Broken Trust (Badge of Honor 13)

She’ll probably never grace this city—not to mention me—with her presence again.

Shit! Kind of like Amanda? She heard that whole story—and the others she stuck in that damn obit—from Amy.

Maybe Amanda’s worried she’ll one day wind up in the cross fire, too.

McCrory was looking at Payne with a questioning expression.

“Stanley Coleman went to West Catholic High,” Payne said. “Afterward, as a struggling thespian, he had his name legally changed to Sandy Colt. Then, for reasons that baffle me, considering his so-called talent, he became famous.”

Colt, unbelievably handsome and muscular, had started out as lead singer in a rock band, then leveraged that fame to get minor parts in a police series on television, then used that to get a small role as a detective in a dramatic motion picture. When that motion picture exploded at the box office—mostly, Payne thought, thanks to its computer-generated special effects—he starred in a half dozen sequels.

Payne had seen only the first picture and quickly had lost interest after too many scenes stretched credibility, even by Hollywood standards. Especially one in which Sandy Colt’s character had a shoot-out and, holding a full-sized Model 1911 Colt .45 sideways, fired twenty-two shots without reloading, from a semiautomatic that could hold, at most, eight rounds, and that was with one chambered.

“Last time Colt was in town,” Harris told McCrory, grinning widely, “it was for a fund-raiser for his alma mater, West Philly High . . .”

“Why’s that funny?” McCrory said.

“. . . And newly promoted Sergeant Payne here got sandbagged by Monsignor Schneider, who grandly suggested that Payne’s ‘real-life exploits could serve as the basis for one of Stanley’s films.’”

“Say, that’s really something,” McCrory said.

“Not really,” Payne said.

“Colt,” Harris went on, “had heard all about the famed Wyatt Earp of the Main Line. And he was as thrilled about getting to do ride-alongs with Sergeant Payne as Sergeant Payne was pissed off about having to babysit a cartoon actor. Colt’s enthusiasm pretty much dropped more than a bit when Matt threatened what would happen to him if he (a) did not take a vow of chastity for his entire visit to our City of Brotherly Love, and (b) violated said vow.”

McCrory’s eyes went to Payne.

“Is he pulling my leg?”

Payne shook his head.

“I’d been told by his Hollywood agent,” he said, “that Colt liked young girls—”

“Damn perverts,” McCrory blurted, his eyes narrowed. “Sorry, but I got daughters . . .”

Harris said, “Rest assured that no harm had to come to Stanley’s crown jewels at the edge of a dull knife. The vow was kept. And he did raise more than a half mil for the West Catholic Building Fund.”

“And if he, indeed, is here,” Payne said, “the same deal’s in force.”

McCrory said, “I didn’t know all that.”

“I’ll bet,” Payne said, “that Camilla Rose placed many tithe envelopes in the church’s collection plate. Which strongly suggests that Monsignor Schneider, and maybe even the Archbishop, are listed as going

tomorrow night. Which means there will be other politicians, particularly ones of the elected variety, which means I really don’t want to go, if I can avoid it.”

He paused, looked at McCrory, and added, “Let me know, too, what the Abrams woman says about that envelope of cash. Invoking the famous Jason Washington’s never leave a stone unturned philosophy . . .”

He stopped when he felt a familiar vibration in his pocket and pulled out his cellular telephone.

“Aha, finally,” he said, looking at Harris. “It’s the family shrink.”

Harris nodded.

“Good call,” he said. “She’s always been helpful figuring out these head cases.”

Dr. Amelia A. Payne was the Joseph L. Otterby Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Pennsylvania.

“Sigmund!” Matt began. “How’s—”