W.E.B Griffin
Men In Blue
For Sergeant Zebulon V. Casey
Internal Affairs Division Retired
Police Department
The City of Philadelphia
He knows why
ONE
I think I am, the long-haired, long-legged blonde thought, torn between excitement and alarm,about to have my first affair with a married man.
Her name was Louise Dutton, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully and cocked her head unconsciously to one side as she considered that improbable likelihood.
She was at the wheel of a yellow, six-year-old, 1967 Cadillac convertible, the roof down, moving fifteen miles over the posted forty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit northward in the center lane of Roosevelt Boulevard, which runs through the center of Northeast Philadelphia, from Broad Street to the Bucks County line.
Louise Dutton was twenty-five years old, weighed 115 pounds, and her blond hair was real-a genetic gift from her father. She had graduated three years before (BA, English) from the University of Chicago. She had worked a year as a general-assignment reporter on the Cedar Rapids, Iowa,Clarion; six months as a newswriter for KLOS-TV (Channel 10), Los Angeles, California; and for eleven months as an on-camera reporter for WNOG-TV (Channel 7), New Orleans, Louisiana. For the past five weeks Louise Dutton had been co-anchor of "Nine's News," over WCBL-TV (Channel 9), Philadelphia: thirty minutes of local news telecast at six p.m., preceding the 6:30 national news, and again at 11 p.m.
A crazy scenario entered her mind.
She would get arrested for speeding. Preferably by one of the hotshot Highway Patrolmen. He would swagger over to the car, in his shiny leather jacket and his gun and holster with all the bullets showing.
"Where's the fire, honey?" Mr. Macho, with a gun and a badge, would demand.
"Actually," she would say, batting her eyelashes at him, "I'm on my way to meet Captain Moffitt."
Captain Richard C. "Dutch" Moffitt was the commanding officer of the Philadelphia Highway Patrol.
And the cop who stopped her for speeding would either believe her, and leave her properly awed, or he would not believe her, and ask her where she was supposed to meet the captain, and she would tell him, and maybe he would follow her there to see if she was telling the truth. That would be even better. Maybe it would embarrass Dutch Moffitt to have one of his men learn that he was meeting a blonde in a restaurant.
It would not, she decided. He'd love it. The cop would wink at Captain Big Dutch Moffitt and Dutch would modestly shrug his shoulders. Dutch expected to have blond young women running after him.
I am losing my mind.
Is this what happened to my mother? One day my father appeared, and she went crazy?
Is that why I'm going where I'm going, and in this circumstance? Because Dutch Moffitt reminds me of my father?
Is it true that all little girls harbor a shameful secret desire to go to bed with their fathers? Is that what this is, "Dutch Moffitt, in loco parentis"?
Ahead, on the left, she spotted the site of their rendezvous. Or was it assignation?
The Waikiki Diner, to judge from the outside decor, was not going to be the Philadelphia equivalent of Arnaud's, or for that matter, even Brennan's; more like the Golden Kettle in Cedar Rapids.
She turned into the U-turn lane, jammed the accelerator to the floor to move her ahead of an oncoming wave of traffic, and then turned off Roosevelt Boulevard, too fast. Louise winced when she felt the Cadillac bottom going over the curb.
The Cadillac was her college graduation gift. Or one of them. Her father had handed her a check and told her to pick herself out a car.
"I'd rather have yours," she said. "If I could."
He had looked at her, confused, for a moment, and then understood. " The yellow convertible? It's three years old. I was about to get rid of it."
"Then I can have it?" she'd said. "It's hardly used." He had looked at her for a moment, understanding, she thought, before replying.
"Of course," he said. "I'll have someone bring it here."
She had leaned forward and kissed him and said, "Thank you, Daddy," and he'd hugged her.
Louise Dutton's father was not, and never had been, married to her mother. She was illegitimate, a bastard; but the reality hadn't beenwasn't-as bad as most people, when they heard the facts, presumed it was.
She had been presented with the facts when she was a little girl, matter-of-factly told there were reasons her father and mother could not be married, that he could not live with them, or see her as often as he would like. That was the way things were, and it wasn't going to change. She didn't even hate her father's wife, or her half-brothers and -sisters.
It wasn't as if her father considered her an embarrassment, wished she had never happened. The older she got, the more she saw of him. He spent his Christmases with his family, and she spent hers with her mother and her mother's husband, and she called both men "Daddy." So far as she knew, they had never met, and she had never seen her father's family, even across a room.
Her father had always, from the time she was nine or ten, found a couple of days to spend with her before or after Christmas, and he sent for her several times during the year, and she spent several days or a week with him, and he always introduced her as "my daughter."
She had been a freshman in college when he'd taken her deep-sea fishing for ten days in Baja, California. She'd flown to Los Angeles, and spent the night in his beach house in Malibu, and then driven, in the yellow convertible, to Baja. A wonderful ten days. And he knew why she wanted the convertible.
She had wondered what his wife, and her half-brothers and -sisters thought about her, and finally realized they were in the same position she was. Stanford Former Wells III, chairman of the board of Wells Newspapers, Inc., did what he damned well pleased. They were just lucky that what he damned well pleased to do was almost invariably kind, and thoughtful, and ethical.
Maybe that was easier if you had inherited that kind of money, and maybe he wouldn't have been so kind, thoughtful, or ethical if he was a life insurance salesman or an automobile dealer,but he wasn't. He had inherited seventeen newspapers and three radio stations from his father, and turned that into thirty-one newspapers, four television stations, and four (larger) radio stations.
The only thing that Louise could discover that her father had done wrong was, as a married man, impregnate a woman to whom he was not married. He had sownher seed in a forbidden field. But even then, he had done the decent thing. He had not abandoned his wife and children for the greener fields of a much younger woman, and he had not abandonedher. He could very easily have made "appropriate financial arrangements" and never shown his face.
She loved and admired her father, and if people didn't understand that, fuck 'em.
Louise found a place to park the yellow convertible, and then walked to the Waikiki Diner. There were no cars in the parking lot that looked like unmarked police cars, which meant that he had either come in his own car, or that he wasn't here yet.
She pushed open the door to the Waikiki Diner and stepped inside. It was larger inside than it looked to be from the outside. It was shaped like an L. The shorter leg, which was what she had seen from the street, held a counter, with padded seats on stools, and one row of banquettes against the wall. Beside the door, which was at the juncture of the legs, was the cashier's glass counter and a bar with a couple of stools, but obviously primarily a service bar. The longer leg was also wider, and was a dining room. There were probably forty tables in there, Louise judged, plus banquettes against the walls.
He wasn't in there.
She thought: Captain Richard C. "Dutch" Moffitt, commanding officer of the Philadelphia Police Department 's Highway Patrol, has not yet found time to grace the Waikiki Diner with his patronage.
"Help you, doll?" a waitress asked. She was slight, had orange hair, too much makeup, and was pushing sixty.