Matt Payne took a look at the buffet laid out in the game room, then at the line waiting to get at the food, and walked to the bar.
"A glass of your very best ginger ale, if you please, my good man," he said, but then changed his mind. "Oh, to hell with it, give me a scotch, no ice, and soda."
The barman smiled at him.
"My mother's here. What I was going to do, was wait for the question, phrased accusingly, 'What are you drinking? ' to which I would have truthfully responded, 'Ginger ale.' Just to get her reaction."
"What changed your mind?" the barman asked as he made the drink.
Matt gestured around the crowded room.
"I need a little liquid courage to face all these merry-makers. "
The barman chuckled.
And then Matt spotted a familiar face.
"I'll be damned," he said. "There is someone human here, after all."
He crossed the room to a small, wiry, blond-headed man standing beside a somewhat taller female. There was a thick rope of pearls around the woman's neck, reaching down to the valley between her breasts, and on the third finger of her left hand was an engagement ring with a four-carat emerald-cut stone in it.
"Hello, Matt," the woman said, smiling at him. "How are you?"
"Feeling sorry for myself," Matt said.
"How's that?" she asked.
"My superiors are cruel to me. You wouldn't believe what they've had me doing all day. And all day yesterday. "
The man smiled.
"The tapes?"
"The obscenity-deleted tapes," Matt agreed.
"Getting anything?" the man asked.
"Stop right there, the two of you," the woman ordered firmly. "No shop talk! Really, precious!"
Precious was also known as Captain David R. Pekach. He was commanding officer of the Highway Patrol, and one of the two captains in Special Operations. The lady was his fiancйe, Miss Martha Peebles.
In the obituary of Alexander F. Peebles in the Wall Street Journal, it was reported that he had died possessed of approximately 11.5 percent of the known anthracite coal reserves of the United States. Six months later, the same newspaper reported that Miss Martha Peebles's lawyers had successfully resisted efforts by her brother to break her father's will, in which he had bequeathed to his beloved daughter all of his worldly goods of whatever kind and wherever located.
One night six months before, Captain Pekach had twice gone, at the "suggestion" of Mayor Carlucci, to 606 Glengarry Lane in Chestnut Hill to personally assure the citizen resident therein that the Philadelphia Police Department generally and the Highway Patrol in particular was going to do everything possible to apprehend the thief, or thieves, who had been burglarizing the twenty-eight-room turn-of-the-century mansion set on fourteen acres.
On his first visit that night, Captain Pekach had assured Miss Peebles that he would take a personal interest in her problem, to include driving past her home himself that very night when he was relieved as Special Operations duty officer at midnight. Miss Peebles inquired if his work schedule, quitting at midnight, wasn't hard on his wife. Captain Pekach informed her he was not, and never had been, married.
"In that case, Captain, if you can find the time to pass by, why don't you come in for a cup of coffee? I rarely go to bed before two."
During Captain Pekach's second visit to 606 Glengarry Lane that night, Miss Peebles had gone to bed earlier than was her custom, and for the first time in her thirty-five years not alone. Their engagement to be married had been announced three weeks before by her attorney, and her father's lifelong friend, Brewster Cortland Payne, Esq., of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, at a dinner party at 606 Glengarry Lane.
"There's something there, captain," Detective Payne answered, ignoring her.
"Matt, please!" Miss Peebles said.
"Matt, I worked Narcotics for four years," Captain Pekach said. "If there was something, I would know!"
"Matt, go away," Miss Peebles said.
"Well, I hope you're right," Matt said. "But…"
"Precious!" Miss Peebles said firmly.
"Nice to see you, Matt," Captain Pekach said.
"If you'll excuse me," Matt said, smiling, "I think I'll mingle."
"Why don't you?" Miss Peebles said, smiling.
Matt looked around the room for his parents, and when he didn't find them, climbed the stairs from the game room to the dining room on the floor above. There he saw them, at the far end of the room. Talking with Penny's parents.
Christ, I can't handle that!
Penny's mother pities me, and her father thinks I'm responsible.
He turned so that they wouldn't see him.
And found himself looking at the rear end of a good-looking blonde and then the reflection of her face in the huge sheet of plate glass that offered a view of the Delaware River and the Camden works of Nesfoods International.
He walked to her.
She looked at him, and then away.
"Hi!" he said.
"Hello," she said.
"You may safely talk to me," he said.
"How's that?"
"I'm the godfather of the new rug rat," Matt said.
That got a smile.
"Have you got a name, godfather?"
"Matt Payne."
She gave him her hand.
"Susan Reynolds," she said. "I was Daffy's big sister at Bennington."
"That must have been a job."
That got him another smile.
"Can I get you a drink?" Matt asked.
"Why not?" Susan Reynolds said.
"What?"
"They have Chablis."
"Don't go away."
"We'll see."
He went to the upstairs bar and ordered a Chablis and a scotch and soda, no ice, for himself, and returned to Susan Reynolds.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're not from here, are you?" Matt said.
