After Payne had explained what Hollaran had said, Byrth had said, “What’s a Union League? Texas is a right-to-work state; not many unions.”

Payne had then clarified. He gave him the organization’s background, ending with, “It’s still a strong supporter of our military services, and it’s played host forever to world leaders, business chieftains, celebrities. Nothing like a union hall at all. It drips with Old World Philadelphia of 1862.”

“Another thirty years, it’d be as old as the Rangers,” Byrth said.

That caused Payne to look at him curiously. But he saw that Byrth wasn’t bragging. He was, instead, making a statement that showed his appreciation of the long history of both institutions.

Payne said, “It also solves the problem of your lodging. My family’s been members for generations. I’ll sponsor you so you can stay in The Inn at the League. The room will not only cost less than any lousy Marriott or Hilton you’ll find, it’ll be a helluva lot better.”

Byrth shrugged. “When in Rome…”

Payne then explained the background of the function they were about to attend. And the reasoning behind why the second-highest-ranking officer in the Philadelphia Police Department held it.

Payne pulled to the curb on Broad Street in front of the Union League property.

Byrth observed that the building, with its brick and brownstone fa?ade, was very well-preserved for being some 150 years old. Its design certainly stood out from the modern surroundings, all the tall shiny office buildings around it. At the front, two dramatic circular staircases led up to the main entrance on the second level. Bronze statues stood dramatically beside each of the staircases. And Old Glory, spectacularly lit by a bright floodlight, slowly flapped atop a twenty-foot-tall flagpole mounted to the fore of the flat roof.

Inside, Byrth found that Payne was right. The Union League did indeed drip with Old World Philadelphia.

The ambience oozed old school luxury-polished marble floors with exotic rugs, rich wood paneling, magnificent leather-upholstered furniture that you could actually smell. On the walls hung handsome works of art, from old warships sailing far out at sea to portraits of presidents of the United States of America. Along the walls were distinguished displays featuring bronze and marble busts and sculptures.

Byrth watched Payne as he walked up to a marble-topped oak desk, behind which sat a somewhat distinguished old man with a full head of silver hair.

Byrth saw that the geezer wore a dark pin-striped suit with a silver silk tie-and an incredible air of snootiness.

The geezer looked up from the appointment book he had been reviewing.

“Ah, good evening, Young Mr. Payne,” the geezer said with a nasal tone. “So good to see you again.”

The geezer’s eyes studied their small party.

Payne said, “Good evening, Baxter. We’re here for Commissioner Coughlin’s regular group.”

“That would be in the Grant Room. All the way down, on the right.”

“Thank you, Baxter. I do believe I remember where it is. And I have two guests tonight, one of whom is in town on business.” He gestured toward Byrth. “Mr. Byrth will require a room.”

The geezer said nothing. He stood.

“Mr. Payne, I’ll call down to the Inn and alert the deskman.”

The geezer surveyed Harris. Then he surveyed Byrth, his dull gaze lingering on The Hat in the crook of his arm.

Then he looked back at Payne.

Payne said, “Is there some problem?”

Oh, boy, Jim Byrth thought.

This is where I get us all thrown out to the curb of this snooty joint.

“If you will excuse me a moment,” the geezer said nasally.

He wordlessly disappeared into the cloakroom.

Payne looked between Harris and Byrth, his eyebrows raised to say, Wonder what the hell this is all about?

Moments later, the geezer reappeared with an old navy blazer. It had two gold buttons on the front and three on the right sleeve. But there were only two on the left sleeve.

“So sorry, Mr. Payne,” he said, but he didn’t sound at all sincere. “This is the only jacket we have available at this time.”

Then the man held it out to Payne as he repositioned a small framed sign that was on the desk.

Payne glanced down at it and shook his head.

“Sorry, Baxter,” he said as he took the jacket. “I’m really tired. I forgot.”

Byrth read the sign:

MEN’S DRESS CODE POLICY

(Strictly Enforced) The League requires a jacket be worn by men. Jeans, denim wear, athletic attire, T-shirts, shorts, baseball caps, sneakers, or tattered clothes are never permitted on the first or second floor of the League house.

“Again,” the geezer said with some emphasis. “Which of course is why we keep jackets for you, Mr. Payne.”

Payne slipped it on.

This damn thing feels two sizes too small.

I could walk the five blocks to my apartment, but then we’d really be late.

Tony Harris chuckled.

“House rules, sir,” the geezer said snootily.

Payne’s stomach growled again as he glanced down the hall. He could see the entrance to the Grant Room, and saw people still milling in the corridor.

He looked at his watch: one minute to nine.

“Oh, to hell with it. These things never start on time.” He looked between Byrth and Harris. “After what we just went through, we deserve some more liquid courage undisturbed. Maybe a bite to eat, too. Let’s go in the bar, then we can go down to the Grant. With luck we can sneak in and no one will even notice.”

“I’m with you, Marshal,” Byrth said. “But I’m afraid I have to tell you: No amount of booze will flush the mental image of that girl, or the anger at her murder.”

Payne nodded. “Doesn’t mean I can’t give it the old college try.”

Byrth and Harris followed Payne the twenty or so feet down the hall. They entered the bar through a doorway on the right.

The first person Sergeant Matthew M. Payne saw at the bar as he entered was First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin.

Coughlin had his head back so that he could drain the last drop of his double Bushmills Malt 21. He caught Payne-and The Hat-out of the corner of his eye.

After lowering his head and putting the glass on the bar, Coughlin turned toward them. He looked a little guilty, as if he’d be caught. But only a little guilty.

“Waste not, want not,” he then said with a twinkle in his Irish eyes. “Glad you gentlemen made it.”

“Commissioner Coughlin,” Payne said formally, “I’d like to introduce Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers. Jim, Commissioner Coughlin.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Byrth said, offering his hand.

“My pleasure, Jim,” Coughlin replied, meeting his firm grip. “Liz Justice speaks highly of you. That goes a long way in my book.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Payne waved for the bartender to come over.

“Uncle Denny,” Payne said, “do you want another double Bushmills 21?”

Byrth caught the “uncle” and looked to see how the commissioner of police was going to respond.

“No, thank you, Matty. I don’t need to start slurring in there.”

Byrth then decided that Payne and Coughlin had to be uncle and nephew.

“Jim,” Coughlin said, “I’m going to put you on the spot here.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m speaking tonight about what’s been going on recently, particularly today. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but today’s murders weren’t our fair city’s first. But it might be a first for them to happen at almost the same time. I plan to go over that and the illegal drugs behind it. I’m hoping you might speak to the crowd about your perspective of it.”

Byrth nodded once. “Absolutely. It would be my honor.”

Payne passed out the bourbons to Byrth and Harris, then held up his glass. “To our health-and to our catching that bastard who killed that poor girl. And all the other bastards.”