When they were on the Parkway, headed east, O'Dowd said, "Give them a call, tell them where we're going."
Matt picked up the microphone, and then started to open the glove compartment to make sure he was on the right frequency.
"We're on the J-band," O'Dowd said, reading his mind. "And this is the boss's car."
"Highway One-A to Radio," Matt said.
"Highway One-A," the Highway radio dispatcher came back.
"Have you got anything for us?"
"Nothing, Highway One-A."
Matt laid the microphone back on the seat.
"Predictably, I suppose," O'Dowd said, "the only really interesting thing your sister said was when you were on the phone. She said she thinks this guy is asexual. I asked her if she thought that was the cause of his problems, and she said no, she thought it was something else, but that he was asexual, and we should keep that in mind. Do you have any idea what she meant by that?"
"Sergeant, I rarely have any idea what my sister is talking about."
"Have I pissed you off somehow, Payne?"
"Of course not."
"What happened to Jerry'?"
"It finally dawned on me that I was out of line at 30^th Street Station this morning. A rookie detective should not call a sergeant by his first name."
"I'm not at all shy. If you had been out of line, I would have let you know."
"Thank you."
"So what do you think your sister meant when she said we should keep in mind that this guy is asexual?"
"Beats the shit out of me, Jerry."
O'Dowd laughed. "Better," he said. "Better."
FIFTEEN
Bookbinder's Restaurant provided a private dining room for the luncheon party, and senior members of the landmark restaurant's hierarchy stopped by twice to shake hands and make sure everything was satisfactory.
But, Matt thought, that's as far as manifestations of respect for the upper echelons of the Police Department are going to go. They might grab the tab if Coughlin or Lowenstein came in here alone. But they are not going to pick up the tab for a party as large as this one. For one thing, it would be too much money, and for another, it would set an unfortunate precedent: Hey, let's get the guys together and go down to Bookbinder's for a free lobster!
So what does that mean? That we go Dutch treat, which would make the most sense, or is Peter Wohl going to get stuck with the tab?
Fortunately, that is not my problem. So why am I worrying about it?
He concentrated on his steamed clams, boiled lobster, and on making his two beers last through everything.
It would be inappropriate for Matthew M. Payne, the junior police officer present, to get sloshed during lunch with his betters.
Second junior police officer, he corrected himself: I am no longer low man on the Special Operations totem pole. Officer Tom O'Mara is.
O'Mara, Matt thought, somewhat surprised, does not seem at all uncomfortable in the presence of all the white shirts, and heavyhitter while shirts, at that. You'd think he would be; for the ordinary cop, chief inspectors are sort of a mix between the cardinal of the Spanish Inquisition and God himself.
But, when you think twice, Tom O 'Mara is not an ordinary police officer in the sense that Charley McFadden was-and for that matter, detective or not, still is-an ordinary cop. He belongs to the club. His father is a captain. The reputation is hereditary: Until proven otherwise, the son of a good cop is a good cop.
Some of that, now that I think about it, also applies to me. In a sense, I am a hereditary member of the club. Because of Denny Coughlin, and/or because both my biological father and my Uncle Dutch got killed on duty.
The correct term is "fraternity," an association of brothers, from the Latin word meaning brother, as in Delta Phi Omicron at the University of Pennsylvania, where, despite your noble, two years service as Treasurer, you didn't have a fucking clue what the word " fraternity" really meant.
"You look deep in thought, Matty," Chief Coughlin said, breaking abruptly into his mental meandering. "You all right?"
"I don't think I should have had the second dozen steamed clams," Matt replied. "But aside from that, I'm fine."
"You should have three dozen, Payne," Mr. Larkin said. "I'm paying."
"No, you're not!" Staff Inspector Peter Wohl said.
"We'll have none of that!" Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl said.
"Don't be silly, Charley," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, just so we all stay friends," Larkin said, "I'll flip anybody else here with a representation allowance. Loser pays."
"What the hell is a 'representation allowance'?" Chief Wohl asked.
"Your tax dollars at work, Augie," Larkin said. "When high-ranking Secret Service people such as myself are forced to go out with the local Keystone Cops, we're supposed to keep them happy by grabbing the tab. They call it a 'representation allowance.'"
"Screw you, Charley," Coughlin said, laughing. "'Keystone Cops'!"
"Shut up, Denny. Let him pay," Chief Lowenstein said. "But order another round first."
There was laughter.
"Except for him," Peter Wohl said, pointing at Matt. "I want him sober when he translates that psychological profile into English."
"Sir, I can go out to the Schoolhouse right now, if you'd like."
"What I was thinking, Matt," Wohl said seriously, "was that the most efficient way to handle it would be for you to take it to your apartment and translate it there. Then O'Mara could run it by my dad's house, where we can have a look at it. Then Tom can take it out to the Schoolhouse, retype it, and duplicate it. By then Captain Pekach will have been able to set up distribution by Highway."
"Yes, sir," Matt said. "You don't want me to come by Chief Wohl's house?"
"I don't see any reason for you to come out there," Wohl said.