"Now you sound like Chad."
"How's that?"
"A pillar of Philadelphia society, surprised at meeting a barbarian within the gates."
"I didn't mean it that way. But I've never seen you around before. I would have noticed."
"Harrisburg," she said. "Outside Camp Hill."
"Hello," a female voice said behind him.
"Miss Reynolds, may I introduce my mother and father? " Matt said. "Mother, Dad, this is Susan Reynolds."
Matt's mother did not look her forty-five years. She had a smooth, tanned, unwrinkled complexion and a trim body. It was often said that she looked at least fifteen years younger than her husband, a tall, well-built, dignified, silver-haired man in his early fifties.
"How do you do?" Patricia Moffitt Payne said. "Daffy's told me about you."
"You're not supposed to call her Daffy," Matt said.
"I've known her since she was in diapers," Patricia Payne said. "I'll call her whatever I please."
"And it does fit, doesn't it?" Susan Reynolds said.
"I didn't say that," Patricia Payne said.
"I think you're a friend of Mr. Emmons, aren't you, Mr. Payne?" Susan Reynolds asked.
"Charles Emmons?" Brewster Payne asked.
She nodded. "He's a good friend of my father."
"Does that make you Thomas Reynolds's daughter, by chance?"
"Guilty."
"Charley and I went to law school together," Brewster C. Payne said. "I don't know your father. But Charley often mentions him."
"Matt," Patricia Payne said. "You're going to have to say hello to the Detweilers. They know you're here."
"Oh, God!"
"Matt!"
"Yes, ma'am," Matt said.
"Now would be a good time," Patricia Payne said.
"Will you excuse me, please?" Matt said to Susan Reynolds. "I will return."
Making his manners with Penny's parents was as painful as he thought it would be. And it took five minutes, which seemed like much longer.
When he returned to Susan Reynolds, his parents were gone, replaced by two young men who had also discovered the good-looking blonde without visible escort.
"What do you say, Payne?" one of them said. His name was T. Winslow Hayes, and they had been classmates at Episcopal Academy. Matt hadn't liked him then, and didn't like him now. The other one was vaguely familiar, but Matt couldn't put a name to him.
"What do I say about what?"
"Can I get you another drink, Susan?" the other one asked.
"Thank you, but I have appointed Matt booze-bearer for the evening," Susan said, and, raising her glass, added, "And I already have one."
Am I getting lucky?
T. Winslow Hayes and the other left shortly thereafter.
Their hostess appeared.
"I feel duty-bound to warn you about him, Susan," Daffy said.
"Daffy has never forgiven me for refusing to marry her," Matt said. "Don't pay any attention to her."
"You shit!" Daffy said.
Susan Reynolds chuckled.
"He doesn't look very threatening to me," Susan said.
"There are some very nice boys here I could introduce you to," Daffy said.
"Thank you, but no thank you."
I am getting lucky.
"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," Daffy said, and left them.
"Oddly enough, I think Daffy likes you," Susan said.
"In her own perverted way, perhaps," Matt said.
"Are you a lawyer, like your father?" Susan asked.
"No."
"You look like a lawyer."
"How does a lawyer look?"
"Like you."
"Sorry."
"What do you do?"
"Would you believe policeman?"
"No."
"Cross my heart and hope to die. Boy Scout's honor."
"How interesting. Really?"
"Detective Matthew Payne at your service, ma'am."
He saw that she now believed him-and in her eyes that he was no longer going to be lucky.
Let's cut to the chase.
"Do you like jazz, Susan?"
"What kind of jazz?"
"Dixieland."
She nodded.
"There's a club, in Center City, where there's a real live, imported-directly-from-Bourbon-Street-in-New-Orleans -Louisiana Dixieland band," Matt made his pitch. "Could I interest you in leaving these sordid surroundings and all these charming people to go there? They serve gen-u -ine southern barbecue ribs and oysters and beer."
Susan Reynolds met his eyes.
"Sorry," she said. "Try somebody else."
"Daffy scared you off?"
"Look, I'm sure you're a very nice fellow, but I'm just not interested. Okay?"
"Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free," Matt said. "May I get you another drink before I leave?"
She held up her glass.
"I have one. Thank you just the same."
"Have a nice night, Susan."
"You, too," Susan Reynolds said.
Although she had hoped to be able to get away from the party without being seen, Susan Reynolds ran into her hostess as she was going down the stairway to the first floor.
"You're not leaving so soon?" Daffy asked, pro forma.
"Thank you for having me, Daffy," Susan said. "I had a lovely time."
"Even if you're leaving alone?" Daffy challenged. "You didn't find anyone interesting?"
"I don't recall saying I didn't find anybody interesting, " Susan said, "just that I was leaving here alone. A policeman offered to take me someplace where the jazz is supposed to be good."
She winked at Daffy, who smiled with pleasure.
"Have a good time," Daffy said.
