The investigators

FOURTEEN

"Good morning, Lieutenant," James C. Chase said. "It's always a pleasure to see you. How can we be of assistance this morning?"

The brass sign on Chase's large, highly polished desk in his glass-walled office off the main room of the First Harrisburg Bank amp; Trust Company identified him as "Vice President."

Matt had instantly decided that Chase was the exception to the general rule that most banks had as many vice presidents as they did tellers, and that the title had come in lieu of a pay raise and carried with it very little authority.

This man-fifty-something, gray-haired, very well-tailored-had the look and bearing of someone in authority, used to making decisions.

"This is Detective Payne, of the Philadelphia Police Department, " Lieutenant Deitrich said.

The announcement visibly surprised Chase, but he quickly recovered and offered Matt his hand.

"How do you do?" he asked.

"How do you do, sir?" Matt replied.

"Payne, you said?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was in school with a chap from Philadelphia named Payne," Chase said. "Brewster C. Payne. I don't suppose there's any chance-"

"He's my father, Mr. Chase," Matt said.

"Then I really am delighted to meet you. How is your father? I haven't seen him in several years, I'm afraid."

"Very well, thank you, sir."

Well, I just got handed the keys to the bank didn't I?

"You make sure to give him my very best regards."

"Yes, sir, I will."

Wait a minute!

If this guy is really an old pal, why didn't Dad at least mention him when I told him I was coming to Harrisburg?

If Chase really is a good friend-and I think he thinks he is, which doesn't mean Dad reciprocates, of course-not mentioning him wasn't an inadvertent oversight. Because Dad doesn't think of him the same way? No. He would have warned me about something like that.

Maybe because Dad didn't want to lean on his old school chum on behalf of the cops? Or because he knew that it would quickly come to Chase's attention that a Philadelphia detective named Payne wanted to nose around his bank? And that Chase would either ask-as indeed, he just did-or call Dad and ask.

In the latter instance, that got Chase off the hook. If he wants to be nice to the son of his old buddy, fine and dandy. If he doesn't, he doesn't have to, and since Dad didn't ask Chase didn't have to say "no." No hard feelings.

You are a smart one, Dad! Clever. Subtle. A real class act.

It's amazing, as the saying goes, that the older I get, how much smarter you get.

And what was it you told me about banks? "Most bank presidents are figureheads, who spend their time talking to the Kiwanis and the Rotary and drumming up business on the golf course. Banks are run by their boards of directors, through the secretary or treasurer of the corporation, or sometimes a vice president."

Why do I suspect that I have just met that "sometimes vice president"? And that Lieutenant Deitrich damned well knows where Mr. Chase fits into the power structure around here?

"Now, how may I be of assistance?" Chase asked.

"We have reason to believe that someone engaged in criminal activity in Philadelphia has moved money to Harrisburg, " Matt said. "Concealing it."

"And you're here to see if you can find it? And obviously with the blessing of Chief Mueller, or Lieutenant Deitrich wouldn't be with you."

Deitrich nodded.

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

"Are you at liberty to tell me the source of the funds?"

"One of our officers has been suspended, and indicted for taking money from a madam who was operating a call girl ring in Center City," Matt said.

"That's one of the more lucrative 'occupations,' I understand. Do you have a search warrant?"

"For the property of the officer concerned. His name is Seymour Meyer. He was a lieutenant."

"I suppose it would be too much to hope he would have an account, or a safe-deposit box, in his own name, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Matt said. "I have a list of names of relatives, friends-"

"Well, we'll look first-we might get lucky-for any accounts in this man's name. Or a safe-deposit box in his name. Your warrant-you have it with you?"

Matt reached into his jacket and came out with the warrant. Chase read it.

" 'Wherever located,' " he read aloud. "Good. That will give you access to either the details of his account or the box. If we find either. But as far as boxes in another name, or the details of someone else's account…"

"Yes, sir. I understand. If, however, there is an account-are accounts-matching the names on my list, I understand the courts have held that it is not a violation of the client's confidentiality if a bank were to review the account and tell me if there were unusual deposits, or unusual activity. Without divulging the amounts involved, of course. With that, something out of the ordinary, I'm sure we can go back to the judge and get additional search authorization."

