The Assassin

EIGHTEEN

North of Doylestown, on US Route 611, approaching Kintnersville, Matt became aware of a faint siren. When he glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw that it was mounted in a State Police car, and that the gumball machine on the roof was flashing brightly.

"Shit," he said.

Penny turned in her seat and giggled.

There was no place to pull safely to the side of the road where they were, so Matt put a hand over his head in a gesture of surrender, slowed, and drove another mile or so until he found a place to stop.

"Mother will not be at all surprised that we wound up in jail," Penny said cheerfully. "She expects it of you."

Matt got out of the car, making an effort to keep both hands in view, and then went back to the State Police car. A very large State Policeman, about thirty-five, got out, and straightened his Smoky-theBear hat.

"Good evening, sir," the State Policeman said, with the perfect courtesy that suggested he was not at all unhappy to be forced to cite a Mercedes driver for being twenty-five or thirty miles over the speed limit.

"Good evening," Matt replied, and took his driver's license from his wallet. "There's my license."

"I'll need the registration too, please, sir."

Matt took out the leather folder holding his badge and photo ID and handed that over.

"That's what I do for a living. How fraternal are you feeling tonight?"

The State Policeman examined the photo on the ID card carefully, then handed it back.

"Being a Philly detective must pay better than they do us. That's quite a set of wheels."

"The wheels belong to the lady."

The State Policeman took a long look at Penny, who, resting her chin on her hands on the back of her seat, was looking back at them, smiling sweetly.

"I don't think I'd have given her a ticket, either," he said. " Very nice."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," the State Policeman said, and turned back to his car.

Matt got back in the Mercedes.

"We're not going to jail?"

"I told the nice officer that I was rushing you to the hospital to deliver our firstborn," Matt said.

"You would do something like that too, you bastard," Penny said, laughing. "But that's an interesting thought. I wonder what our firstborn would look like?"

The question made Matt uncomfortable.

"I didn't have any lunch," Penny went on. "You're going to have to get me something to eat, or you're going to have to carry me into wherever you're taking me."

"I'm taking you to a restaurant, can't you wait?"

"How far?"

"About an hour from here, I suppose."

"Then no. But I will settle for something simple."

I don't have dinner reservations for this place, Matt suddenly thought. For that matter, I don't even know if it's open to the public for dinner. I better find a phone and call.

Ten minutes later, just south of Easton, he saw the flashing neon sign of a restaurant between the highway and Delaware River. Penny saw it at the same time.

"Clams!" she cried. "I want steamed clams! Steamed clams and a beer!Please, Matthew!"

"Your wish, mademoiselle, is my command."

Inside the restaurant, they found a cheerful bar at which a half dozen people sat, half of them with platters of steamed clams before them.

Penny hopped onto a bar stool.

"Two dozen clams and an Ortlieb's for me," she ordered, "and two dozen for him. I don't know if he wants a beer or not. He may be on duty."

The bartender took it as a joke.

"Two beers, please," Matt said.

Two frosted mugs and two bottles of beer appeared immediately.

"And while I'm waiting for the clams, I'll have a pickled egg," Penny said.

"Two," Matt said.

"You're being very agreeable. That must mean you want something from me."

"Not a thing, but your company," Matt said.

"Bullshit," Penny said. "I am not quite as stupid as you think I am. You didn't invite me to dinner in the sticks because you love food or drives through the country, and you've made it perfectly clear that you're not lusting after my body, so what is going on?"

Her eyes were on him, over the rim of her beer mug.

"I want to take a look at the Oaks and Pines Lodge," he said.

"In your line of work, you mean, not idle curiosity?"

Matt nodded.

"You going to tell me why?"

He shook his head, no.

"What I thought was that I would attract less attention if I had a girl, a pretty girl, with me."

She considered that for a moment.

"Okay," she said. "I'm using you, too. I would have gone to watch the Budapest Quintet with you-and you know how I hate fiddle music-if it had gotten me out of the house."

"Pretty bad, is it, at home?"

"Mother's counting the aspirin," Penny said.

"I'm sorry."

"I think you really are," Penny said. "So tell me, is there anything I can do to help you do whatever it is you're not going to tell me you're doing?"