Am I being told I don't belong there, or is he giving me time off?
"Yes, sir," Matt said. "Thank you for lunch, Mr. Larkin."
"Thanks for the ride, Matt," Mr. Larkin said.
****
The only place there was room in Matt's apartment for a desk was in his bedroom, and even there he had to look long and hard for a desk small enough to fit. He'd finally found an unpainted "student's desk" in Sears Roebuck that fit, but wasn't quite sturdy enough for the standard IBM electric typewriter he had inherited from his father's office. Every time the carriage slammed back and forth for a new line, the desk shifted with a painful squeak.
Tom O'Mara made himself comfortable on Matt's bed, first by sitting on it, and then, when he became bored with that, by lying down on it and watching television with the sound turned off, so as not to disturb Matt's mental labor.
It took him the better part of an hour to translate first Amy's really incredibly bad handwriting, and then to reorganize what she had written, and then finally to incorporate what Wohl and Larkin had brought up in their meeting. Finally, he was satisfied that he had come up with what Wohl and Larkin wanted. He typed one more copy, pulled it from the typewriter, and handed it to O'Mara.
This individual is almost certainly:
Mentally unbalanced, believing that he has a special relationship with God. He may believe that God speaks to him directly.
IMPORTANTLY: He would not make a public announcement of this relationship.
Highly intelligent.
Well educated, most likely a college graduate, but almost certainly has some college education.
Well spoken, possessed of a good vocabulary.
An expert typist, with access to a current model IBM typewriter (one with a "type ball").
This individual is probably: A male Caucasian. Twenty-five to forty years old.
Asexual (that is, he's unmarried, and has no wife, or homo- or hetero-sexual partner or sex life).
"A loner" (that is, has very few, or no friends). Living alone.
Neat and orderly, possibly to an excessive degree, and dresses conservativ
ely.
Of ordinary, or slightly less than ordinary, physical appearance. A chess player, not a football player.
Self-assured, possibly to an excessive degree. (That is, tends to become annoyed, even angry, with anyone who disagrees with him.)
An Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Methodist, (less likely, a Roman Catholic) but not an active member of any church group.
Works in an office. A nondrinker.
Either a nonsmoker or a chain cigarette smoker.
This individual is possibly:
An engineer, either civil or electronic, or an accountant, or someone who works with figures.
A veteran, possibly discharged for medical (including psychological) reasons. Possibly a former junior officer.
Someone who has come to the attention of the authorities as the result of a complaint he has made when he has felt he has been wronged. (For example, complaining about neighbor's loud party, or loud radio, damage to his lawn, et cetera, by neighborhood children.)
As O'Mara read it, Matt glanced up at the silent TV mounted on a hospital-room shelf over the door. O'Mara had been watching an old cops-and-robbers movie.
I wonder how he can tell the good guys from the bad guys? They all look like 1930s-era gangsters.
"Your sister was able to come up with all this just from that nutty note that screwball wrote?" O'Mara asked, visibly awed.
"My sister is a genius. It runs in the family."
"Shit!" O'Mara said.
After a pause, Matt thought, while he decided I was not serious.
"Well, I'd better run this out to the brass," O'Mara said, and finally pushed himself upright and got off the bed.
At the head of the stairs, O'Mara stopped. "How do I get out?" Matt recalled that O'Mara had parked Wohl's car in front of the building. Despite the NO PARKING signs, no white hat was going to ticket what was obviously the unmarked car of a senior white shirt. He had unlocked the plate-glass door to the lobby with his key, and then locked it again after them. It would now be necessary to repeat the process to let O'Mara out.
"I'll let you out," Matt said, and went down the stairs ahead of him.
****
Matt went into the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and went into the living room, slumped in his chair and picked up a copyof Playboy. He looked at his answering machine. The red,You Have Messages light was flashing.
I really don't want to hear my messages. But on the other hand, Wohl may be wondering what the hell took me so long.
He reached over and pushed the PLAY button.
There were six calls, five of them from people People, hell, Evelyn is at it again!
– who had not chosen to leave a message, and one from Jack Matthews, who wanted him to call the first chance he got.
And I know what you want, Jack Matthews. The FBI wants to know what the hell the Keystone Cops are doing with the Secret Service big shot from Washington. Fuck you!
As the tape was rewinding, the doorbell, the one from the third floor, at the foot of his stairs, buzzed.
Now what, O'Mara? Did you forget something?
He got out of his chair, and pushed the button that operated the solenoid, and then looked down the stairs to see what O'Mara wanted.
Mrs. Evelyn Glover came through the door and smiled up at him.
Jesus H. Christ!
"Am I disturbing anything?"
"No," Matt lied. "I was just about to call you. Come on up."
There was an awkward moment at the head of the stairs, when Matt considered if he had some sort of obligation to kiss her and decided against it.
"I guess I shouldn't have done this, should I?" Evelyn asked.
"Don't be silly, I'm glad to see you. Would you like a drink?"
"Yes. Yes, I would."
"Cognac?"
"Yes, please."
She followed him into the kitchen, and stood close, but somewhat awkwardly, as he found the bottle and a snifter and poured her a drink.