"You know your business, don't you?" Chase asked, and went on without giving Matt a chance to reply. "What I'll do, Mr. Pay-Would you mind if I called you by your first name?"

"Not at all, sir. 'Matt.' "

"What I'll do, Matt, is get you a desk, and then I'll get a list of our account holders and box holders, and you can start your search."

"That's very kind of you, sir."

"May I see your list of names?"

"Yes, sir, of course," Matt said, reached in his pocket for it, and handed it to him.

"I'll have my girl make a Xerox of this, and start the process rolling."

"I think you're set up here, Payne," Deitrich said. "When you finish here, give me a ring, and I'll take you around to First National."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Matt said.

"Mr. Chase," Deitrich said, nodded at the banker, and left the room.

When he was out of earshot, Chase looked at Matt and smiled.

"He doesn't talk very much, does he?"

"No, sir."

"But he's a good man. We've had some-what do I say, 'business'?-together, and I must confess I was very impressed with him."

"He gives me that impression, too, sir."

"Ordinarily, Matt, I'd install you in a small room off the lobby, but I think I can, for my old friend's son, do a little bit better than that."

He walked to the glass door of his office and waved Matt through. Then he walked ahead of Matt across the lobby to another glass-walled office like his own, but somewhat smaller.

A middle-aged woman sat at a desk outside it.

"Dolores," Mr. Chase said, "I can't believe you'll find anything, but would you have a quick look for anything of a confidential nature in Mr. Hausmann's desk? This is Mr. Payne, who will be using it for a while while Mr. Hausmann is in Boston."

"I'll check," she said, getting up and smiling at Matt. "You're from First Chicago, Mr. Payne?"

"No, ma'am."

"What Mr. Payne is doing here is confidential, Dolores. "

"I see," she said. "Well, this won't take me a moment. Mr. Hausmann is very careful about things of a confidential nature."

She went into the office and came out in less than a minute.

"Nothing on top, and everything else is locked."

"Thank you," Chase said. "Now, I'm sure that you would have done everything you could to make Mr. Payne welcome, even if I didn't tell you his father and I are old friends. Classmates, as a matter of fact."

"Of course."

"In that case, I'll leave him with you, and try to make the bank some money."

She laughed dutifully.

"Matt," Chase said, as if he had just thought of this. "How long do you think you'll be here?"

Matt smiled.

"Until I either get what I came for, or know that it was never here in the first place."

"Where are you staying?"

"At the Penn-Harris."

"That's the best place. Room all right?"

"Very nice, sir."

"Good. Do you play golf?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would you like me to call out to River View and get you a guest card?"

"That's very kind, sir. But a friend's father, Mr. Reynolds, already did that for me."

"Tom Reynolds?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, in that case, I won't have to ask what was going to be my next question."

"Sir?"

"Which was going to be, 'Would you like me to see if I couldn't find a nice girl to introduce you to?' "

Matt chuckled.

"That won't be necessary, sir. But thank you very much."

Chase touched Matt's shoulder and walked back to his office.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Payne?" Dolores asked.

"That would be very nice," Matt said. "And may I use the phone?"

"Of course. Just make yourself comfortable."

She waved in the direction of Hausmann's desk. Matt walked into the office, settled himself in the comfortable green leather high-backed chair, took a look at a silver-framed photograph presumably of Mr. and Mrs. Hausmann and the four little Hausmanns, and then reached into the credenza behind the desk for the Harrisburg telephone book.

He found what he was looking for and dialed the number. He had to go through a switchboard, but in less than a minute, he heard:

"Appeals, Reynolds."

"My, don't we sound businesslike? I'm sure, hearing that no-nonsense voice, that the taxpayers of Pennsylvania are getting a good day's work for a fair day's pay out of you."

"Oh, God! What do you want?"

"There are several things on my mind, actually."

"Make it quick. They don't like personal calls around here."

"Okay. First and foremost, I wanted to assure you that I haven't washed my face."

"What?"

"I may never wash it again, as a matter of fact."

"Oh," Susan said, finally taking his meaning. "Jesus! Grow up, Matt!"

"You mean you washed your face?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course… What's on your mind, Matt?"

"I think you already know."

"God!" she responded in what she hoped was an expression of disgust and disbelief.