The answer came immediately, but Matt waited until he had taken the time to take a long pull at his beer before he replied.

"I don't even know if this place is open to the public for dinner. Some of them aren't. And I don't have reservations."

"You never were too good at planning ahead, were you?"

"I thought I'd call from here and ask about reservations…"

"But?"

"It would be better, it would look better, if I called and asked for a room."

She smiled at him.

"This is the first time that anyone has proposed taking me to a hotel room, said he did not have sex in mind, and meant it. But okay, Matthew."

"Thank you, Penny," Matt said.

"Why is that, Matt? Because I was on drugs? Because of Tony DeZego? Or is it that you simply don't find me appealing?"

"I find you appealing," Matt blurted. "I just think it would be a lousy idea."

Before she had a chance to reply, he got off his bar stool and went to the pay phone he had seen in the entrance.

When he returned, having learned that he was in luck, the Oaks and Pines Lodge, having had a last-minute cancellation, would be able to accommodate Mr. and Mrs. Payne in the Birch Suite, the clams had been served, and Penny was playing airhead with the bartender, who was clearly taken with her.

Charley Larkin, jacket off, tie pulled down, was sitting behind the very nice mahogany desk and SAC Joseph J. Toner was sitting on the couch with Wohl.

Mr. H. Charles Larkin, Wohl thought, has taken over the office of the supervisory agent in charge of the Secret Service's Philadelphia office.

Is it a question of priorities or rank? Certainly, keeping the Vice President from being disintegrated has a higher Secret Service priority than catching somebody who prints his own money or other negotiable instruments, and it would follow that the guy in charge of that job would be the one giving the orders. But it might be rank too. Larkin has been in the Secret Service a long time. He probably outranks Toner too. What difference does it make?

One of the telephones on Toner's desk rang. Larkin looked to see which one it was, and then picked it up.

"Larkin," he said, and then a moment later, "Ask them to come in, please."

Lieutenant Jack Malone, in plainclothes, and Sergeant Jason Washington, in a superbly tailored, faintly plaided gray suit, came into the office.

"Charley, you know Jack," Wohl said. "The slight, delicate gentleman in the raggedy clothes is Sergeant Jason Washington. Jason, Charley Larkin. Watch out for him, he and my father and Chief Coughlin are old pals."

Larkin walked around the desk to shake Washington's hand.

"You know the line, 'your reputation precedes you'?" he asked. "I' m glad you're working with us on this, Sergeant. Do you know Joe Toner?"

"Only by reputation, sir," Washington said. He turned to Toner, who, obviously as an afterthought, stood up and put out his hand.

"How are you, Sergeant?"

"Pretty frustrated, right now, as a matter of fact, Mr. Toner," Washington said.

"I'm Joe Toner, Lieutenant," Toner said, and gave his hand to Malone.

"You mean you didn't come here to report we have our mad bomber in a padded cell, and we can all go home?" Wohl asked.

"Boss, we laid an egg," Washington replied. "We've been through everything in every file cabinet in Philadelphia, and we didn't turn up a looney tune who comes within a mile of that profile."

"And we just checked the Schoolhouse. There has been no, zero, zilch, response from anybody to the profiles we passed around the districts."

"Who's holding the phone down?" Wohl asked.

"Lieutenant Wisser," Malone replied. "Until two. Then a Lieutenant Seaham?"

"Sealyham?" Wohl asked.

"I think so. Captain Sabara arranged for it. He'll do midnight to eight, and then O'Dowd will come back on," Malone said. "We stopped by the Schoolhouse, and talked to them.Sealyham on the phone. If they get anything that looks interesting, they're going to call either Washington or me."

Wohl nodded his approval.

"You've had a busy day," he said.

"Spinning our wheels," Jason said.

"I don't offer this with much hope," Charley Larkin said, "but this is the profile the FBI came up with. Did you stumble on anyone who comes anywhere near this?"

He handed copies to both Washington and Malone.

"There's coffee," Larkin said. "Excuse me, I should have offered you some."

