The investigators

EIGHTEEN

It took Irene Chason even longer than she thought it would to wake her husband up.

But finally, he rolled over on his back and looked up at her in mingled indignation and concern.

"What's up?"

"You plan to get up today, or what?"

"I'm a little hungover, all right? Get off my back, Irene. "

"There's some guy on the phone for you."

"Some guy?"

"This is the third time he's called," Irene said.

"What's he want?"

"He didn't say."

Fiorello. It has to be Joey Fiorello. What's with him?

"Is he still on the phone?"

"Yeah," she said and lifted the handset from the bedside-table telephone and handed it to him.

"Philip Chason."

"Joey Fiorello, Phil."

"What can I do you for?"

"I got a quick, good-paying job for you, if you're interested. "

"Joey, I'm up to my ass in alligators."

"You heard what I said about good-paying?"

"What does that mean?"

"This is important to me."

"What does that come out to in round figures? And for what?"

"Phil, you're hurting my feelings. You know that I pay good. I thought we were friends."

"What do you want from me, Joey?"

"I want you to ask a few quick, discreet questions."

"Ask who a few quick, discreet questions?"

"Look, Phil, are you going to help me out on this or not?"

"I told you, Joey, I'm up to my ass in work. Whether I can help you depends on what you want me to do, and how much it's worth to you."

"Let me put it to you this way, Phil. You come to my office in the next hour, and let me explain what I want you to do for me, and that'll be worth two hundred to me, whether or not you can help me out."

"Two-fifty, Joey," Phil said.

"Jesus. And I thought we were friends," Joey Fiorello said, obviously pissed. "Okay. Two-fifty. I'll be expecting you. Thank you, Phil."

The line went dead in his ear.

"What was that all about?" Irene asked.

"I don't have a goddamn clue," Phil said as he swung his feet out of bed.

The warm smile on Joey Fiorello's face when Phil Chason walked into his office at Fiorello's Fine Cars forty-five minutes later, was, Phil thought, about as phony as a three-dollar bill.

I wonder why he didn't tell me to go fuck myself when I held him up for two-fifty? And he must need me; otherwise, he would have.

"Thank you for coming, Phil," Joey said. "I appreciate it."

"So what's up?"

"Can I have Helene get you a cup of coffee? Or a Danish? And a Danish?"

"Yeah. Thank you. You said this was important, so I came right away without my breakfast."

"I appreciate that," Joey said and raised his voice: "Helene!"

The magnificently bosomed Helene put her head in the door.

"Honey, would you get Mr. Chason a cup of coffee and a Danish, please?"

"Be happy to. If there's any Danish left."

"If there's no Danish left, honey, send one of my so-called salesmen after some."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Fiorello," Helene said.

Joey reached into his pocket and peeled five fifty-dollar bills off a wad held together with a gold paper clip and handed them to Phil.

"If I can't get you a Danish, the least I can do is pay what I owe you," he said with a smile.

"Thank you," Phil said. "Like the man said, money may not be everything, but it's way ahead of whatever's in second place."

"Absolutely," Joey said.

"So, what's on your mind, Joey?"

"I'm sure I can trust you to keep what I'm about to tell you to yourself."

"That would depend on what you want to tell me," Phil said. "Let me put that another way. As long as it's legal, you can trust me."

"Absolutely goddamned legal," Joey said. "Jesus Christ, Phil, what do you think? I'm a businessman."

What I think is that you're in bed with the mob, is what I think.

"No offense, Joey. But we should understand each other."

"I agree one hundred percent," Joey said. "And you have my word I would never ask you to do anything that would in any way be illegal."

"Okay. Fine."

"The thing is, Phil, I'm a silent partner in the Howard Johnson motel on Roosevelt Boulevard. You know where I mean?"

Phil nodded.

Why don't I believe that?

"Nice, solid investment. You know, people trust a place with Howard Johnson's name on it."

"Yeah, I guess they do."

"You know how that works, Phil? I mean, it's a franchise. We pay them a percentage of the gross. We get to use the name, and they set the standards. They got inspectors-you never know who they are-who come and stay in the place, and eat in the coffee shop, and check things… see if the bathrooms are clean, that sort of thing. You understand?"

Phil nodded.

"They insist that we run a high-class operation," Joey said. "A nice, clean, respectable place, a family place, by which I mean that a Howard Johnson is not a no-tell motel, you know what I mean?"

"I understand," Phil said.

"The way the contract is drawn, we don't keep the place up to standard, they have the right to do one of two things: either make us sell the place, or take down the sign."

"Is that so?"

"Which would cost us a bundle. Which would cost me, since I have a large piece of that action, a large bundle, if Howard Johnson should decide to pull our franchise."

"And you're worried about that happening, is that what you're driving at?"

"I am worried shitless," Joey said.

"Why?"

"Can you believe there was a drug bust at the Howard Johnson last Thursday night? Can you believe that?"

"Drugs are all over, Joey, you know that."

"Not in my fucking Howard Johnson motel, they're not supposed to be."

"Those things happen, Joey."

"Like I said I'm a silent partner. I put up the money, and the other partners run the place. Which means they hire the manager."

"Okay."

"He's a brother-in-law of one of the partners. His name is Leonard Hansen."

"And?"

"So far as I know, he's as honest as the day is long."