"If you have a pencil, Susie, I'll give you the telephone number of my new office. Very classy. It gives me a splendid view of the polished marble floors and ornate bronze fixtures of the lobby of the First Harrisburg Bank and Trust Company. In case you want to call me in the next couple of hours."

"I don't think that's likely."

"You never know when you're going to need a cop, and in case you do, you'll have my number right at your fingertips."

"Next?"

"Where are we going for lunch?"

"Nowhere."

"Then where are we going for dinner?"

"Nowhere."

"I thought maybe we could drive out to Hershey and have dinner in the Hotel Hershey."

"No."

"Well, any place you like is fine with me. What time shall I pick you up?"

"You don't know how to take 'no' for an answer, do you?"

"We have a deal, fair maiden."

"I don't know what you've got in your mind, Matt-"

"Really? No feminine intuition at all? I find that difficult to believe."

"Damn you!"

"I seem to have offended you. Since-my intentions being so pure and noble-I can't imagine how, what I am obviously going to have to do is call your mommy, tell her how sorry I am, and ask her if she can't try to fix things up between us."

There was a chuckle. Not a very pleasant chuckle, more one ringing of resignation.

"And you really would, wouldn't you, you son of a bitch?"

"You can take that to the bank. The First Harrisburg Bank and Trust."

"I'll pick you up in front of the Penn-Harris at half past six. We'll have a quick and early dinner."

"To start," Matt said. "You won't have any trouble spotting me. I'll be the handsome devil with the look of joyous anticipation in his eyes."

"Oh, God," Susan said, and hung up.

Matt put the phone in its cradle and only then noticed a mousy-looking female in her thirties standing in the of fice door. She held a deep metal tray full of strange-looking forms-bank records, probably, he decided-in both hands.

"Mr. Payne?" she asked.

Matt nodded. She came into the office and, with a grunt, laid the gray metal tray on the glass-topped desk.

"These are the safe-deposit box access records," she said. "When you're through with them, would you please tell Dolores, and I'll come and get them."

"Thank you," Matt said, and smiled at her.

He ran his fingers down the forms. Each form was metal-topped, and designed to hang from the reinforced side of the tray. Each form was for one box, and listed not only the names and addresses and social security numbers of every person authorized access to that particular box, but at what time, on what date, someone had the box, and for how long.

What I thought Chase was going to get for me was a list of names of box holders matching-at least the last name-the names on my list. This tray obviously holds a card for every safe-deposit box in the bank.

Is giving me more information than I even asked for, crossing over the confidentiality line, the way they always "cooperate" with the police in a situation like this?

Or only when they trust the cop doing the looking?

Or because of my father's relationship with Chase?

What difference does it make? Never stick your finger in a gift horse's mouth.

He had finger-walked his way through perhaps half a dozen of the records when the skinny woman came back, this time carrying a tray in which another kind of bank records lay flat.

"These are the accounts in which you may be interested, Mr. Payne," the skinny woman said. "Through 'D.' The sooner I can have them back, the better. So if you would just ask Dolores to Xerox the ones you're interested in, then you could send them back. I'd really like it better not to bring you 'E' through 'H' until you're through with these. Would that be all right?"

"That would be fine," Matt said. "Thank you very much."

Matt picked up the top record in the tray. It was a complete record, going back four years, of the banking activity-the dates and times of deposits; withdrawals; interest payments; and service charges-in a savings account of an individual whose last name-only-matched one of the names on the list Matt had prepared in the Personnel Of fice in the Roundhouse.

The form (actually three forms, stapled together) under the first was a record of the same activity in the individual 's checking account.

If I get one of these-two of these-for every account holder in this bank with the same last name as the names on the list I gave Mr. Chase, I'll be in Harrisburg for a month.

Which, considering the rockets that went off when I kissed Susie last night, might not be entirely a bad thing.

For Christ's sake! What the hell's the matter with you? Get that stupid idea out of your mind, once and for all!

He reached for the telephone, dialed the operator, and placed a collect call to Sergeant Jason Washington.

"Matthew, my boy! How are things in the capital of our great Commonwealth?"

"Well, I am into the bank."

"So, apparently, is the opposing side," Washington replied.

"Excuse me?"

"You first. You seemed surprised."

"The… level of cooperation is much more than I expected. "

"Perhaps it's your charm," Washington said. "I understand you were to take someone to dinner last night. Did that happen?"