Both Malone and Washington declined, silently, shaking their heads, but Washington, not taking his eyes from the sheet of paper, lowered himself onto the couch between Wohl and Toner. The couch was now crowded.

"This is just about what Matt's sister came up with," Washington said.

"'Matt's sister'?" Toner asked.

"Dr. Payne, sir," Washington said. "A psychiatrist at the University of Pennsylvania. She's been helpful before. Her brother is a detective, Matt Payne."

"Oh," Toner said.

"The FBI says that this guy is probably a 'sexual deviate,'"^: Malone quoted, "Dr. Payne says he's 'asexual.' What's the difference?"

"Not much," Washington replied. "'Celibacy is the most unusual of all the perversions,' Oscar Wilde."

Larkin and Wohl chuckled. Toner and Malone looked confused.

"And anyway," Washington went on, "Jack and I went through the files in Sex Crimes too. Same result, zero."

"Who's Oscar Wilde?" Malone asked.

"An English gentleman of exquisite grace," Washington said. " Deceased."

"Oh."

"Sergeant Washington," Larkin said. "Would you mind if I called you 'Jason'?"

"No, sir."

"Jason, I'd like to hear your wild hairs," Larkin said. "I think we all would."

"Yeah," Wohl agreed.

"This chap is going to be hard to find," Washington said. "He's the classic face in the crowd. Law abiding. Respectable. Few, if any, outward signs of his mental problems."

"We know that," Wohl said, a touch of impatience in his voice.

"Possibly a rude question: How wide have we thrown the net?" Washington asked.

"Meaning?" Toner asked.

"Wilmington, New Jersey, even Baltimore. For that matter, Doylestown, Allentown? Is there a record that matches the profile right over the city border in Cheltenham?"

"Our people, Sergeant," Toner said, somewhat coldly, "have taken care of that. Plus seeking cooperation from other federal agencies, making that profile available to them."

"It was a question worth asking, Jason," Wohl said, flashing Toner an icy look.

"Please ask whatever pops into your mind," Larkin said.

"What about the Army? For that matter, the Navy, the Marines? Coal companies, whatever? Have there been any reports of stolen explosives?"

"Not according to Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms," Larkin said. "Or the State Board of Mines, in Harrisburg."

Washington shrugged.

"I don't even have any more wild hairs," he said.

"In that case, there is obviously only one thing to do," Larkin said, and waited until the others were all looking at him. "Consult with John Barleycorn. It would not be the first time in recorded history that a good idea was born in a saloon."

Supervisory Special Agent Toner, Wohl thought, looks shocked at the suggestion. But Larkin means that, and Christ, he may be right.

"I'll drink to that," Wohl said, and pushed himself up off the couch.

"We don't have any luggage," Matt said as he drove up the curving road to the Oaks and Pines Lodge Resort. "That's going to look funny."

"Yes, we do," Penny replied. "And neither the bellhop nor the desk clerk will suspect that there's nothing in there but my clothes, including, incidentally, a rather risque negligee."

Matt remembered Jensen saying he would put her bag in the car. He looked in the back seat. There was a fairly large suitcase, made out of what looked like a Persian rug.

"You really came prepared, didn't you?" he asked.

"Life is full of little surprises," Penny said. "What's wrong with being prepared?"

A bellman came out to the Mercedes in front of the lodge.

"Good evening, sir," he said. "Checking in?"

"Yes."

"I'll take the luggage, sir, and I'll take care of the car. If you'll just leave the keys?"

Penny took his arm as they walked across the lobby to the desk. " My name is Payne," Matt said to the man behind the desk. "I have a reservation."

"Yes, sir, I spoke to you on the phone."

Matt handed him his American Express card.

"I have to be in Philadelphia at eight," he said. "Which means Iwe-will have to leave here in the middle of the night. Is that going to pose any problems?"

"None at all, sir. Let me run your card through the machine. And then just leave, whenever you wish. We'll mail the bill to your home."

He pushed a registration card across the marble to him, and handed him a pen. At the very last moment, Matt remembered to write "M/M," for "Mr. amp; Mrs.," in front of his name.

"Thank you," the desk man said, and then raised his voice. "Take Mr. and Mrs. Payne to the Birch Suite, please."