"I will try," Susan said, and kissed Daffy on the cheek.
"He's really not as bad as I said," Daffy said.
"Now you tell me?" Susan said. "After I get my hopes up?"
Daffy laughed appreciatively.
Susan walked to the end of Stockton Place and handed the claim check to her car to the man in charge of the valet parking. It was delivered much sooner than she expected, but with what she had come to regard as the ritual expression of admiration.
"Nice wheels," the valet parking driver said.
Susan had come into a trust fund established for her by her paternal grandfather when she had turned twenty-five. The Porsche 911 had been her present to herself on that occasion.
"Nice engine, too," Susan said, and slipped him two dollar bills.
He looked like a nice kid, and he smiled warmly at her.
"Thanks a lot," he said.
Susan got behind the wheel, smiled up at the kid, and drove away.
She drove to City Hall, then turned left onto North Broad Street. There was probably a better way to get out of town-there was a superhighway close to the Delaware River-but she was reluctant to try something new, and wind up in New Jersey.
Near Temple University, she spotted the first sign identifying the road as Pennsylvania Route 611, and that made her feel more comfortable. Now she was sure she knew where she was.
She thought of the cop.
The truth of the matter is, I really would rather be sitting in some smoke-filled dive listening to Dixieland with him than coming up here.
As a matter of fact, there are probably two hundred things I would rather be doing than coming up here.
But at least I will get to see Jennifer and the baby.
Not, of course, the father of the baby. If I never saw that son of a bitch again, it would be too soon.
The Chinese had it wrong. Boy babies should be drowned at birth, not girl babies. Just keep enough of them for purposes of impregnation, and get rid of the surplus before they grow up and start doing terrible things.
Girl babies don't grow up to do the awful things that grown-up boy babies do-is there such a thing? I have seen very little proof that boy babies ever really grow up, even after they have beards-and if grown-up girl babies were running things, the world would be a better place.
No wars, for one thing.
They are such bastards, really. That cop was barely out of sight before his pals started telling me what a mixed-up screwball he was. That he had become a cop to prove his manhood in the first place, and that he wasn't really a cop, just playing at being one.
Was that a put-down of him, per se? Or were they putting him down to increase their chances-their nonexistent chances; I would really have to be desperate to let either of them close to me-of getting into my pants?
What about the cop?
Under other circumstances, would I have…
There are no other circumstances, and I know it, largely because of the male bastard I'm going to see tonight.
When they cause trouble, they don't cause trouble just for themselves, but for everybody around them. In this case, Sweet Jennie and now a baby. And, of course, me.
And they just don't care!
Maybe I would be better off if I were a lesbian.
But I'm not.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
It's a good thing. The truth is that I would kill…
That's a lousy choice of words. There's enough killing.
The truth is that I would give a good deal to be in Daffy Nesbitt's position. To have a husband, and a baby, and not to have to worry about anything more important than changing diapers.
Not to have to worry about-try to deal with-other people's problems. Most of which, I have learned, they bring on themselves.
I would really like that.
What does that make me, a selfish bitch?
And since I do worry about the problems other people have caused for themselves, what does that make me, St. Susan the Martyr?
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You got yourself in this, and now you're going to have to pay the price, whatever the hell that price ultimately turns out to be.
And anyway, the Dixieland band would probably have been terrible, and the worst possible man for me to get involved with would be a cop. And despite how his good buddies tried to put him down, I think whatsisname-Payne, Matt-is probably a pretty good cop. His eyes-I noticed that about him-were intelligent. I don't think much gets by him.
She drove through the suburbs of Jenkintown and Abington and Willow Grove, and shortly after 10:30 reached the outskirts of Doylestown. She drove through town, past the courthouse with the Civil War cannon on the lawn, and spotted the Crossroads Diner just where Jennie had told her it would be.
The parking lot was jammed, also as Jennie had told her, when she had called the Bellvue, it would be. The diner, Jennie had said, was more than a diner. It had started out as a diner, but had grown into both a truck stop and a restaurant with a bar and a motel.
Jennie said that I should drive around to the rear of the diner, to the part of the parking lot between the restaurant and the motel. That there would be the best place to leave the car.
Susan glanced at her watch. It was twenty minutes to eleven.
I'm ten minutes late. Or twenty minutes early. Jennie said between half ten and eleven, and that if she didn't show up by eleven, that would mean something had come up and that we would have to try it again later.
By something coming up she meant that Bryan, or whatever he's calling himself this week, got drunk, again, or wrecked the car. Again. Or is off robbing a bank somewhere.
I'll have to watch myself to make sure that Jennie doesn't see how much I loathe and detest that son of a bitch. She has enough on her back without my adding to her burden.
As she drove behind the lines of parked cars between the restaurant and the motel, looking for a place to park, the lights came on in one of them-she couldn't see which one, but there was no question that someone, almost certainly Jennie, was signaling to her.
Or maybe it's just another admirer of Porsche 911s.