"Yeah."

"Was the evening fruitful? In a professional sense?"

Was that a dig? Or was he just being clever?

"I think so."

"But nothing specific to report?"

"No."

"Are you somewhere where you can conveniently and confidentially telephone? There's someone else you really should talk to."

"Wohl?"

"Matthews."

"I'm in a glass-walled office off the lobby of the Harrisburg Bank and Trust Company," Matt said. "It's private enough, but I would have to call him collect."

"Give me the number-I should have thought of that anyway-and I'll suggest he call you. The unattractive lady bandito has apparently struck again."

"Really? Where?"

"I have only the most rudimentary facts. But I suspect Jack Matthews is happily anticipating providing you with every last detail."

Matt read the telephone number and the extension off the phone to Washington.

"I am sure that you will be hearing from Matthews within minutes," Washington said. "And there is one more thing, Matt."

"What?"

"Peter Wohl is concerned that you might do something foolish. So am I. Allow Mr. Matthews's associates to deal with this beyond the limitations of what you were ordered to do."

"Okay."

"If you were to disobey your orders, and Wohl, so to speak, threw the book at you, he would have my complete support."

"You have made your point."

"I devoutly hope so," Washington said, and hung up.

Three minutes later, Dolores, after first knocking, put her head into the door of the office.

"There is a Mr. Rogers of the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society on line three for you, Mr. Payne. Do you want to take it?"

"Thank you," Matt said, and picked up the telephone. "Payne."

"Can you talk?"

"Didn't you just hear me talking?"

"Christ, Matt!"

"What can I do for you, Mr. Rogers? Don't tell me I'm overdrawn again?"

He could hear Matthews sigh.

"The Farmers and Merchants Bank of Clinton, New Jersey, was held up yesterday morning. We just heard about it, and I just talked to our Newark office-they have jurisdiction. Same modus operandi as the Riegelsville job. Same description of the perpetrator. This time, the haul was nearly sixty thousand dollars."

"Hairy legs and all?"

"That wasn't mentioned. But the unattractive, heavy makeup, earrings, et cetera, et cetera. For reasons I can't understand, Newark sent the surveillance-camera film to Washington-to the Anti-Terrorist Group; I suppose they issued a 'Report Similar Events' notice-before they processed it. I called Special Agent Jernigan, and he's promised to send me whatever the camera shows by wire as soon as it's processed. I'll be very surprised if it turns out to be someone else."

"Sawed-off shotgun, too?"

"No. That's the one thing that doesn't fit the modus. This time it was a sawed-off carbine."

"Explain that to me, please?"

"One of the witnesses-the bank guard-got a good look at it. The stock had been cut off behind the pistol grip, and then rounded with a file. And the barrel was cut off back to where the forearm whatchamacallit holds it. You understand?"

"What's the purpose?"

"Concealability, obviously. And presumably our friend thinks he now has the latest thing in terrorist machine-pistols. Those were M2-fully automatic carbines-they stole from Indiantown Gap."

" 'Presumably our friend thinks'?" Matt quoted.

"I fired a carbine modified very much like this one on the FBI range at Quantico. They look great, very menacing, but-"

"I've fired one, too," Matt interrupted. "And also at Quantico. But on the Marine Corps' known-distance range."

"Okay. Then, knowing that there's a good deal of recoil in a carbine, you'll understand how hard this 'modification ' would be to control, even single shot, without the stock. If he tries to fire it full automatic, he just couldn't control it. The danger here is-"

"If he should try to take a shot at a cop, or one of you guys, he'd be more likely to hit a civilian," Matt finished for him.

"Right."

"What is this clown doing, acting out a fantasy?"

"That bombed building was no fantasy, Matt."

"No," Matt agreed. "Anything else?"

"How did your dinner with the girlfriend go?"

"What do you mean, 'girlfriend'?"

"Chenowith's, not yours, of course."

"I must have missed something. I thought the Ollwood woman was his girlfriend."

"Right. So what?"

"Yes or no?"

"No. I have carefully gone through everything. I have had plenty of time, you see, waiting patiently by my telephone to hear from you-"

"Screw you, Jack," Matt said amiably.

"— and there is nothing to suggest that the Reynolds woman is, or has been, romantically involved with either male."