They followed the bellman to the elevator, and then to a suite on the third floor. The Birch Suite consisted of a large, comfortably furnished sitting room, a bedroom with a large double bed, and a bath, with both a sunken bathtub and a separate tile shower.

Matt tipped the bellman and he left.

"The furniture's oak," Matt said. "They should call it 'the oak suite.'"

"Don't be critical," Penny called from the bedroom.

"I'm not being critical. It's very nice."

"The food's good too."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been here before, obviously."

With Tony the Zee? Is this where that Guinea gangster brought you? Why not? It's supposed to have a Mob connection.

"With my parents," Penny said. "Not what you were thinking."

"How do you know what I was thinking?"

"I usually know what you're thinking," Penny said. "Come look at this."

If you're referring to the double bed, I've seen it.

He walked to the bedroom door. Penny pointed at a bottle of champagne in a cooler, placed conveniently close to the bed.

"For what they're charging for this, a hundred and a half a night, they can afford to throw in a bottle of champagne," Matt said.

"How ever do you afford all this high living on a policeman's pay, Matthew?"

"Don't start being a bitch, Penny."

"Sorry," she said, sounding as if she meant it. "I'm curious. Have you got some kind of an expense account?"

"Not for this, no," Matt replied. "What were your parents doing here?"

"Daddy likes to gamble here."

Why does that surprise me? It shouldn't. He apparently is no stranger in Las Vegas. But why the hell is he gambling? With all his money, what's the point? He really can't care if he wins or loses.

"You didn't say anything, before, when I told you we were coming here."

"I didn't want to spoil your little surprise. You said we were coming here, you will recall, before you made it clear that whatever you had in mind, it was not rolling around between the sheets with me."

"I want to get a look inside the gambling place."

"That shouldn't be a problem."

"You still hungry?"

"Always," she said.

"Come on then, we'll go have a drink at the bar and then have dinner."

"And save that for later?" she asked, pointing at the champagne.

"We could have it now, if you would like."

"I'd really rather have a beer," she said. "If you romanced me like this more often, Matt, you'd learn that I'm really a cheap date."

"Economical," he responded without thinking, "not cheap."

"Why, thank you, Matthew."

She walked past him out of the bedroom and to the corridor door.

They sat at the bar where Penny drank two bottles of Heineken's beer, which for some reason surprised him, and he had two drinks of Scotch.

The entertainment was a pianist, a middle-aged woman trying to look younger, who wasn't half bad. Much better, he thought, than the trio who replaced her when they went to a table for dinner.

And Penny was right. The food was first class. Penny said she remembered the Chateaubriand for two was really good, and he indulged her, and it was much better than he expected it to be, a perfectly roasted filet, surrounded by what looked like one each of every known variety of vegetable. They had a bottle of California Cabernet Sauvignon with that, and somehow it was suddenly all gone.

"If you'd like, we could have another," Penny said as he mocked shaking the last couple of drops into his glass. "And have cheese afterward, and listen to the music. I don't think the gambling gets going until later."

The cheese was good, something the waiter recommended, something he'd never had before, sort of a combination of Camembert and Roquefort. They ate one serving, spreading it on crackers and then taking a swallow of the wine before chewing, and then had another.

Penny said she would like a liqueur to finish the meal, and he passed, saying he'd already had too much drink, and instead drank a cup of very black, very strong coffee.

When he'd finished that, Penny inclined her head toward the rear of the room.

"It's over there, if you want to give it a try," she said.

Matt looked and saw a closed double door, draped with red curtain and guarded by a large man in a dinner jacket.

As they walked to it, Penny leaned up and whispered in his ear: " You did remember to bring money?"

"Absolutely," he said, although he wasn't really sure.

The man in the dinner jacket blocked their way.

"May I help you?" he asked.

"We want to go in there," Penny said.

"That's a private party, I'm afraid, madam."

"Oh, come on. I've been in there before."

"Are you a club member?"

"I'm not, but if there's a club, my father probably is."

"And your name, madam?"

"My maiden name was Detweiler," Penny said.

That rang a bell, Matt thought, if widening eyes and raised eyebrows are any criteria.

