help but glance and grin at Payne.
Matt must be tone-fucking-deaf.
Everyone took their seats.
Still, I liked that.
Byrth looked around at the people. They were as Payne had described in the car, upper-middle-class types who were clearly of comfortable means.