"Okay."

"So far as I know, is what I said."

Helene came into the office with two mugs of coffee and a half-dozen Danish.

She gave Phil-maybe innocently, maybe not-a good look down her dress as she put his mug and the Danish on the coffee table in front of him.

"No calls, and make sure nobody walks in here on Mr. Chason and me, Helene," Joey said.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Fiorello."

Joey waited until she had left the office and closed the door.

"Where was I, Phil?"

"You were saying that so far as you know, the manager of the Howard Johnson is honest."

"Right. And, so far as I know, he knows how to run a motel. We take a nice little profit out of that place."

"Okay."

"Okay. Now, maybe I'm wrong, and I hope to Christ I am, but two things worry me."

"Such as?"

"The drug bust, of course. And then me not hearing about it for three days. Not until last night, and it happened on Thursday."

"Why does that worry you?"

"Like I said, I really hope I'm wrong, but with the amount of money we're talking about, hope don't count."

"I'm not sure where you're going, Joey. You think the manager has something to do with the drugs?"

"What I'm saying, Phil, is that we don't pay him a whole hell of a lot of money. I don't really know what I'm talking about here. But drugs in a Howard Johnson motel?"

"What are you thinking?"

"I don't have any idea how it could have gotten started, but hear me out. You got a guy making peanuts, like Leonard Hansen. He finds out that he can pick up a couple of hundred tax-free by loaning somebody a motel-room key for a couple of hours. You beginning to see where I'm coming from?"

"Yeah."

"And all of a sudden, it comes out-I have the highest respect for the detectives who work Narcotics-that my Howard Johnson motel is a no-tell motel. Not hookers, but much fucking worse-as far as the Howard Johnson people are concerned-drugs. That's all Howard Johnson would have to hear. So long, franchise. They'd pull that franchise so quick…"

"I see your point. So you want me to check this Leonard Hansen out?"

"I really hope you find him as clean as a whistle," Joey said. "But you understand, Phil, why I have to know?"

"I understand your problem, Joey."

"And discreetly, Phil. Like I said, he's a brother-in-law of one of my partners. He would get pissed in a second if he heard I'd asked you to check this guy out."

"I understand."

"I'll give you fifty an hour, plus all your expenses, if you can get on this right away, Phil."

"I told you, Joey, I'm up to my ass-"

"This is important to me, Phil, but I would hate to think you're trying to hold me up. We have a good relationship here…"

"I wasn't talking about money. I was talking about other jobs I have, Joey."

"No offense, Phil."

"No offense taken, Joey. I'll get on it as soon as I can."

"I appreciate that, Phil," Joey said.

He got up behind his desk and put out his hand.

"You get me something on this guy I can take to my partners, something solid, and there'll be a bonus in this for you, Phil."

"If there's something there, I'll find it," Phil said.

"Jesus, I just had a thought," Joey said.

"What?"

"Let me throw this at you. I don't know why I didn't think of it before."

"Think of what before?"

"If anybody knew if my Howard Johnson motel is being used as a fucking drug supermarket, it would be the narcotics cops, right?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe, my ass. They did one drug bust there. They had to have a reason, a suspicion, that something was going on there."

"So what?"

"Could you ask them? You know any of them?"

"No, and no. I don't know any of them, and if I did know one of them, and asked him something like that, he'd tell me to go fuck myself."

"I thought you cops got along pretty well," Joey said visibly disappointed.

"I'm a retired cop, which is the same thing as saying, so far as they're concerned, that I'm a civilian. They don't tell civilians anything. So far as that goes, they don't tell other cops anything."

"If they knew-even suspected; we wouldn't need any proof-about something going on at my motel, that would settle this thing in a hurry. Which is what I'm after, Phil, finding out yes or no in a hurry."

"I told you, Joey, if the Narcotics Unit knew that drug deals were going on every hour on the hour at your motel, they wouldn't tell me."

"You couldn't explain the situation to them?"

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

"Not when I'm about to lose a lot of fucking money, I don't," Joey said. He paused. "The bonus I was talking about would kick in, of course."

Phil shook his head. "No."

"Well, how about this? Get me a couple of names of detectives in the Narcotics Unit. Get me two names of the detectives who did the drug bust at my motel last Thursday. I'm a very reasonable guy. I can talk to them, explain my problem."

"I'll see what I can do," Phil said. "No promises."

"One promise. You get me two names, I pay you for ten hours of your time, and throw in the bonus."

"I'll see what I can do, Joey," Phil repeated.

From the glass-walled office that had been loaned to him by Vice President James C. Chase of the First Harrisburg Bank amp; Trust Company, Detective Matthew Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department devoted a good deal of his attention throughout the morning to the bank's employees and customers.

He was looking for someone who might be an FBI agent, on surveillance duty, and charged with keeping an eye on the safe-deposit box leased by Miss Susan Reynolds, who was aiding and abetting the Chenowith Group in their unlawful flight to escape prosecution for murder and their participation in a series of bank robberies.

It had been agreed between them that in the event Matt saw someone who might be the FBI, he was to signal Susan cleverly-with a negative shake of the head-on her arrival in the lobby. If he gave such a signal, she was not to go to her safe-deposit box but, instead, come directly to his office, from which they would go to lunch.