She found a spot to park between two large cars, an Oldsmobile and a Buick, and backed in.
Both were large enough so that the Porsche was hardly visible, which was nice.
With a little luck, too, the drivers of both are the little old ladies of fame and legend, who will open their doors carefully and not put large dings in mine.
Susan found her purse where it had slipped off the seat into the passenger-side footwell, then got out of the car, carefully locking it.
Then she started to walk back between the rows of parked vehicles, the way she had driven in.
Halfway, she heard the sound of a door opening, and her name being softly called: "Susie!"
It was Jennie's voice.
The vehicle was a four- or five-year-old Ford station wagon, a different car than the last time, but equally nondescript.
As she walked to the station wagon, the passenger door opened, but there was no light from the inside.
"Jennie?"
"Hi, Susie!"
Susan got in.
The car stank, a musty smell, as if it had been left out in the rain with the windows down, but there was an aroma, too, of baby powder.
Jennie was wearing a white blouse and blue jeans. She leaned across the seat to kiss Susan, and then immediately started the engine, turned on the headlights, and started off.
"You're not running from anybody, are you?" Susan asked.
God, why did I let that get away?
"No. Of course not," Jennie said.
"You took off like a shot," Susan said.
Jennie didn't reply, which made Susan uncomfortable.
"How's the baby?" Susan asked.
"Take a look for yourself," Jennie said, and pressed something into Susan's hand. After a moment, Susan realized it was a flashlight.
"There's something wrong with the switch," Jennie said. "Switches. The one that turns on the inside light, and the one in the door."
And I'll just bet Bryan's been fixing them, hasn't he?
"Try not to shine it in his eyes," Jennie said. "That wakes him."
Susan understood from that that the baby was in the back. She turned and leaned over the seat. She could make out blankets, and the smell of baby powder was stronger.
I'd really like to have a look, but if I shine the light, he'll wake up for sure.
She turned around.
"I'll wait 'til we get where we're going," she said. "And have a good look at him."
Jennie grunted.
"Where are we going?" Susan asked.
"Not far. Just the other side of New Hope," Jennie said.
"Bryan found a house on a hill. You can see the Delaware. "
"Where is he?"
"Working," Jennie said. "He plays from nine to one."
"Plays?"
"The piano. In a bar outside New Hope."
"How long has he been doing that?"
"Couple of weeks. He used to go there at night and play for the fun of it. So the owner asked him if he would play for money. Off the books."
"He doesn't need money," Susan said. It was a question.
"I think he likes to get out of the house," Jennie said. "The baby makes him nervous."
And I wouldn't be a bit surprised if there were single women around this place where he plays the piano.
Matt Payne was lying on his back, sound asleep, his arms and legs spread, his mouth open, and wearing only a T-SHIRT, when the telephone rang. He was snoring quietly.
The second ring of the telephone brought him from sound asleep to fully awake, but except to open his eyes and tilt his head so that he could see the telephone half-hidden behind his snub-nosed revolver in its ankle holster on his bedside table, he did not move at all.
The telephone rang twice more, and then there was a click as the answering machine switched on, and then his prerecorded voice filled the tiny bedroom.
"If this is an attempt to sell me something, your telephone will explode in your ear in three seconds. Otherwise you may wait for the beep, and leave your name and number, and I will return your call."
There was a beep.
And then a rather pleasant, if somewhat exasperated in tone, male voice came over the small loudspeaker.
"Cute, very cute! Pick up the damned telephone, Matt."
Matt Payne recognized Peter Wohl's voice. His arm shot out and grabbed the telephone.
"Good morning," he said.
"Is it too much to hope that I'm interrupting something lewd, immoral, and probably illegal?"
"Unfortunately, you have found me lying here in a state of involuntary celibacy."
"Mighty Matthew has struck out? How did that happen? "
"I strongly suspect the lady doesn't like policemen. I was doing pretty well, I thought, before what I do for a living came up."
"Sometimes that happens." Wohl chuckled.
"What's up, boss?"
"Golf is off, Matt. Sorry."
"Okay," Matt said. "I'm sorry, too."
"Carlucci called my father last night and 'suggested' everybody get together for a little pasta at my father's house this afternoon, and then 'suggested' who else should be there. You weren't on the list. I wish I wasn't."
The mayor's habit of issuing orders in the form of suggestions was almost infamous. Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, Retired, had been Carlucci's rabbi as Carlucci had worked his way up through the police ranks. Carlucci had once, emotionally, blurted to Peter that Chief Wohl was the only man in the world he completely trusted.
"What's it about?"
"Lowenstein and Coughlin will be there. And Mike Weisbach. And Sabara. You're a detective. You figure it out."
It wasn't hard to make a good guess. Matthew Lowenstein and Dennis V. Coughlin were generally regarded as the most influential of all the chief inspectors of the Philadelphia Police Department. Michael Weisbach was a staff inspector, generally regarded as one of the best of that group of senior investigators. Captain Michael J. Sabara was deputy commander of Special Operations.