"Aren't you having one?"
"I've got a beer in the living room."
"I owe you an apology," Evelyn said.
"How come?"
"I didn't really believe you when you said you had to work," she said. "I thought you were… trying to get rid of me."
"Why would I want to do that?"
Because even as stupid as you are in matters of the heart, you can see where this one is about to get out of control.
"But then, when I happened to drive by and saw the police car parked in front…"
"He just left."
As if you didn't know. What have you been doing, Evelyn, circling the block?
"Forgive me?" Evelyn asked coyly.
"There's nothing to forgive."
She had moved close to him, and now there was no question at all that she expected to be kissed.
There was just a momentary flicker of her tongue when he kissed her. She pulled her face away just far enough to be able to look into his eyes and smiled wickedly. He kissed her again, and this time she responded hungrily, her mouth open on his, her body pressing against his.
When she felt him stiffen, she caught his hand, directed it to her breast, and then moved her hand to his groin.
She moved her mouth to his ear, stuck her tongue in, and whispered huskily, pleased, "Well, he's not mad at me, is he?"
"Obviously not," Matt said.
To hell with it!
He put his hand under her sweater and moved it up to the fastener on her brassiere.
****
Marion Claude Wheatley turned the rental car back in to the Hertz people at the airport in plenty of time to qualify for the special rate, but there was, according to the mental defective on duty, 212 miles on the odometer, twelve more than was permitted under the rental agreement. The turn-in booth functionary insisted that Marion would have to pay for the extra miles at twenty-five cents a mile. He was stone deaf to Marion's argument that he'd made the trip fifty times before, and it had never exceeded 130 miles.
It wasn't the three dollars, it was the principle of the matter. Obviously, the odometer in the car was in error, and that was Hertz's fault, not his. Finally, a supervisor was summoned from the airport. He was only minimally brighter than the mental defective at the turnin booth, but after Marion threatened to turn the entire matter over not only to Hertz management, but also to the Better Business Bureau and the police, he finally backed down, and Marion was able to get in a taxi and go home.
When he got to the house, Marion carefully checked everything, paying particular attention to the powder magazine, to make sure there had been no intruders during his absence.
Then he unpacked the suitcases, and took his soiled linen, bedclothes, and his overalls to the basement, and ran them through the washer, using the ALL COLD and LOW WATER settings. He watched the machine as it went through the various cycles, using the time to make up a list of things he would need in the future.
First of all, he would need batteries, and he made a note to be sure to check the expiration date to be sure that he would be buying the freshest batteries possible for both the detonation mechanism and for the radio transmitter.
He would need more chain, as well. He was very pleased to learn how well the chain had functioned. He would need six lengths of chain, five for the five devices, and one as a reserve. Each length had to be between twenty and twenty-two inches in length.
He would need two 50-yard rolls of duct tape, and two 25-yard rolls of a good quality electrical tape, tape that would have both high electrical and adhesive qualities. He wouldn't need anywhere near even twenty-five yards of electrical tape, but one tended to misplace small rolls of tape, and he would have a spare if that happened. One tended to lose the larger rolls of duct tape less often, but it wouldn't hurt to be careful.
And he would need five pieces of luggage in which to place the devices. As he had driven back from the Pine Barrens, Marion had decided that what had been "AWOL bags" in the Army would be
the thing to get. They were of canvas construction, nine or ten inches wide, probably eighteen inches or two feet long, and closed with a zipper.
It would be necessary to get them with brass, or steel, zippers, not plastic or aluminum. By attaching a wire between a steel or brass zipper and the antennae of the devices, it would be possible to increase the sensitivity of the radio receivers' antennae.
He would also need an attache case in which to carry the shortwave transmitter. He had seen some for sale in one of the trashy stores along Market Street, east of City Hall. They were supposed to be genuine leather, but Marion doubted that, considering the price they were asking. It didn't matter, really, but there was no sense in buying a genuine leather attache case when one that looked like leather would accomplish the same purpose.
Marion made two more notes, one to remind himself not to buy the AWOL bags all in one place, which might raise questions, and the other to make sure they all were of different colors and, if possible, of slightly different design.
He was finished making up the list a good five minutes before the washing machine completed the last cycle, and he was tempted to just leave the sheets and everything in the machine, and come back later and hang them up to dry, but then decided that the best way to go, doing anything, was to finish one task completely before going on to another.
He waited patiently until the washing machine finally clunked to a final stop, and then removed everything and hung it on a cord stretched across the basement. Things took longer, it seemed like forever, to dry in the basement, but on the other hand, no one had ever stolen anything from the cord in the basement the way things were stolen from the cord in the backyard.
When he came out of the basement, he changed into a suit and tie, and then walked to the 30^th Street Station. He wanted to make sure that his memory wouldn't play tricks on him about the general layout of the station, and what was located where. He had been coming to the 30^th Street Station since he had been a child, and therefore should know it like the back of his hand. But the operative word there was " should," and it simply made sense to have another careful look, in case changes had been made or there was some other potential problem.
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