“I got your message,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m meeting Mom at noon for lunch at the house. Come join us. And if, for once, you are nice to me and behave, I’ll tell you more than you want to know about the bipolar roller-coaster ride.”
“Define nice and behave,” Matt said, but then realized that he was talking to a broken connection.
[ TWO ]
Providence Road
Wallingford, Pennsylvania
Friday, January 6, 12:01 P.M.
After getting his car back from the valet—which had taken some time because a large section of the Rittenhouse circle drive remained blocked with police units—Payne took Broad Street down to Interstate 95, the Delaware Expressway, then drove south on it toward Chester. He would, in about ten miles, then make the turn onto I-476.
Matt enjoyed the drive out to the family home in Wallingford. In addition to getting him out of the city, it gave him time to think—although, in the event there was bad traffic, sometimes far more than he wanted.
When Payne had eased himself behind the wheel of the 911 and plugged his smartphone into the USB port, he had considered calling Amanda while en route. He had not heard anything from her since he left her condo the previous night and he wondered if that was because she had seen the news about his involvement in the shooting and was now even more upset. So much so that she had nothing else to say to him.
But, he’d decided, even if she was not aware of what had happened, he really had no idea of what he could say to her right now. She had stated her case beyond question. And he simply did not want to think about it, let alone attempt talking about it. The whole thing was still too fresh—and left a gnawing ache in his stomach at least as painful as the damn bullet wound.
—
The overhead signage for Exit 7 to I-476 North came into view as he was thinking about how Mason Morgan had called into question John Tyler Austin’s character, particularly describing him as a con artist.
It’ll be interesting what that background folder on Austin has in it. And if any of it matches what we come up with.
Payne signaled to change lanes, then glanced over his right shoulder and finally found an opening and merged and made the exit.
His phone rang and he saw his private-number caller ID pop up on the multifunction screen in the dash. It announced that it was the bursar’s office at Temple University.
Wonder how they got my number?
But apparently someone at Temple has put two and two together.
He tapped the on-screen prompt, sending the caller into voice mail.
Within the last month, after learning that he was going to become a father, Payne had quietly established academic scholarships in the name of his biological father, Sergeant John F. X. Moffitt, and his uncle, Captain Richard C. “Dutch” Moffitt.
The scholarships were made available to members in the Philadelphia Police Explorer Cadets Program, a coed, career-oriented arm of the Boy Scouts of America, who were studying criminal justice at La Salle University and, a couple miles south, at Temple University and Community College of Philadelphia.
The scholarships were fairly modest—he planned to add to them over time—but, depending on the school, they covered the cost of one or more courses.
Matt wanted no recognition for their creation and funding. Having taken the surname of Payne certainly aided that. Matt, of course, had never known his father, and a selfless Brewster Payne had adopted him, then reared him as his own. Accordingly, when the topic came up, Matt invariably became somewhat emotional, and would say that he had the great honor of having two fathers.
Matt’s motive for the scholarships had been to help those wanting to serve the public. But perhaps more important personally, it had been to please, in some small way, Mother Moffitt, his sharply opinionated Irish-Catholic grandmother.
Still, being realistic, he deeply doubted the latter would ever happen. He knew that good ol’ Gertrude had never gotten over her daughter-in-law’s remarrying after her son Jack had been killed in the line of duty and then—what Mother Moffitt really considered a mortal sin and told anyone she could get to listen—changing her grandson Matty’s surname and then bringing him up as an Episcopalian.
Once her mind’s made up, Payne thought, damn-near nothing can sway that tough old Irish broad.
Maybe that’s where I acquired such a fine quality . . .
—
After turning off Interstate 476 at Exit 3, he eased the stick shift of the Porsche into third gear and then, after the vehicle bled off sufficient speed, down into second.
Payne, long before getting his first 911 as a college graduation gift, and then cutting hot laps on a track with a professional race driver in the passenger seat coaching him, had heard the old-school argument about whether it was better to slow a vehicle equipped with a manual transmission by a smooth combination of downshifting and braking or by utilizing the brakes alone.
Replacing worn-out brake pads certainly was cheaper than replacing clutches. But he didn’t give a damn. He knew that the 911 really responded with the downshifts, especially in tight, fast turns, which was why professional drivers employed both braking and downshifting.