"First name?"

"Richard. H. Richard."

"Just a moment, please, madam," the man in the dinner jacket said. He pulled open a cabinet door in the wall Matt hadn't noticed-it was covered with wallpaper-and spoke softly into a telephone. After a moment, he hung up and pushed the door closed.

"Sorry for the delay, Miss Detweiler," he said as he pulled the door open. "Good luck!"

"Mrs. Payne,"Penny corrected him, smiling sweetly at Matt.

There were very few people in the room, although croupiers stood waiting for customers behind every table.

Do you call the guys who run the craps games and the blackjack " croupiers" too? Matt wondered. Or does that term apply only to roulette? If not, what do you call the guy who runs the craps table? The crapier?

"Roulette all right with you, Penny?"

"It's fine with me," she replied. "But I'm surprised, I thought you would be a craps shooter."

Matt took out his wallet. He had one hundred-dollar bill and four fifties and some smaller bills.

The hundred must be left over from the Flamingo in Las Vegas. I never take hundreds from the bank. You can never get anyone to change one.

He put the hundred-dollar bill on the green baize beside the roulette wheel.

"Nickels," he said.

The croupier slid a small stack of chips to him.

He placed two of them on the board, both on One to Twelve. The croupier spun the wheel, twenty-three came up, and he picked up Matt's chips.

Matt made the same bet again.

"There's a marvelous story," Penny said. "A fellow brought a girl here, or to a place like this, and gave her chips, and she said, 'I don't know what to bet,' so he said, 'Bet your age,' so she put fifty dollars on twenty-three. Twenty-nine came up. The girl said, 'Oh,shit!

"

The croupier laughed softly. Matt didn't understand. Penny saw this: "The moral of the story, Matthew darling, is 'Truth pays off.'"

He laughed.

Thirty-three came up, and the croupier picked up Matt's chips again.

"You're not too good at this, are you, darling?"

"Just getting warmed up," Matt said. He put five chips on 00.

Sixteen came up.

"Have you ever considered getting an honest job?" Penny asked.

Not only isn't this much fun, but I've seen about all of this place that there is to see. It's about as wicked as a bingo game in the basement of McFadden's parish church.

Hay-zus is off base on this one. There's nobody in this room who looks like a mobster; my fellow gamblers look like they all belong to the Kiwanis. And/or the Bible Study Group.

I will buy Penny a drink, and try to show her the wisdom of driving back to Philadelphia now, rather than in the morning. We can get back by one, maybe a little sooner.

When the croupier had removed his five chips from 00, Matt pushed what was left of his stack onto 00.

"I don't think this is my night," Matt said to the croupier.

"You never can tell," the croupier said.

00 came up.

"And we have a winner," the croupier said.

"There must be some sort of mistake," Penny said. "Clearly, God doesn't want him to win."

"God must have changed His mind," the croupier said. "Would you like some quarters, sir? That's going to be a lot of nickels."

"I think I'd rather cash out. I'm too shocked to play anymore."

A pit boss appeared, saw what happened, and nodded his approval. The croupier wrote something on a slip of paper, handed it to the pit boss, who signed it and handed it back. The croupier handed Matt the slip of paper. On it was written $2035.

"Thank you," Matt said. "Where's the cashier?"

The croupier inclined his head, and Matt followed his eyes and saw a barred window near the entrance door. At the last moment, he remembered that winning gentlemen gamblers tip the croupier. He took a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the croupier.

"Is this what's known as quitting when you're ahead?" Penny asked.

"You got it."

He took the chit to the cashier, exchanged it for a nice thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, put them in his inside jacket pocket, and then led Penny out of the casino and toward the bar.

"Are we going to the bar?" Penny asked.

"I thought we'd have a drink to celebrate."

"We have a bottle of champagne in the room," Penny said.

We have to go to the room anyway to get her bag. And there will be no one in the room, as there would be at the bar, to eavesdrop on our conversation, and wonder why a healthy-appearing young man was trying to talk a good-looking healthy blonde out of spending the night in a hotel.

"I forgot," Matt said as he nudged her toward the elevator.

While they had been downstairs, the bed had been turned down.