"Not Captain Pekach?" Matt asked.
"Not Captain Pekach. I think the mayor heard him say 'if there was anything dirty in Narcotics, I would know about it' once too often."
"That makes it official? We're going to get stuck with that Five Squad business?" Matt asked.
"This makes it, I'd guess, a sure thing. Official will probably come down on Monday."
"Damn!"
"Sorry about golf, Matt. I was really looking forward to it."
"Yeah, me, too."
"I'll call you when I know how bad it is," Wohl said.
"Damn," Matt repeated.
The phone went dead in his ear.
He held it a moment in his hand, as his mind ran through all the ramifications-none of them pleasant-of the mayor "suggesting" to Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernich that Special Operations-not Internal Affairs-conduct an investigation of alleged corruption in the Five Squad of the Narcotics Unit.
He looked up at the ceiling, where a clock on the bedside table projected the time of day. It was 9:15 A.M. He had gone to bed after two. He had planned to sleep until noon, by which time he presumed he would be rested, clear-eyed, and capable of parting Peter Wohl-who was a pretty good golfer-from, say, a hundred dollars at Merion.
Now he was awake, and once awake, he stayed awake. What was he going to do now? And, for that matter, for the rest of the day?
A call of nature answered that question for the immediate future. Matt put the telephone in its cradle, got out of bed, and went into his tiny bathroom. He was subjecting a rather nasty-looking bug who had fallen into the water closet to a strafing attack when the telephone rang again.
He cocked his head toward the open door so that he could hear what Caller Number Two had on his or her mind.
The prerecorded message played, and there came the beep.
"Matt, damn you, I know she's there, and I absolutely have to talk to her this instant! Pick up the telephone!"
The voice was that of Mrs. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV.
Without taking his eyes from the bug he had under relentless aerial attack, Matt raised his left hand, center finger extended, the others bent, over his head and in the general direction of the loudspeaker on the telephone answering device.
Dear Daffy, Matt reasoned, is almost certainly referring to good ol' blue-eyed, blond-haired, splendidly knockered, Whatsername-Susan Reynolds-with whom I struck out last night.
Daffy thinks she came here with me.
Can it be that the Sweet Susan-Daffy knows her well-has been known to do with others what she would not do last night with me?
Damn!
He flushed the toilet by depressing the lever with his foot, pulled his T-shirt over his head, and stepped into his tiny shower stall. He had just finished what he thought of as Phase One (rinse) of his shower and reached for the soap to commence Phase Two (soap) when the telephone rang again.
He slid the shower door open to listen.
This time it was Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV himself.
"Matt, if you're there, for Christ's sake, answer the phone! Daffy's climbing the walls!"
Matt walked naked and dripping to the telephone and picked it up.
"She's not here, whoever she is," he said.
"Then where the hell is she?" Chad Nesbitt challenged.
"Since I'm not even sure who you're talking about, pal-"
"Susan Reynolds, of course," Chad said shortly.
"Not here. The last time I saw the lady, she was in your dining room."
"She's not with you?" Chad asked, obviously surprised, and went on before Matt could reply. "But she was, right?"
"Listen carefully. She is not here. She has never been here. Let your imagination soar," Matt said. "Consider the possibility that she left your place with someone else."
"You were putting the make on her, Matt," Chad challenged.
"Indeed I was. But the lady proved to be monumentally uninterested."
"She didn't call home," Chad said.
"Thank you for sharing that with me."
"She always calls her mother before she goes to sleep," Chad said.
"How touching!"
Daffy Browne Nesbitt came on the line. "Don't be such a sarcastic son of a bitch, Matt. Honestly, you're a real shit!"
"I would appreciate it if you would attempt to control your foul tongue when under the same roof as my goddaughter, " Matt said solemnly.
"She didn't call her mother last night," Chad said. "So her mother called her. At the Bellvue. And then she called here."
"Why did she call there?"
"I just told you," Chad said, somewhat impatiently. "There was no answer at the Bellvue. Then she called here, at half past two. Daffy told her that she had gone with you to listen to jazz."
"Daffy told her what? Why?"
"I certainly didn't want to tell her mother that she was in your apartment," Daffy said.
"Have you been eavesdropping all along, Daffy, or did you just come on the line? The reason I ask is because I have already told Chad that your pal is not now, and never has been, in my apartment."
"Then where is she?" Daffy challenged indignantly.
"This is where I came in. I haven't the foggiest idea where she might be, Daffy, and"-he shifted into a Clark Gable accent-"frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."
Chad chuckled.
"The both of you are shits," Daffy said, and hung up.
"You might try washing her mouth out with soap," Matt said.
"She's upset. She lied to Susan's mother, and now she's been caught at it."
"I'm the one who should be pissed about that, old buddy. She told Mommy that the family virgin was out with me."
"You're close," Chad said. "Be a good chap, won't you, and go by the Bellvue?"