" 'Either male?"

"I didn't mean to suggest that. But who knows? These people don't consider themselves bound by the usual conventions of society. If it feels good, do it."

Christ, is that a possibility? There is no boyfriend. Has been no boyfriend…

"How did dinner go?" Matthews asked.

Well, pal, we had dinner with Mommy and Daddy, and Daddy taught me how to cook a London broil, and then we went to the country club. En route, the female suspect got pinched for speeding, and I talked a local uniform out of writing the ticket. At the country club, I taught the female suspect to eat Roquefort on crackers with a sip of cabernet sauvignon, and we talked about mutual friends, and then the female suspect kissed me for approximately one-tenth of second, whereupon my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Moments later, my wang tried very hard to break through my zipper. And then I tossed and turned most of the night, thinking about it.

"All right," Matt said,

"Are you gaining her confidence? Do you think she suspects you're in Harrisburg for any reason but the cover story?"

"Yes and no. That was two questions."

"Are you sure she's not suspicious? That's a clever female, Matt. She might be able to conceal her suspicions from you, to see what you're really up to."

"Hey, I was told to liaise-whatever the hell that means-with you, not have you question my conclusions. "

"What's the matter with you?" Matthews asked, sounding shocked.

"Nothing. Why should there be?"

There was a pause, then Matthews asked, "What happens next? Are you going to see her again?"

"Dinner, tonight."

"You haven't picked up on anything?"

"Our relationship is not yet at the point where I can ask, 'Hey, Susie, by the way, what do you hear from your friend, the bomber and bank robber?' But I'm working on it."

"You will, of course, call me if you do pick up on anything? I mean, presuming you got out of the right side of bed that morning?"

"Yeah. Of course I will. But for Christ's sake, don't expect miracles."

"Be careful, buddy."

"I will."

Matthews hung up.

Ten minutes after her conversation with Matt Payne-while part of her mind was still occupied with wondering why she somehow just hadn't been able to tell him that not only would she not have dinner with him tonight, but that the fun and games was over, period, don't call me anymore, period-Susan Reynolds received a telephone call from Jennifer Ollwood.

"Hi," Jennie began.

Susan gave her a telephone number and hung up. She rose from her desk and put her head in the door of Appeals Officer, Grade IV, Veronica Haynes.

"Cover for me, will you, Veronica? I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

"Make it half an hour," Veronica replied. "Fifteen minutes isn't really long enough for an early-morning quickie, is it?"

"Is that all you ever have on your mind?"

"Yeah," Veronica said, after appearing to have given the question serious thought. "What's more important?"

"I can think of some things."

"Some things that are as much fun?"

"Yeah," Susan said, after appearing to give Veronica's question as much serious thought as Veronica had given hers.

"Have fun," Veronica said. "Keeping one eye on the clock, of course."

Susan rode the elevator to the lobby and left the Department of Social Services Building. She walked to a car wash three blocks away. That morning, on her way to work, knowing Jennie-or less likely, Eloise Anne Fitzgerald-was going to call, she had had her Porsche washed.

While it had been going through-she hadn't liked to think what the brushes and felt washing pads were going to do to the Porsche's paint job, but doing this seemed necessary-she had walked to the corner, where there was a pay telephone booth, and written down-and later memorized-the number.

She entered the phone booth, took the handset off its hook, held the hook down with her finger, and pretended to be having a conversation until the phone rang.

"Hi," Jennie said again.

"Hi, yourself. How are you?"

"Well, you know. Fine. Why shouldn't I be?"

Being a fugitive from justice, wanted for murder, and that son of a bitch you're living with comes immediately to mind.

"And the baby?"

"He's just wonderful!"

And what's going to happen to him when Mommy and Daddy are hauled away in handcuffs?

"Jennie, is something wrong? I don't think these telephone calls, so many of them, are really smart."

"Why don't you come see the baby?" Jennie asked cheerfully.

"First of all, I don't think-I was just there-that's such a smart idea. As much as I'd like to, Jennie."

"Bryan has something he wants you to keep for us," Jennie said.

What? Another bag full of money he stole from a bank?

"Really?"

"Like the last package, only a little bigger," Jennie said. There was a touch of pride in her voice.

