The mayor glanced at them quickly, then turned to face the press.

"This is a very sad day," he began. "Both a citizen-a single mother of three-and a police officer have lost their lives as a result of a brutal attack that affects not only their grieving survivors but every citizen of Philadelphia.

"This sort of outrage cannot be tolerated, and it will not be. I have ordered the formation of a task force to be commanded by Inspector Peter Wohl of the Special Operations Division…"

[THREE] When Matt Payne, driving the unmarked Crown Victoria, came down Pennsylvania Route 252 and approached the driveway to his parents' home in Wallingford, he looked carefully in the rearview mirror before applying the brake. Two-fifty-two was lined with large, old pine trees on that stretch, and the drives leading off it were not readily visible. He had more times than he liked to remember come uncomfortably close to being rear-ended.

Wallingford is a small Philadelphia suburb, between Media (through which U.S. 1, known locally as the "Baltimore Pike," runs) and Chester, which is on the Delaware River. It is not large enough to be placed on most road maps, although it has its own post office and railroad station. It is a residential community, housing families whom sociologists would categorize as upper-middle-income, upper-income, and wealthy, in separate dwellings, some very old and some designed to look that way.

Brewster Cortland Payne II had raised his family, now grown and gone, in a large house on four acres on Providence Road in Wallingford. It had been in the Payne family for more than two centuries.

What was now the kitchen and the sewing room had been the whole house when it had been built of fieldstone before the Revolution. Additions and modifications over two centuries had turned it into a large rambling structure that fit no specific architectural category, although a real estate sales-woman had once remarked in the hearing of Mrs. Patricia (Mrs. Brewster C.) Payne that "the Payne place just looked like old, old money."

The house was comfortable, even luxurious, but not ostentatious. There was neither swimming pool nor tennis court, but there was, in what a century before had been a stable, a four-car garage. The Payne family swam, as well as rode, at the Rose Tree Hunt Club. They had a summer house in Cape May, New Jersey, which did have a tennis court, as well as a berth for their boat, a fifty-eight-foot Hatteras calledFinal Tort V.

Matt made it safely into the drive, and as he approached the house, saw a two-year-old, somewhat battered, GMC Suburban parked with one of its front wheels on the grass beside the parking area by the garage. It had been Brewster Payne's gift to his daughter, Amelia Payne, M.D., not because she needed such a large vehicle, but in the hope that the truck-sized-and truck-strong-vehicle would keep her alive. Amy Payne's inability to conduct a motor vehicle over the roads of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania without, on the average of once a week, at least grazing other motor vehicles, street signs, and on memorable occasion, a fire hydrant, was almost legendary.

Amy Payne was in the kitchen with her mother and Mrs. Elizabeth Newman, the Payne housekeeper, when Matt walked in. They were peeling shrimp. Amy was a not-quite-pretty young woman who wore her hair short, not for purposes of beauty but because it was easier to care for that way.

Mrs. Newman was a comfortable-looking gray-haired woman in her fifties. Patricia Payne was older than she looked at first glance. She was trim, for one thing, with a luxuriant head of dark brown, almost reddish hair, and she had the fair skin of the Irish.

"Well, if it isn't the famous soon-to-be Sergeant Matthew Payne," Amy greeted her brother. "How good of you to find time in your busy schedule for us."

"Amy!" Patricia Payne protested.

"Got another fire hydrant, did you, Sigmund?" Matt said, as he walked to the table and kissed his mother.

"You were on television," Patricia Payne said. "I guess you know."

"That wasn't my idea," Matt said. "The mayor's press guy grabbed my arm and said 'You stand there.' "

"You did look uncomfortable," his mother said. "Well, I guess congratulations are in order, aren't they?"

"That's what I came out to tell you," Matt said. "How did you find out?"

"Not from you, obviously," Amy said.

"Hey, I tried to call when I found out," Matt said. "Didn't I, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, he did."

"And she told me you and Dad were going to be overnight in Wilmington," Matt said, and added, "I even tried to call you, Sigmund Freud."

"I thought that had to be you. Sophomoric humor."

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Patricia Payne said.

"He told the receptionist to tell me they were going to repossess my television unless they got paid," Amy said.

"Matt, you didn't," Patricia Payne said, but her face revealed that she found a certain element of humor in the situation.

"I walked into the office, and the receptionist, all embarrassed, whispered in my ear and said that the finance company had called-"

Mrs. Newman laughed out loud.

"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."