Matt got out of the Porsche and walked into Police Headquarters.

“Help you?” the sergeant behind the desk asked.

“I’m Detective Payne,” Matt said. “I’m supposed to meet Sergeant Washington in Lieutenant Swann’s office?”

“Down the corridor, third door on the right.”

Washington and Lieutenant Swann, a tall, thin man in his forties, were drinking coffee.

“How are you, Payne?” Lieutenant Swann said after Washington made the introduction. “I know your dad, I think. Providence Road, in Wallingford?”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said.

“Known him for years,” Lieutenant Swann said.

Is he laughing at me behind that straight face?

“Lieutenant Swann’s been telling me that Mr. Atchison is a model citizen,” Washington said. “An officer in the National Guard, among other things.”

“When we heard about what happened, we thought it was the way it was reported in the papers,” Swann said. “This is very interesting.”

“Strange things happen,” Washington said. “It may have been just the way it was reported in the papers.”

“But you don’t think so, do you, Jason?”

“I am not wholly convinced of his absolute innocence,” Washington said.

“You want me to go over there with you, Jason?”

“I’d rather keep this low-key, if you’ll go along,” Jason said. “Just drop in to ask him about Mr. Foley.”

“Whatever you want, Jason. I owe you a couple.”

“The reverse is true, Johnny,” Washington said. “I add this to a long list of courtesies to be repaid.”

Lieutenant Swann stood up and put out his hand.

“Anytime, Jason. Nice to see you-again-Payne.”

Goddamn it, he does remember.

“It was much nicer to come in the front door all by myself,” Matt said.

“Well, what the hell,” Lieutenant Swann said, laughing. “We all stub our toes once in a while. You seem to be on the straight and narrow now.”

“I don’t know what that was all about,” Washington said, “but appearances, Johnny, can be deceiving.”

320 Wilson Avenue, Media, Pennsylvania, was a two-story brick Colonial house sitting in a well-kept lawn on a tree-lined street. A cast-iron jockey on the lawn held a sign reading “320 Wilson, Atchison.” There was a black mourning wreath hanging on the door. Decalcomania on the small windows of the white door announced that the occupants had contributed to the Red Cross, United Way, Boy Scouts, and the Girl Scout Cookie Program. When Washington pushed the doorbell, they could hear chimes playing, “Be It Ever So Humble, There’s No Place Like Home.”

A young black maid in a gray dress answered the door.

“Mr. Atchison, please,” Jason said. “My name is Washington.”

“Mr. Atchison’s not at home,” the maid said. The obvious lie made her obviously nervous.

“Please tell Mr. Atchison that Sergeant Washington of the Philadelphia Police Department would be grateful for a few minutes of his time.”

She closed the door in their faces. What seemed like a long time later, it reopened. Gerald North Atchison, wearing a crisp white shirt, no tie, slacks, and leaning on a cane, stood there.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said cordially. “Do you remember me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“How’s the leg?” Washington asked.

For answer, Atchison raised the cane and waved it.

“You remember Detective Payne?”

“Yeah, sure. How are you, Payne?”

“Mr. Atchison.”

“We really hate to disturb you at home, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said. “But we have a few questions.”

“I was hoping you were here to tell me you got the bastards who did…”

“We’re getting closer, Mr. Atchison. It’s getting to be a process of elimination. We think you can probably help us, if you can spare us a minute or two.”

“Christ, I don’t know. My lawyer told me I wasn’t to answer any more questions if he wasn’t there.”

“Sidney Margolis is protecting your interests, as he should. But we’re trying to keep this as informal as possible. To keep you from having to go to Mr. Margolis’s office, or ours.”

“Yeah, I know. But…”

“Let me suggest this, Mr. Atchison, to save us both time and inconvenience. I give you my word that if you find any of my questions are in any way inconvenient, if you have any doubt whatever that you shouldn’t answer them without Mr. Margolis’s advice, you simply say ‘Pass,’ and I will drop that question and any similar to it.”

“Well, Sergeant, you put me on a spot. You know I want to cooperate, but Margolis said…”

“The decision, of course, is yours. And I will understand no matter what you decide.”

Atchison hesitated a moment and then swung the door open.

“What the hell,” he said. “I want to be as helpful as I can. I want whoever did what they did to my wife and Tony Marcuzzi caught and fried.”

“Thank you very much,” Washington said. “There’s just a few things that we’d like to ask your opinion about.”

“Whatever I can do to help,” Atchison said. “Can I have the girl get you some coffee? Or something stronger?”

“I don’t know about Matt here, but the detective in me tells me it’s very likely that a restaurateur would have some drinkable coffee in his house.”

“I have some special from Brazil,” Atchison said. “ Bean coffee. Dark roast. I grind it just before I brew it.”

“I accept your kind invitation,” Washington said.

“And so do I,” Matt said.

“Let me show it to you,” Atchison said.

They followed him into the kitchen and watched his coffee-brewing ritual.

Washington, Matt thought, looked genuinely interested.

Finally they returned to the living room.

“Sit down,” Atchison said. “Let me know how I can help.”

Washington sipped his coffee.

“ Very nice!”

“I’m glad you like it,” Atchison said.

“Mr. Atchison,” Washington began. “As a general rule of thumb, in cases like this, we’ve found that usually robbers will observe a place of business carefully before they act. And we’re working on the premise that whoever did this were professional criminals.”

“They certainly seemed to know what they were doing,” Atchison agreed.

“So it would therefore follow that they did, in fact, more than likely, decide to rob your place of business some time, days, weeks, before they actually committed the crime. That they (a) decided that your establishment was worth their time and the risk involved to rob; and (b) planned their robbery carefully.”

“I can see what you mean,” Atchison said.

“Would you say that it was common knowledge that you sometimes had large amounts of cash on the premises?”

“I think most bars and restaurants do,” Atchison said. “They have to. A good customer wants to cash a check for a couple of hundred, even a thousand, you look foolish if you can’t accommodate him.”

“I thought it would be something like that,” Washington said. “That’s helpful.”

“And I never keep the cash in the register, either, I always keep it downstairs in the safe. You know that neighborhood, Sergeant, I don’t have to tell you. Sometimes, when there’s a busy night, I even take large amounts of cash out of the register and take it down and put it in the safe.”

“In other words, you would say you take the precautions a prudent businessman would take under the circumstances.”

“I think you could say that, yes.”

“We’ve found, over the years-and I certainly hope you won’t take offense over the question-that in some cases, employees have a connection with robberies of this nature.”

“I guess that would happen.”

“Would you mind giving me your opinion of Thomas Melrose?” Washington asked. “He was, I believe, the bartender on duty that night?”

“Tommy went off duty before those men came in,” Atchison replied, and then hesitated a moment before continuing: “I just can’t believe Tommy Melrose would be involved in anything like this.”

“But he was aware that you frequently kept large amounts of cash in your office.”