Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [47]
"I'm going to get you for that, wiseass," Amy said.
"I put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator after Denny called," Patricia Payne said. "Go get your father and we'll open it. He's in the living room."
"Uncle Denny called?" Matt asked.
"We're invited to the promotion ceremony," Patricia said. "Denny's very proud of you. We all are."
"You, too, Sigmund?" Matt asked.
Dr. Payne gave him the finger.
"And that goes for your boss, too," she said. "We had dinner Monday night and he didn't say a goddamn word."
"All Peter knew was that The List was out. He didn't know when the promotion would come through, except that it wasn't going to be anytime soon. That's probably why he didn't tell you."
She snorted.
Matt walked out of the kitchen, down a narrow corridor, and through a door into a rather small, comfortably furnished room with book-lined walls, and the chairs arranged to face a large television screen.
Brewster C. Payne was sitting with his feet up on the matching ottoman of a red leather armchair, one of two. He was a tall, angular, dignified man in his early fifties.
He had a legal brief in his lap and his right hand was wrapped around a glass of whiskey.
"You were on the boob tube," he said. "You looked distressed. "
"I was," Matt said, and then went on: "Amy's pissed that Uncle Denny told you before I did. For the record, I tried to call just as soon as I found out."
"That's not why she's . . . somewhat less than enthusiastic, " Brewster Payne said. "I think she was hoping you'd fail the test and leave the police department."
"Mother's got champagne in the fridge," Matt said, changing the subject. "But I'd rather have a quick one of those."
Payne pointed at a bottle of scotch, sitting with a silver water pitcher, a silver ice bowl, and several glasses. Matt helped himself, and while he was doing so, Brewster Payne rose from his chair. When Matt raised his glass, his father held out his glass and touched Matt's.
"It's what you want, Matt, so I'm happy for you. And proud. Number one!"
"Thank you."
"You can stay for supper? We bought some shrimp on the road from Wilmington. . . ."
"Sure. I made shrimp last night for Chad and Daffy, but what the hell. . . ."
"We could thaw a steak."
"Shrimp's fine. Daffy was playing matchmaker again. I'd already met her. She's from Los Angeles. She's handling, I guess is the word, Stan Colt when he comes to town. His real name is Stanley Coleman."
"I saw it in the paper. Are you involved with that somehow? "
"Peter sent me to a meeting to see what Dignitary Protection is going to need to protect Super Cop. Monsignor Schneider--who sitteth at the right hand of the Bishop--was there. I think he's a cop groupie. He knew all about Doylestown. Anyway, he asked for me by name. When Super Cop, aka Colt aka Coleman comes to town, I'll be temporarily assigned to Dignitary Protection. Terry said he's interested in very young women. That ought to make it interesting."
"Is that the young woman's name, 'Terry'?"
"Terry Davis. Two 'r's and a 'y.' She said her father's a lawyer with movie connections, and he got her the job with GAM. Which stands for Global Artists Management."
"I think I know him," Brewster Payne said. "If it's the same fellow, he masterfully defends, whenever challenged, the motion picture industry's amazingly imaginative accounting practices."
"Interesting," Matt said. "If you happen to bump into him . . .""
"I'm getting the impression that you are somewhat taken with this young lady, and therefore not entirely unhappy with the prospect of protecting . . . what did you call him? 'Super Cop'?"
"She's a blonde. Nice legs," Matt said. "And she knows how to peel shrimp. What more can one ask for?"
"What indeed?" Brewster Payne said.
"Matt," Patricia Payne said at the door, "I told you I was going to open a bottle of champagne."
"I needed a little liquid courage to face Sigmund Freud," Matt said.
She turned without replying, and after a moment, her son and husband followed her into the kitchen.
The three women were standing around the chopping