If he did not give her a negative shake of the head, she would go to her safe-deposit box, take out the bank loot, and then come to Matt's office. After transferring the money to his brand-new hard-sided attachй case, they would then go to lunch.

The only person he saw who even remotely looked like a police officer of any kind was the gray-uniformed bank guard, who was about seventy years old and had apparently learned to sleep on his feet with his eyes open. Matt didn't think he would notice if someone walked into the lobby and began to carry out one of the ornate bronze stand-up desks provided for the bank's clientele.

There was something unreal about the whole thing, starting with the fact that someone like Susan would even know someone who robbed banks, now with a homemade movie-style machine pistol. And it was, of course, absolutely unbelievable that, in violation of everything that, before the Hotel Hershey, he had believed was really important to him, he was actively involved in the felony of concealing evidence in a capital criminal case.

Or as unbelievable as what had happened-or at least how many times it had happened-in his hotel room that morning, before Susan finally got out of bed and put her clothes back on just in time to go to work.

But that was true, and so was the fact that he was a yet-undetected criminal.

He wondered, idly, once or twice during the morning if this detachment from reality was the way it was for real criminals-he changed that to "other criminals"-and might explain the calm, I don't give a shit behavior many of them manifested.

And then, at ten to twelve-Susan said she would probably be at the bank at 12:05-he spotted a familiar head walking across the marble floor to the bronze gate to the safe-deposit room door.

The familiar head needed both a shave and a haircut. The man was wearing blue jeans and a woolen, zippered athletic jacket.

Not what one expects from the usually natty FBI. Which means that not only are they surveilling the safe-deposit boxes, but using an undercover agent to do it.

He felt bile in his mouth.

Christ, we're going to get caught! What made me think we could get away with this?

And then he realized, with mingled relief, chagrin, and surprise, that while the unshaven man in the jeans and athletic jacket was indeed a law-enforcement officer, he was not in the employ of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

He gets his paychecks from the same place I do. That son of a bitch is Officer Timothy J. Calhoun of the Five Squad of the Narcotics Unit!

Matt's mind made an abrupt right turn: Christ, there's four paychecks in my desk. I've got to find the time to go to the goddamn bank and deposit them!

And then returned to the lobby of the First Harrisburg Bank amp; Trust Company. He lowered his head and raised his hand to shield his face.

He won't expect to see me here, of course, but the son of a bitch is a cop, and he just might recognize me. He gave me a long hard look the last time I saw him.

That flashed through his mind. He had been startled then, too, to recognize Calhoun, the first time he had ever laid eyes on him. He'd just come from going through the personnel records of Five Squad, which had included a photograph of clean-shaven Officer Calhoun taken on his graduation from the Academy.

But that had been enough for him to recognize unshaven undercover officer Calhoun in the Roundhouse parking lot. He had followed him into the building and watched as he and somebody else-Coogan, Officer Thomas P.-had processed prisoners into Central Lockup.

And the both of them looked at me long and hard when they saw me later in the parking lot. If he sees me here, he will recognize me!

But what the hell is he doing here?

I've already cross-checked the names I got from his record against the names of people who rent safe-deposit boxes here, and there wasn't a match.

Which means either I was not doing my job well-which seems possible, since I have had other things on my mind-or that the box is rented in the name of somebody whose name I don't have.

I have to find out what box he's going into.

Calhoun was no longer in sight.

Matt looked across the lobby toward the office of Vice President James C. Chase. It was empty.

He quickly scanned the desktop looking for a list of telephone numbers under the plate glass. There was none. He pulled out first the left, then the right, shelf on the desk, and on the right found a list of telephone numbers.

Chase, James C. was not on it.

Of course not, stupid. The guy whose desk this is damned well knows the boss's extension number by heart.

He punched one of the buttons on the telephone and punched in the numbers listed on the phone.

"Good morning, First Harrisburg!"

"Mr. Chase, please."

"Mr. Chase's office."

"My name is Matthew Payne…"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Payne. How can I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Chase, if that's possible."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, but it's not. Mr. Chase won't be in until this afternoon. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"It'll wait. Thank you very much."

"Mr. Chase left instructions that you're to have anything you need."

Somehow, I don't think that includes asking you to walk across the lobby and find out what box the guy in the blue jeans and athletic jacket is going into.

And, Christ! They keep a record of who goes into what box, and the time. I don't need her.

"It's not important," Matt said. "It'll wait. Thank you."

"I'll tell him you called."

"Thank you," Matt said and hung up and looked at his watch. It was five to twelve.

He looked at the door through which Calhoun had disappeared. No Calhoun. He looked through the lobby.

Susan was at one of the stand-up desks, looking-nervously-his way.

What do I do? Send her in there with him? They're liable to both come out at the same time, and being normal, Calhoun will take a look at her tail, and then maybe spot me in here.

He fixed what he hoped was a smile of confidence on his face and winked at Susan.

She smiled in relief, and his heart melted.

What did you tell her about Poor Pathetic Jennie? That when Jennie knew what was going down was really wrong, she had a choice to make, and made the wrong one? Does that have an application here?

He watched Susan until she disappeared from sight, then got out the list of names of relatives of Officer Timothy J. Calhoun and stared at it, wondering again whether he had screwed up, or the name of the box Calhoun was going into wasn't one of his names.