My God, don't tell me he actually did rob another bank! I'll have to get a larger safe-deposit box. The one I have is nearly full of money he stole.

"Jennie, I really don't think coming there so soon again makes sense."

"Bryan wants you to," Jennie said. "He says you know why."

If he's arrested-when he's arrested-he doesn't want to be found in possession of money the cops will suspect came from one or more so far unsolved-or is the word "successful"? — bank robberies. He wants the money to pay for his defense.

I sometimes think that Bryan really would like to be caught, and put on trial. He thinks that with a good lawyer-and himself skillfully playing the role of noble young intellectual courageously standing up for moral principle-he will not only walk out of the courtroom a free man, but into a role as Hero of the New Order.

And, of course, Jennie has been mesmerized into going along with his fantasies. She thinks the father of her baby is the Scarlet Pimpernel.

"Jennie, there are reasons I can't come there anytime soon. You're just going to have to tell Bryan that, and to put the package someplace safe where you are."

"What reasons?" Jennie asked, almost indignantly.

"Good and sufficient reasons, Jennie. I'm sorry."

"You better tell that to Bryan yourself," Jennie said.

"I don't want to tell him-"

"Just a minute, Susie," Jennie interrupted. "Hang on."

The son of a bitch is there. Probably sitting in his car. Let Jennie do the work.

What I should do is just hang up. But if I do that, he'll make her call the office, or the house. What the hell am I afraid of? If he comes on the phone, I'll tell him why I don't want to go get his "package" for him.

Bryan's voice came over the line. "Hey, Susie, what's going on?"

"I told Jennifer there are reasons I can't meet her."

"So she said. What are the reasons?"

"One of them is that the last time I spoke to you on this subject, you told me that was the last time."

"You know we need money," he said, "and this was too good to pass up."

"You don't need the money. You have enough now."

"Good lawyers are very expensive, Susie," Bryan said reasonably.

"You've got more than enough for a good lawyer," Susan said. "I can't get away so soon again without having people ask questions."

"Think of something. You're an intelligent girl. And we're in this together, Susie."

What is that, a not so lightly veiled threat?

"I'm not going to debate this with you," Susan replied. "There are reasons I can't make a trip there anytime soon."

"I'm waiting to hear them."

"Well, for one thing, I've got a cop on my back."

That comment obviously set him back. There was a perceptible pause before he replied:

"Don't you think you should tell me about that, Susie? What makes you think the cops are onto you? Why should they be? Are you suffering from paranoia?"

"I didn't say 'cops,' I said 'cop,' singular."

"Where did he come from?" Bryan asked, and Susan detected concern in his voice.

As hard as the macho son of a bitch is trying to hide it.

"Philadelphia," she said.

"A Philadelphia cop in Harrisburg?" Bryan asked doubtfully, and then went on patronizingly: "Susie, Philadelphia cops have no authority outside Philadelphia."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that's so. You're sure he's a cop, and not FBI? How did he get onto you, anyway?"

"He's a Philadelphia cop. Actually, a detective. I met him at Chad Nesbitt's birthday party."

"What was a cop doing at Mr. Canned Chicken Soup the Fourth's birthday party?"

"He's Mr. Canned Chicken Soup the Fourth's oldest friend, and godfather to their baby."

"And he's a cop?" Bryan asked dubiously again.

"Detective."

"Susie, this sounds unreal."

"It feels unreal. But there it is. Every time I look in the mirror, there he is, on my back, making sophomoric jokes."

"He came on to you?"

"He came on to me, and I put him down, and then-to hell with it. It's a long story. The last chapter is that the Philadelphia police sent him here on some kind of an investigation-"

"So he says," Bryan interrupted. "That could be a story. I suppose it did occur to you that he may not be what he says he is?"

"Now who's sounding paranoid? I have good reason to believe he's here for the reason he gives."

"We can't be too careful," Bryan said seriously. "The FBI is not always as stupid as generally believed."

"Anyway, he called the house and my mother invited him for dinner. And I'm going to have dinner with him tonight. There was no way I could get out of it."

"How hard did you try?"

"Go to hell, Bryan," Susan said. And then, before he could reply, Susan went on, "I've got to get off the phone. All you have to understand is that with the cop on my back, I can't go anywhere near you."

"Susie, let's think about-" Bryan responded.

Susan hung up on him.