"You're as close as I am, Chad," Matt protested.
The Bellvue-Stratford Hotel, on South Broad Street, was nowhere near equidistant between Matt Payne's apartment-which consisted of a bedroom, a bath not large enough for a bathtub, a kitchen separated from the dining area by a no longer functioning sliding partition, and a living room from which one could, if one stood on one's toes, catch a glimpse of a small area of Rittenhouse Square, four floors below, through one of two eighteen-inch wide dormer windows-and the Nesbitt triplex on Stockton Place.
"No, it's not," Chad replied. "And you know it. Besides, I can't leave Daffy and the baby alone!"
"Perish the thought! That nanny you just imported is to impress the neighbors, right? You certainly couldn't trust her to watch the kid, could you?"
"Daffy's right. Sometimes you are a sarcastic ass," Chad said.
"What am I supposed to do at the Bellvue?"
"See what you can find out. See if her car's there, for example. And call me."
"What kind of a car?"
"Daffy, what kind of a car does Susan drive?" Matt heard Chad call, and then he came back on the line. "Oddly enough, one like yours. Only red."
"A 911? A red 911?"
"That's what Daffy says."
"That's why I asked."
"Thanks, pal," Chad said, and the line went dead.
Matt put the phone back in its cradle, but didn't take his hand from it.
"Matthew, my boy," he said aloud. "You have just been had. Again."
Then he dialed a number from memory.
On the second ring, the phone was picked up.
"Hello," his mother said.
"This is the son who never seems to find time to even drop by for a cup of coffee," Matt said.
"Is it really?"
"Do you think you could throw in a doughnut?"
"If I thought the offer was genuine, I would be willing to go so far as a couple of scrambled eggs and a slice of Taylor ham. Whatever it takes. Sometime this year, I would dare to hope?"
"How about in an hour?"
"I will believe my extraordinary good fortune only when you physically appear. But I will light a candle and leave it in the window."
"Good-bye, Mother."
Matt returned and finished his shower and toilette, shaving while under the shower.
He dressed quickly, in a single-breasted tweed jacket; gray flannel trousers; a white, button-down-collar shirt and slipped his feet into tasseled loafers. Just before he left his bedroom, he took his Smith amp; Wesson Undercover Model. 38 Special-caliber revolver from the bedside table, pulled up his left trouser leg, and strapped it on his ankle.
He started down the steep, narrow flight of stairs that led to the third-floor landing, then stopped and went back into his living room. He pulled open a drawer in a cabinet, took from it a key, and slipped it into his pocket.
"Be prepared," he said aloud, quoting the motto of the Boy Scouts of America. An almost astonishing number of things he had learned as a Boy Scout had been of real use to him as a police officer. The key, so far as he knew, would open the lock of every guest room in the Bellvue-Stratford Hotel. That might come in handy.
By the time he had gone quickly down the stairs to the third-floor landing and pushed the button to summon the elevator, however, he had had second thoughts about the passkey.
For one thing, the very fact that he had it constituted at least two violations of the law. For one thing, it was stolen. For another, it could be construed to be a "burglar's tool." To actually use it would constitute breaking and entering.
He had come into possession of the key while he had been-for four very long weeks-a member of an around-the -clock surveillance detail in the Bellvue-Stratford Hotel. The Investigation Section of the Special Operations Division of the Philadelphia Police Department had been engaged in developing evidence that a Central Division captain and a Vice Squad lieutenant were accepting cash payments from the proprietress of a call girl ring in exchange for permitting her to conduct her business.
During the surveillance, his good friend, Detective Charles Thomas "Charley" McFadden, had arrived to relieve him, not only an hour and five minutes late but wearing a proud and happy smile.
"We won't have to ask that asshole to let us in anywhere anymore," Charley had announced, and handed him a freshly cut key. "We now have passkeys of our very own."
The asshole to whom Detective McFadden referred was the assistant manager assigned by the Bellvue-Stratford management to deal with the police during their investigation, and who had made it clear that he would rather be dealing with lepers.
"Where did you get them?" Matt had asked.
"I lifted one off the maintenance guy's key rings while he was taking a crap," Charley announced triumphantly. "I had four copies made-"
"I thought it was illegal to duplicate a passkey," Matt had interrupted.
"-and dropped the key just where the guy thought he must have dropped it," Charley had gone on, his face suggesting that Matt's concern for the legality of the situation was amusing but not worthy of a response. "One for me, one for you, one for Jesus, and one for Tony Harris. "
Matt had decided at that time that what Jesus thought of the purloined passkey was wholly irrelevant. He and Detective Jesus Martinez were not mutual admirers. Detective Martinez often made it clear that he regarded Detective Payne as a Main Line rich kid who was playing at being a cop, and whose promotion to detective, and assignment to Special Operations, had been political and not based on merit.
On his part, Detective Payne thought olive-skinned Detective Martinez-who was barely above departmental minimums for height and weight and had a penchant for gold jewelry and sharply tailored suits from Krass Brothers-was a mean little man who suffered from a monumental Napoleonic complex.