There was a piece of chocolate precisely in the center of each of the pillows.

"Open the champagne," Penny said as she went into the bathroom. " See if it's still cold."

It was still cold. Whoever had turned down the bed had also refilled the cooler with ice. As he wrestled with the cork, he could hear the toilet flush and then water running.

The cork popped and he poured champagne into the glasses. He sipped his.

Nice.He looked at the label. California champagne, a brand he'd never heard of.

Methode Champagnois, whatever the hell that means. What did you expect, Moet et Chandon?

He heard, or at least sensed, the bathroom door opening, and turned with Penny's glass extended.

She had-Jesus, how did she do that so quickly?-taken off her clothes and changed into a negligee-or peignoir, whatever a pale blue, lacy, nearly transparent garment of seduction was called- and brushed her hair so that it hung straight down to her shoulders.

The light in the bathroom was still on, which served to illuminate the thin material of her negligee from the rear. She was, for all visual purposes, quite naked.

"Jesus, Penny!"

"I figured, what the hell? Matt knows all my secrets. What have I got to lose?"

She came into the bedroom, took the champagne glass from him, and walked to the draped window.

"I guess it didn't work, huh?" she said after a moment.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

I can't see through her nightgown anymore. Jesus, that made my heart jump!

He saw her raise and drain her champagne glass, and then she turned.

"Go and wait in the other room," she said, her voice flat and bitter. "I'll get dressed, and we can go."

She walked toward him.

"Go on, Matt. Get out of here."

Tears were running down her cheeks.

He put his hand to her face.

"Don't," she said. "Don't pity me, you sonofabitch!"

"It would be stupid, Penny."

"Lifeis stupid, you jackass. It's a bitch, and then you die."

He chuckled.

She raised her eyes to his.

And then her hand came up and touched his cheek.

"What are you thinking, Matt?"

"You don't want to know what I'm thinking."

I am thinking that I could cheerfully spend the rest of my life like this, with my arm around you, my fingers on your backbone, your face on my chest, your absolutely magnificent breasts pressing on me, the smell of your hair in my nostrils. Feeling the way I do. Jesus, what made it so good? The champagne?

"Yes, I do."

"Great set of boobs on this broad."

"Fuck you!"

"We've already done that."

"And no, comment about that? You usually have an opinion about everything."

Matt kissed the top of her head.

She raised her head.

"Is that in lieu of a comment?"

He kissed her. It was exquisitely tender. She shifted her body against his, so that her mouth was in his neck.

"The reason I'm curious," Penny said softly, carefully, "is because I really don't know what it's supposed to be like."

"I don't understand."

"There was Kellogg Winters," Penny said softly. "And then Anthony. And now you."

"Kellogg Winters? He's an ass."

Is she telling me I'm the third?

"Yes, he is. But I was seventeen, and I wanted to, so I let him. In the back seat of a car at Rose Tree Hunt Club. It was his birthday."

"KelloggWinters!" he chuckled.

"And I thought, if this is what everybody's so excited about, that's really much ado about nothing."

Without thinking, horrified as he heard his own words, he asked, " And Tony the Zee? What was that like?"

He felt her body tense, and then relax.

"Different. Better."

"And Matthew Payne?"

"It was not like anything else. Is it always like that for you?"

Oh, shit!

Tell her the truth. If you make a four-star ass of yourself, so what?

"It has never been, before, like it was with you."

For a moment she didn't reply or move. Then she raised her head and looked down into his eyes.

"Really? God, please don't try to be charming, Matt!"

"I'm not being charming, I'm trying to figure it out."

She looked into his eyes for a long moment, and then lowered her head into his neck again.

"I'm going to take an enormous chance and believe you," she said. Her arm slowly tightened around him. He held her as tightly as he could.

A long moment later, Matt asked throatily, "How would you feel about seeing if we can do the same thing again?"

"Really?" She giggled in his ear. "Could you?" Her hand slid down over his chest and stomach. "Oh, how nice!"

She rolled over on her back, and pulled him onto her.

"Look in my eyes!" she ordered. He did. He felt her guiding him into her body.

"Oh, God, Matt!" she called softly.