He looked up, from behind the hand shielding his face, and saw Calhoun coming back into the lobby. Calhoun looked quickly around the lobby-a little nervously, Matt thought-and then walked out of the bank.

But I've got you, you son of a bitch!

Said Detective Payne, literally in the middle of the commission of a felony, with monumental hypocritical self-righteousness.

He shrugged, and reached for the telephone.

"Special Operations Investigation, Sergeant Washington. "

"Officer Calhoun, Timothy J., just went into-at 11:54-a safe-deposit box at the First Harrisburg Bank and Trust."

"I am almost as glad to hear that as I am to hear your voice, Matthew. You have the number of the box? That will permit me to have the search warrant all ready for the signature of a judge at the auspicious time."

"Not yet."

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that banks keep records in minute detail of the time their clients gain access to their boxes?"

"That's right. You don't. But I want to get it-I want the guy from the bank to get it for me. He'll be in this afternoon."

"And you will relay the number to me immediately after you have it?"

"Yes, sure."

"And how are other things going in Harrisburg, Matthew? Mr. Matthews tells me you had dinner in Hershey."

"That's going slowly."

"And carefully, Matthew? I devoutly hope carefully. You've heard the gentleman has added gunsmith to the long list of his other skills and accomplishments?"

"Matthews told me."

"Then let 'caution, caution, toujours caution' be your creed, Matthew."

"That's audacity, not caution. 'L'audace, l'audace, toujours l'audace.' "

"Don't correct me, please. I'm a sergeant, and sergeants are never wrong. And the one thing I absolutely do not want from you is audacity. I will, with more or less bated breath, await your next call."

"Sometime this afternoon," Matt said.

The line went dead.

Matt hung up and looked into the lobby.

Susan, looking uncomfortable, was walking across the lobby toward his office.

He started to get up, then changed his mind. His newly acquired attachй case was in the well of the desk. He planned-while he hoped anyone looking would think he was tying his shoe-to transfer the bank loot from Susan's purse there.

"Ready for lunch?" Susan asked at the door.

"Come into my office, my dear, and I will explain why the bank has to repossess your Porsche."

He waved her into the chair beside the desk. She put her purse on the floor in front of her. Matt bent over, grabbed the purse, and put it into the desk well. Then he opened the attachй case, went into Susan's purse, and moved the money, noticing as he did that some of the stacks of currency were bound with paper strips bearing the names of the banks from which they had been stolen.

These people are really stupid! Those currency wrappers would really tie them to the robberies. Didn't Chenowith think about that? Or did he simply assume that Susan would take care of getting rid of the wrappers and she was too stupid to do it?

He closed the briefcase and ran his finger over the combination lock.

Jesus, if the combination wasn't set at 000, I'm going to have to break the lock to get back into it. That wasn't too smart, Matthew!

He slid Susan's purse back across the floor to her, then straightened up.

"Done," he said and smiled.

She nervously smiled back.

Not too stupid to get rid of the currency wrappers; she's not stupid. Naive. That's the word. Naive.

"Well, let's go," Matt said. "For some reason, I'm starved."

"That's because you didn't eat any breakfast," she said.

"After you left, I did," Matt said. "It was cold, but I needed the strength of good red meat."

He waved her ahead of him out of the office.

When they passed Mr. Chase's office, his "girl"-she was at least forty-smiled approvingly at them.

"I wish I had more time, Peter, to enjoy this," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said indicating the Rittenhouse Grill Room's "Today's Luncheon Specials"-a mixed grill-a waiter had just set before them.

That's not a simple expression of regret, Wohl thought, that he is a busy man who had trouble fitting lunch with me at the Rittenhouse Club into his busy schedule. I don't know what the hell he really means, but let's get whatever the hell it is-from half a dozen possibilities-out in the open.

"I belong here now," Peter said.

"I thought that might be the case when you invited me here," Coughlin said.

"Matt's father-maybe I should say Amy's father-called me up and said he would like to put me up for membership. I told him I'd like to think it over, and then I thought it over, and decided, what the hell, why not? It is a good place to have discreet little talks… like now. So I told him, 'Yes, thank you.' "

Coughlin nodded.

"You should have said 'Matt and Amy's father,' " Coughlin said. "The background of that is Matt went to his father about getting you in here. He didn't want it to look as if he had his nose up your rear end. Amy went to her dad, and asked him what about getting you in here like I'm in here, what do they call it? — ex officio, it comes with the job."

"I didn't know that."

"So Brewster Payne came to me and said he'd be delighted to get you in, provided you never found out that Matt asked him, or that it wouldn't get you in trouble with the department. For being too big for your britches, in other words. There's a lot of chief inspectors who don't get to join. As a matter of fact, it's only me and Lowenstein. He said that he's been thinking about it, aside from Matt and Amy, for some time. He said there's a lot of people, including him, who think that somewhere down the pike, you should be police commissioner…"

"Jesus!" Peter blurted.

"… and he wondered if getting you in here, now, would help or hurt that. He also said he didn't want you to get the idea he was doing it to make points with you about Matt. He asked me to think it over and get back to him. So I thought it over, and I got back to him, and told him I thought it was a good idea, and that I felt sure you would come to me, ask me about it, and I would tell you that."

"Chief…"

"It's a good idea, Peter," Coughlin said.

