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Parking in a slot across from the massive water fountain on the circle drive, he looked up and marveled at the impressive main entrance. The soaring three-story, stainless-steel-framed wall of thick clear glass gave a fantastic view of the lobby, all the more striking at night with its brightly lit gleaming marble floors and walls.
Payne walked through the main entrance doors and waved to the concierge on duty behind the main marble-topped desk. David Suder was a dark-haired, dark-eyed twenty-eight-year-old with a muscular frame that looked as if it had been forged from hardened steel. He wore a nice two-piece dark woolen suit, a starched white shirt, and a dark necktie that almost looked out of place on him.
“How you doin’, David?” Payne called out.
“Good,” he replied, smiling. “How goes it with you, Sarge, I mean, Mr. Payne? You look like you’ve had a rough one.”
“It’s ‘Matt,’ David. And indeed I have. But it’s getting better by the moment.”
“Glad to hear it. Check six, Matt.”
“You, too, David,” Payne called back as he reached the heavy sliding glass door that led to the elevator bank.
He punched in the unique code for Unit 2180 on the keypad. In mid-October, Amanda had changed it to 0-9-1-0 for September 10, the day she said her life had been profoundly changed—the day when Matt had saved her from her murderous abductors.
The glass door whooshed open sideways. Inside the elevator, he entered the code again and hit the 21 button on the panel for the penthouse floor.
As he rode up, he thought about the day that he’d met David Suder, who he knew wasn’t really a concierge. As a general rule of thumb, concierges didn’t address guests as “sergeant” and caution them to watch their back for bad guys—“check six” being good-guy jargon that meant for them to be wary of who might be sneaking up behind them, also known as their “six o’clock.”
Suder now worked for Andy Hardwick, and Hardwick had introduced them when he’d told Matt there’d be extra protective eyes watching the penthouse floor and the owner of Unit 2180. But until recently, David had been Philadelphia Police Department Officer Suder, a rising star assigned to the elite Narcotics Strike Force. Earlier in the year he had taken the corporal’s exam and passed both oral and written parts with scores high enough to put him in the top ten percent, and on “The List.” Only those on The List got immediate promotions; everyone else would have to wait for a slot to open, which could take weeks, months—or maybe never even happen. After The List expired in two years, those not promoted would have to retake the exam with a new group of candidates.
But there was one caveat: funding. And because of severe budgetary cutbacks this year, there were fewer corporal slots, and only the top five percent had been immediately promoted.
Officer Suder had not been happy about that, to put it mildly.
Shortly thereafter, Andy Hardwick had been buying a few rounds down the street at Liberties Bar, catching up on Roundhouse scuttlebutt with old buddies still on the force, and he’d heard all about Suder’s displeasure at getting the shaft thanks to City Hall bean counters.
The next day, Hardwick had taken Suder to lunch. Before they’d even been served their desserts, Hardwick had effectively poached him from the Philadelphia Police Department with the offer of a salary that was almost twice what any corporal could ever dream of earning.
But I simply could never do residential security, Payne thought.
Fortunately, I don’t need the damn money. That’s moot.
But more to the point: Where the hell’s the thrill in private security? The satisfaction?
What’d be the equivalent of what I’m doing now?
Heading up Task Force Operation Poolhouse Clogged Toilet?
“Ma’am, the sign clearly states that no personal sanitary items are to be flushed. I’m afraid we’re going to have to write you a ticket on this one.”
He snorted as the elevator made a ding, stopped, and the doors parted on the twenty-first floor.
Then again, Marshal Earp, no one would be shooting at you.
And you’re not exactly going gangbusters with collaring the doers in Op Clean Sweep.
As he put the key in 2180’s heavy brass deadbolt lock, Matt could hear Luna softly whining on the other side of the door. Her wagging tail was thumping against the door.
Having her so happy to see me is a nice welcome after a long lousy day.
Now I only hope that I can get Amanda to wag her lovely tail, too.
When he turned the knob and pushed the door inward, Luna stuck her black nose and curly-haired muzzle around its edge. Matt reached down to scratch her head as he opened the door.
“Good girl,” he said. “Now take me to your gorgeous master.”
As he stepped inside the doorway, Matt heard Amanda’s sultry voice: “She already has.”