What Tony Harris thought of Charley's boosting a passkey from a hotel maintenance man-and more important, how he reacted-would, Matt had realized, instantly decide the matter once and for all.
Tony Harris, de jure, just one of the four detectives assigned to the Investigations Section, was de facto far more than just the detective in charge of the surveillance by virtue of his eighteen years' seniority. He had spent thirteen of those eighteen years as a homicide detective, and earned a department-wide reputation as being among the best of them.
He was consequently regarded with something approaching awe by Detectives Payne, McFadden, and Martinez, who had less than a year's service as detectives.
Tony's response when handed the key had surprised Detective Payne.
"Maybe you're not as dumb as you look, McFadden," he had said, dropping the key in his pocket.
And they had used the keys during the rest of the surveillance.
The difference, it occurred to Matt as he waited for the elevator, was that they had done so under cover of law. Believing in probable cause, a judge had issued a search warrant authorizing search and electronic surveillance of "appropriate areas within the Bellvue-Stratford Hotel."
The search warrant had obviously expired when those being surveilled had been arrested and arraigned.
Matt was about to unlock his door, and leave the key inside his door, when the elevator appeared. He shrugged and got on, and it began its slow descent to the basement garage.
The turn-of-the-century brownstone mansion had been gutted several years before by Rittenhouse Properties, Inc., and converted into office space, now wholly occupied by the Delaware Valley Cancer Society. The idea of turning the garret into an apartment had been a last-minute idea of the principal stockholder of Rittenhouse Properties, Inc. He thought there might be, providing a suitable tenant-a widow living on a small pension, for example-could be found, a small additional amount of revenue from the apartment, and failing finding a suitable resident, that it would be useful-as much for parking space in the basement as for the apartment itself-to himself and his family.
At the time, it had never entered the mind of the principal stockholder of Rittenhouse Properties, Inc., Brewster Cortland Payne II, that his son would move into the apartment to comply with the requirement of the City of Philadelphia that its police officers live within the city limits.
There were two cars in the parking spots closest to the elevator in the basement of the building set aside for the occupant of the garret apartment. A new Plymouth four-door sedan sat in one, and a silver Porsche 911 in the other. The Plymouth was an unmarked police car assigned to Detective Matthew M. Payne. The Porsche had been a present from his father and mother, on the occasion of his graduation-summa cum laude-from the University of Pennsylvania.
After a moment's indecision, Matt unlocked the door of the Porsche and got behind the wheel. He was off-duty. He was going to the Bellvue-Stratford to see about Daffy's missing friend-and afterward to have breakfast with his father-as a private citizen. The taxpayers should not be asked to pay for his gas and wear and tear on the car when he was off-duty. And besides, he liked to drive the Porsche.
Five minutes later, after inching through early-morning inner-city traffic, he pulled to the curb on South Broad Street in an area marked "Tow Away Zone." He took from under the seat a cardboard sign on which was stamped the gold seal of the City of Philadelphia and the words "POLICE DEPARTMENT-Official Business" and placed it on the dash of the Porsche.
He entered the hotel, went directly to the house phones, and asked the operator to connect him with Miss Susan Reynolds.
There was no answer.
He put the telephone down and started to leave, then picked it up again.
"Operator," he said. "I've been trying to get Miss Susan Reynolds in 802. I'm sure she's there, but there's no-"
"Miss Reynolds is in 706, sir," the operator said after a moment, and more than a little scornfully. "I'll ring."
Matt felt just a little pleased with himself. He was now possessed of good ol' Susan's room number. He knew if he had asked for it-unless he had identified himself as a cop, which he didn't want to do, running down one of Daffy's friends not being legitimate police business-the hotel would not have provided it to him, as a security measure.
He had learned a good deal about the security measures practiced by the Bellvue-Stratford Hotel while on the surveillance detail.
He paused thoughtfully for a moment by the house phones, then decided that one possibility was that Susan might have been willing to show the etchings in her hotel room to another of the young gentlemen who had been at Daffy and Chad's.
And conceivably, at this very moment, Saint Susan might be doing with someone else-even that horse's ass T. Winslow Hayes was a possibility-what she had been unwilling to do with him, and, if this was true, be absolutely uninterested in talking to her mother or Daffy or anyone else while so engaged.
If she was so engaged, her car would be in the hotel garage. If that was so, he could call Daffy and tell her so. It would be a confession of failure on his part to seduce the lady, but on the other hand it would get Daffy off his back.
He went out the side door of the hotel and walked the half block to the public parking garage that also provided parking services for guests of the Bellvue-Stratford.
En route, without really thinking about it, he made the choice among his options. He could ask the attendant if there was a red Porsche 911 in the garage, which the attendant might not know; if at that point he tried to have a look for himself, that might require that he produce his badge, which he didn't want to do. Or he could just march purposefully past the attendant-the garage was self-park-as if he were going to reclaim his car and have a look.