"I didn't want to put you on a spot," Wohl said.

"I gave you the benefit of that doubt. So far I've seen no signs that you're getting too big for your britches. But I think there are-I know there are-some people in the department who do, and will take you being in here as proof of that."

He sliced off a piece of his lamb chop and put it in his mouth.

"Before you tell me what you want to tell me, Peter, did you hear this Chenowith character has got himself a sawed-off fully automatic carbine?"

Wohl nodded. "I heard."

"Presumably Matty has been told?"

"He's been told."

"You think he's going to obey his orders?"

"You read the riot act to him, I read the riot act to him, and Washington read the riot act to him. I've been telling myself we are the three people whose orders he's most likely to obey."

Coughlin nodded.

"He called Washington first thing this morning," Wohl went on, "and told him he had just seen Officer Timothy J. Calhoun of Five Squad going into the safe-deposit box vault of the First Harrisburg Bank and Trust."

"I… I was about to say I don't think Calhoun's about to take a shot at him, but remembering that telephone call to the Widow Kellog, maybe I shouldn't. I'm more concerned about this Chenowith character. He knows he's facing life anyway, so why worry about shooting a cop? And he's crazy."

"So far as I know, Matt is still trying to gain the Reynolds woman's confidence. I think he understands the situation. "

"I hope you're right. What happens next with Calhoun? "

"Matt's supposed to call later with the name of the safe-deposit box number. Jason's going to do everything about a search warrant but hand it to a judge for his signature."

Coughlin nodded.

Wohl handed him the sheet of paper on which Dr. Martinez had written, "Miss Cynthia Longwood was stripped naked and orally raped by a policeman under circumstances that were themselves traumatic."

Coughlin's eyebrows went up, and he looked at Wohl for amplification.

"Amy gave me that this morning," Wohl said.

Coughlin went off on a tangent.

"You've been seeing a lot of Amy, haven't you?"

"How do you define 'a lot'?"

"You know how to define 'a lot,' " Coughlin said. "Does Amy believe this?"

Wohl nodded.

"This is a patient of hers?"

Wohl nodded again, and added, "And she's Vincenzo Savarese's granddaughter."

"I heard his daughter had married a Main Line guy," Coughlin said "but I didn't make the connection until just now. Longwood is the builder, right?"

Wohl nodded.

"You think Savarese knows about this?"

"I think that message-it was phoned in to the hospital for Amy in the wee hours this morning-came from Savarese. "

"Savarese called the hospital?"

"More likely one of his goons. I talked to the doctor and the nurse who talked to them. Both agreed the guy on the phone didn't use the kind of vocabulary in the message. "

"Anything else?"

"Amy is concerned about violating medical ethics, and when I told her I was going to talk to you about this, asked me to tell you this girl is about to get shoved off the cliff into schizophrenia, and please be careful."

"That's all?"

"She found traces of hard stuff in the girl's blood, making her-and me-think there's a drug connection."

Coughlin grunted, read the message again, then raised his eyes to Wohl.

"You thinking what I'm thinking, Peter?"

"I hope so," Wohl said.

Coughlin made a "give it to me" gesture with his hand.

"There was a drug bust. That's the 'already traumatic circumstances.' Then this animal did this to her, and let her go. What is she going to do? Walk into a district and tell the desk sergeant, 'I was making a buy, and one of your cops'…?"

"You think Savarese has also figured that out?"

"No one has ever accused Savarese of being slow."

"Anybody but you know about this?"

"Washington."

Coughlin's eyebrows rose in question.

"There's a boyfriend. He has not called the hospital. I told Jason to find out who he is."

"But not to talk to him?"

"Not to talk to him."

"And next?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Chief. How do I handle this?"

"You talk to the boyfriend. Do you think Washington has anything yet?"

"He's had two hours. Let me find a phone, and I'll find out."

He started to push himself away from the table. Coughlin waved him back into it.

"Now that you've joined the upper crust, Peter," Coughlin said smiling at him, "let me show you how the upper crust finds a telephone."

He twisted around in his chair, caught a waiter's eye, and put his balled fist next to his ear, miming someone holding a telephone. The waiter nodded and immediately brought a telephone to their table, plugging it into a socket on the table leg.

"Thank you," Coughlin said smiling at Wohl, then dialed a number from memory.

Wohl thought it interesting that Coughlin had not found it necessary to ask for Washington's number.

He either has a great memory-which is of course possible-or he has been calling that number frequently.

"How much were you able to learn about the boyfriend? " Coughlin began the conversation without any other opening comment.

Wohl smiled. He knew that Jason Washington had begun his police career walking a beat in Center City under Lieutenant Dennis V. Coughlin. They had been friends-and mutual admirers-ever since. Polite opening comments were not necessary. Washington would immediately recognize Coughlin's voice and know what Coughlin wanted to know.

Coughlin, in an automatic action, had taken a small leather-bound notebook and a pencil from his pocket. He scribbled quickly on it as Washington replied.

"Sit on it until I get back to you. I'm with Wohl," Coughlin said and hung up.

Now it was Peter Wohl's turn to look at Coughlin with a question on his face.