He chose the latter option. The attendant in his little cubicle didn't even raise his head from the Philadelphia Daily News when he walked past him.
There was no Porsche on the ground, or first and second floors, but there were two, both 911s, on the third. Neither was red, but he thought Daffy might be wrong about the color.
The blue Porsche 911 had Maryland tags, so that obviously wasn't it. The second, black, Porsche had Pennsylvania plates. Half a bingo. There weren't that many Porsche 911s around, so the odds were that a black Porsche 911 with Pennsylvania plates belonged to Saint Susan. But on the other hand, one should not jump to premature conclusions.
He peered through the rear window for some kind of connection with Saint Susan, and found none. Quite the opposite. He didn't think Saint Susan would have left a battered briefcase and a somewhat raunchy male golf hat on the seat of her car.
"Can I help you, buddy?" a male voice demanded.
He looked up and found himself being regarded with more than a little suspicion by a Wachenhut Security Service rent-a-cop.
Matt immediately understood that it was less an offer of assistance than a pointed inquiry.
"No, thanks," he said with a smile.
"What are you doing?" the rent-a-cop demanded.
Matt produced his detective's identification, a badge and a photo identification card in a leather folder.
"Police business," he said.
"Lemme see that," the rent-a-cop said, holding his hand out for the folder.
Matt was not surprised. He was aware that he looked like a nice young well-dressed man from the suburbs-someone just starting to climb the corporate ladder at the First Philadelphia Bank amp; Trust, for example-and had grown used to people being surprised to learn that he was a detective.
The rent-a-cop carefully compared Matt's photograph with his face, then changed his attitude as he handed the ID back.
"Anything I can help you with?"
"I was looking for a Porsche 911 like this," Matt said. "But red. This isn't the one."
"I don't think we got one," the rent-a-cop said, searching his memory, and then added, "We had one yesterday. With a really good-looking blonde in it. She went out about half past five, just as I was going off duty."
"That's probably what I was looking for," Matt said. "Thanks for the help."
"Anytime," the rent-a-cop said.
Matt left the garage and walked back toward Broad Street.
There's a pay phone just inside the lobby of the Bellvue. I'll call Chad from there, and tell him that wherever Susan is doing whatever she is doing, she's not doing it at the Bellvue.
He got as far as the bank of pay phones before he had second thoughts about that. He realized he had a growing feeling-cop's intuition-that something was not entirely kosher here.
It wouldn't hurt to have a look at her room.
He walked across the lobby and got on one of the elevators.
He stopped before room 706 and knocked at the door. When there was no answer, he called, "Susan, it's Matt Payne. If you're in there, please open the door."
When there was still no answer, he took the passkey from his pocket and unlocked the door and walked in.
There was no one in the room.
The bed had not been slept in. The cover had not been pulled down, and it was not mussed, as if Susan had not lain down on it.
A matching brassiere and scanty underpants, a slip, and a sweater and skirt were on the bed.
The bathroom was a mess. Tidiness was apparently not among Susan's many virtues. She had apparently showered before going to Daffy and Chad's. Discarded towels were on the floor. And she had shaved her legs and/or armpits. Her lady's-model razor was in the sink.
And it was apparently that time of the month, for there was an open carton of Tampax on the shelf, beside a bottle of perfume, a stick of deodorant, and other feminine beauty supplies and tools.
He first decided that when Susan had left her room, she had had absolutely no intention of bringing anyone male with her when she returned, otherwise she wouldn't have left all the junk out in the open, and then he had the somewhat ungallant and immodest thought that the reason she had put him down so firmly was that, under the circumstances, there was no way they could have done anything about it.
And then he was suddenly very uncomfortable, to the point of shame, with the sense of being an intruder on her very personal life.
I've got absolutely no right to be in here. What the hell was I thinking about? Jesus Christ, what would I have done if she suddenly had walked in here?
He walked quickly out of the bathroom, and through the bedroom to the corridor, carefully closing the door behind him. As he turned toward the elevator, he saw two women of the housekeeping staff examining him carefully.
Shit!
He rode down to the lobby, walked quickly through the lobby and out onto South Broad, and got into his car.
On the way to Wallingford, he pulled into a gas station and called Chad from a pay phone. He didn't want his parents to overhear him, as they probably would if he called from what he thought of as home.
He told Chad what he knew, that when he called from the lobby of the Bellvue-Stratford, she didn't answer her telephone, and that the rent-a-cop at the parking garage told him he remembered seeing a blonde in a red Porsche 911 leaving early the previous evening.
He did not mention to Chad that she had apparently not spent the night in her room-the unmade bed suggested that-because that would have meant letting Chad know he'd gone into her room.
He now recognized that going into her room was another item on his long list of Dumb Things I Have Done Without Thinking First.
The whole incident should be finished and done with, but once again he had that feeling that something wasn't kosher and that the incident was not closed.