"One boyfriend," Coughlin said. "Ronald R. Ketcham, twenty-five, five-ten, brown hair, 165 pounds, no record except for traffic violations, lives in one of the garden apartments on Overbrook Avenue near Episcopal Academy…"

He looked at Wohl until Wohl indicated he knew the garden apartment complex, and then went on:

"… works for Wendell, Wilson, the stockbrokers in Bala Cynwyd. Has not been to work for three days, and has not been seen around his apartment. His car, a Buick coupe, is locked up in the garage. There are no signs of forcible entry into his apartment, and no signs of any kind of a struggle inside the apartment. He could, of course, be in Atlantic City."

"Or passed through Atlantic City on his way to swim with the fishes," Peter said.

"You think?"

"If Savarese found out this guy was with his granddaughter when she was raped."

"How could Savarese know that?" Coughlin asked.

"How could he know she was raped?" Peter countered.

"Maybe he found this guy before Jason did."

"If that's the case…" Peter said.

"Yeah," Coughlin said. "Savarese is now looking for the cop."

"I'm tempted to say let him have him," Peter said.

"You don't even want to start thinking things like that, Peter," Coughlin said almost paternally.

"The other thought I have been having, if this went down the way I think it did, was that-"

"It sounds like something an already dirty Five Squad cop would do?"

Wohl nodded.

"Knowing that another dirty cop would not turn him in," Coughlin agreed.

Both of them fell silent for nearly a full minute.

"You open to suggestion, Peter?" Coughlin finally asked.

"Wide open," Wohl said.

"Okay. Tell Jason to find out what else he can about Mr. Ketcham. I'll put out a Locate, Do Not Detain on him. And I will think about what to do about our friend Vincenzo. "

"For example?"

"I know that you think it would probably be a good thing, but we really can't permit Savarese to cut the limbs off this scumbag one at a time with a dull knife," Coughlin said.

"My mouth ran away with me," Peter said.

"So long as it wasn't your heart," Coughlin said.

"I wish we had more than 'seems likely' to tie somebody on Five Squad to the oral rape-"

"We don't even have 'seems likely,' all we have is 'could be,' " Coughlin interrupted. "What are you thinking? "

"We go into Calhoun's safe-deposit box in Harrisburg. And then Jason explains to him that not only do we now have him with money he can't explain, but that we are about to find out who raped this girl, and in his own best interests, he should tell us about everything."

"Too many 'ifs.' There may be nothing in that box to incriminate him about anything. And if we go into the box, then they know we're looking at them. And they shut down. And what if Calhoun is the scumbag who did that to the girl?"

"Then Jason tells him who the girl is, and that unless he goes along, we tell Grandpa."

Coughlin looked at him.

"Maybe you will get to be police commissioner," he said. "I am seeing in you a certain amoral ruthlessness I never noticed before."

He met Peter's eyes, then stood up.

"For the time being, only you, me, and Jason. Agreed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you for lunch, Peter."

"Chief, I'm sorry I didn't ask you before I accepted…"

"No problem. But there is one."

"Sir?"

"Does your dad know?"

Peter shook his head, "no."

"The problem is you're going to have to tell him before he finds out, for one thing. And when he finds out, he'll think you just might be getting a little too big for your britches."

"Yeah."

"Good. You've got that message?"

"Loud and clear, sir."

"Okay. Then I will take pity on you and tell you I already told him I was going to tell you to accept. But now you know how the phones work in here, I'd get on it. Call him and ask him what he thinks. Even money he'll say go ahead."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Thanks again for lunch, Peter," Coughlin said and walked out of the Grill Room.

Susan led Matt three blocks from the First Harrisburg Bank amp; Trust to a Pennsylvania Dutch restaurant.

The place was spotless, and the waitress, a tall blonde about as old as Susan looked, Matt thought, like a visual definition of innocent and wholesome. She wore a starched white lace hat on top of her blond hair, which was parted in the middle and done up in a bun at her neck. Her white cotton blouse-buttoned to the neck-was covered with an open black sweater. Her black skirt was more than halfway down her calves, and her starched white apron matched the cap. No makeup, of course.

She smiled gently, and apparently sincerely, at Susan and Matt.

I wonder what she would do if she knew she was about to serve two felons?

"Are you going to have lunch with us?" she asked. There was a Germanic accent to her speech.

"That depends on what you have," Matt said.

She looked at him curiously.

"Please," Susan said and kicked him under the table.

When the waitress left, Matt asked, "Did I say something wrong?"

"She's Amish, I think," Susan said. "But whatever, she's what they call plain people, and she would not understand your smart-ass wit."

"How am I going to order lunch if I don't know what's on the menu?"

Susan inclined her head toward the waitress, who was pushing a large-wheeled cart toward their table.

"What a big-city sophisticate like you would probably call prix fixe," Susan said. "As much as you want, all one price. But don't be a pig; take only what you intend to eat. It hurts them when you don't eat everything on your plate. They think you didn't like it."

"Yes, Mother," Matt said.

There was an enormous display of food in bowls and on platters arranged on the cart.

Matt took roast pork, beef pot roast, potatoes au gratin, lima beans, apple sauce, beets, succotash, two rolls, butter, what looked to him like some kind of apple pie, iced tea, and coffee.

The wholesome waitress smiled at him approvingly, then served Susan approximately one-third as much food.

"Did you hear what I said about eating everything?" Susan said when the waitress had rolled the cart away.

"I intend to," Matt said.

She shook her head in disbelief.

"Do you know what happened when you put that briefcase under your desk?"

"No," Matt said, curious and therefore serious, "what? I think it's safe there, if that's what you mean."

"That's not what I mean," she said. "You had a choice to make, and you made one. Have you thought about that?"

"I didn't have any choice," he said. "You know that."

"Could you put yourself in Jennifer's shoes? Did she have any choice?"

"Oranges and lemons, Susan," Matt said. "And how did Jennifer manage to intrude herself on what I thought until sixty seconds ago was going to be a nice lunch?"

"She called this morning. Just before I went to the bank."

"And?"

"I told her I was busy and that she would have to call back."

"How much of the conversation did your pal from the FBI hear? Or record?"

"All of it. But there's nothing-"

"It was one more call in a series of recent calls. They'll think that something is about to happen. If I were in charge, I would tighten surveillance. We don't need that."

"What do I tell her? She'll keep calling until I talk to her."

"Tell her to call you tomorrow," Matt said.

"And what do I tell her tomorrow?"

"Between now and then, we'll think of something."

"What are you going to do with the mon-the briefcase? "

"Take it to my room."

"And then?"

"I don't know. I've been kicking the idea around that maybe we can-somehow, but don't ask me how-use your returning the loot to our advantage. It would at least show a change of heart. I don't know how much good that would do."

She looked at him but said nothing.

"Eat your succotash, like a good girl," Matt said. "Another option, of course, is to get rid of it. Then-"

"You mean destroy it?"

Matt nodded, and went on: "Then it would be your word against Chenowith that you ever had it."

"His and Jennifer's," Susan said. "She'll go along with whatever he says."

"Against her faithful friend?" Matt asked sarcastically.

"Yes."

"Then why do you give a damn about her?"

"I do, Matt. I can't help that."

Matt raised a forkful of pot roast toward his mouth, then lowered it.

"You don't know that," he said.

"I don't know what?"

"From everything you've told me, Jennifer is a really weak sister."

"I told you about her, why she's that way," Susan said.

"So she goes along with Chenowith because he's strong, right? Or at least she sees him that way."

Susan nodded.

"What are you driving at?"

"Don't take this as anything but me thinking out loud," he said. "Tell me about the drunken mother. Is she going to spring for a lawyer-a good lawyer-when they arrest Jennifer?"

"I don't know. Probably. But if she doesn't, I will. Do you know one?"

"I know two of the best, but I don't think they'd take her case."

"I thought they were supposed to represent people no matter what they did."

"Let's skip that for the moment," Matt said. "For the sake of argument, Jennifer has a good lawyer. By definition, a lawyer argues. A good lawyer offers strong arguments. "

"I don't understand you."

"Little lady, you have a choice. You either stick with your murdering boyfriend, in which case they will take your baby away from you, and you will never see it again, or you go tell the FBI everything you know, and after you do that, you go into that courtroom and convince people you stayed with him out of fear for your life, and that of the baby."

"I don't know, Matt," Susan said.

"We're back to have you got any better ideas?"

"Let me think about it," Susan said.

"Throw this in the equation," Matt said. "Don't do it. Just think about it. You tell her you'll meet her but you want to meet her alone. Set up the meet. I'm there. I arrest her. Then we tell the FBI where to find Chenowith. You tell Jennifer not to say one goddamn word until she has a lawyer. Then the lawyer delivers his little speech to her."

"I'll think about it. Matt, it doesn't sound credible."

"I'm still thinking out loud. If she had the money-all the money, what you have and what you think she's going to give you-"

"They wouldn't believe that."

"It doesn't matter what they believe, or, for that matter, what they know. They have to convince the jury, and that's not as easy as it looks in the movies. Maybe they'd let her cop a plea. Prosecuting a young mother with a baby in her arms isn't easy. And they want to win this bad."

Susan looked at him intently. He saw that she was beginning to accept the argument.

"What I said Susie, is that I'm thinking out loud, and that's all."

"I understand," she said.

"Changing the subject," Matt said. "You want to go back out to Hershey tonight for our anniversary? Or would you rather have a quiet evening at home with room service in the Penn-Harris? I know the Penn-Harris has oysters."

She blushed, which he found both sweetly touching and somehow erotic.

"At home, unfortunately. My home."

"Christ, no!"

"You've met Mommy. Mommy thinks you should come to dinner, so you're coming to dinner. You know what she's like."

"Yeah, I know what she's like. Penny's mother is just like her. And so is Chad's mother. And Daffy's. Bennington apparently has a required course in how to be a three-star bitch."

"Right now, we can't afford to antagonize her, Matt."

"And afterward?"

"Mommy had a motherly word of advice for me when she telephoned to tell me we're having dinner at the house. After dinner, when you are sure to suggest we go to the club or someplace, I'm to politely turn you down. Leave them wanting more, Mommy said. The worst thing a girl can do when she's really interested in a boy is appear too interested."

"Christ! Why do I have this sickening feeling you're dead serious?"

"Because I am. What do you want me to do?"

Matt shrugged in annoyed helplessness.

"I could get off an hour early," Susan said, her fresh blush telling him he had correctly interpreted what she meant. "If you could."

"I don't know," Matt said doubtfully. "They're pretty strict, at the bank, about people taking off before the books are balanced to the last penny."

"You bastard!"

"How about an hour and a half early? For that matter, how about taking the afternoon off?"

Shit, what if she says yes? I've got to see Davis about what box Calhoun went into.

"Maybe a little more than an hour. But not much," Susan said seriously.

"I'll leave a candle burning in the window," Matt said.

"My girl said you wanted to see me, Matt?" Mr. James C. Chase said as he came into Matt's borrowed office two minutes after Matt returned from lunch.

"Yes, sir," Matt said and quickly decided the way to handle Chase was to tell him exactly what he wanted. "At eleven fifty-four this morning, one of the men we're interested in went into the safe-deposit section-"

"You recognized him?"

"Yes, sir. But none of the names on my list of his relatives and acquaintances matches any of the names of your safe-deposit-box holders."

"And you would like me to find out what box he went in, without drawing attention to you?"

"Yes, sir, that's exactly what I hoped you could do for me," Matt said.

"I'll be right back," Mr. Chase said and walked out of the office.

Well, I couldn't ask for anything more than that, could I?

Chase came back into Matt's office a few minutes later, wearing a look of confusion.

"Matt, are you sure of the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"According to Adelaide's records-"

"Adelaide?"

"Adelaide Worner, she's been in charge of the safe-deposit vault for… God, I don't know, at least ten years, and is absolutely reliable; there were only two people who went into their boxes between eleven forty-five and twelve-fifteen. One of them was a man I've known for years, who makes nearly daily visits to his box, and who I don't think could possibly be involved in the sort of thing you're interested in. And the other was a young lady with whom I believe you're acquainted, Susan Reynolds, Tom Reynolds's daughter."

"We had lunch," Matt said.

Shit. This smells. I know Calhoun went in there. But I can't tell Chase that Adelaide Worner, his faithful tender of the safe-deposit vault, is either mistaken or-worse! — might be involved with Calhoun.

"I don't know what to tell you, Matt," Chase said.

"When all else fails, tell the truth," Matt said with a smile. " 'Matt, you were obviously wrong.' "

"It looks that way, doesn't it?" Chase said. "Did you have a nice lunch?"

"Susan took me to a Pennsylvania Dutch place a couple of blocks from here."

"Christianson's?"

"They wheel enough food to feed a family of ten to your table."

"Christianson's," Chase confirmed. "I was going to recommend it to you."

"Very nice place. I ate too much."

"That's why people go to Christianson's, to eat too much."

"Yes, sir."

"If there's anything else you need, Matt?"

"No, sir. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

"Don't be silly."

Matt waited until he saw Chase enter his office across the lobby and then called the number Lieutenant Deitrich had given him. There was no answer. Matt let it ring long enough first to decide that it was Deitrich's private number-otherwise someone would have answered it-and then to have the thought Shit, is good old Adelaide Worner going to be suspicious about Chase's interest in her records and ring the warning bell to Calhoun? and then hung up.

He called Chief Mueller.

"Chief, I really need to talk to Lieutenant Deitrich," Matt said. "And his phone doesn't answer."

"Time important, Payne?"

"Yes, sir."

"Give me your number. I'll get back to you."

Three minutes later, the telephone rang.

"Deitrich will pick you up on the corner-turn right when you leave the bank-in five minutes," Chief Mueller announced, without any preliminary greeting.

"Thank you very much."

"Happy to do it."

Almost exactly five minutes later, a pea-green unmarked Ford with Deitrich at the wheel pulled up at the corner. He signaled Matt to get in.

"You got something?" Deitrich asked.

Matt recited the chain of events as they drove through traffic.

Deitrich nodded his head.

"One of the troubles you have when dealing with banks is that nobody in a bank wants to believe that honest somebody could possibly have his, or especially her, hand in the till," he said. "I guess you already learned that."

I have just been complimented.

"I'll check this Adelaide Worner out. Where are you going to be?"

"At the bank. Tonight I'm going out to dinner."

"Eight o'clock at the Penn-Harris too early for you?"

"No, sir. Thank you very much."

Deitrich pulled to the curb, and Matt understood he was to get out.

"Thank you, sir."

Deitrich nodded at him but did not speak.

Matt got out. He had no idea where he was, and had to ask directions to get back to the First Harrisburg Bank amp; Trust.

He called Jason Washington, was told he was not available, then tried Staff Inspector Weisbach's number and was told he was out sick with a cold. Finally, he called Inspector Peter Wohl.

I really don't want to talk to Wohl.

Wohl listened to his recitation of Calhoun going into a box without there being a record of it, and what he had done about it.

"Call in when you have something," Wohl said.

"Yes, sir."

"I had lunch with Chief Coughlin," Wohl said. "I told him that I felt sure you were not going to do anything stupid in Harrisburg. Don't make a liar of me, Matt."

"I'll try not to."

"Anything happening with your lady friend?"

"No, sir."

Jesus, I hate to lie to him. It makes me want to throw up.

"Take care, Matt," Wohl said and hung up.

Matt hung up, then leaned back in the high-backed executive chair.

His foot struck the attachй case half full of stolen money and knocked it over.

He sat there another minute or two, considering the rami fications of what he had done, and what he was doing.

And then he stood up, reached under the desk for the attachй case, picked it up, and walked out of the bank with it.