Investigators

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Did you see the movie?”

  “Sir?”

  “ ‘Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner’?”

  “Let me clear the air,” Matt said. “All I want is a free meal.”

  Thomas Reynolds laughed.

  “Is taking a little nip among your vices?”

  “Among my lesser vices, yes, sir.”

  “I was about to make myself another,” Reynolds said, taking Matt’s arm and leading him to a sideboard laid out with bottles and cocktail-hour impedimenta. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “A little of that Famous Grouse would go down nicely, thank you.”

  “The same family’s been making that stuff for six generations. Did you know that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ve been drinking it since college,” Reynolds said as he poured.

  “So has my father,” Matt said. “That’s why I drink it, I suppose.”

  Reynolds handed Matt a glass.

  “There’s ice and water and soda,” he said.

  “A little water, please,” Matt said.

  When that was done, Reynolds tapped his glass against Matt’s.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I admire your courage.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Didn’t Susie tell you her mother is furious?”

  “Oh. Well, my conscience is clear. I wasn’t the one supposed to call home.”

  “And here she is!” Reynolds cried.

  Mrs. Thomas Reynolds, who looked, in her simple black dress and single strand of pearls, as if she had been cast from the same mold as Mrs. Soames T. Browne, Daffy’s mother, came into the room from a side door.

  “Here he is, Grace,” Reynolds said. “His horns are apparently retracted, so be nice to him.”

  “You’re a wicked young man,” Grace Reynolds said.

  “My mother doesn’t think so,” Matt said.

  “And a smarty-pants to boot!”

  “Grace, leave him alone!” Thomas Reynolds ordered.

  “I’m only kidding, and he knows it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But whatever were you thinking about, keeping her out until all hours?”

  “Well, we got pretty tied up in conversation,” Matt said. “I don’t often meet girls with such an intimate knowledge of hog belly futures. Time just flew!”

  “Susan doesn’t know—” she began to protest, in confusion.

  Reynolds laughed again, interrupting her. “He’s telling you, politely, to mind your own business, Grace. You may finally have met your match.”

  “This is an occasion,” Grace Reynolds said, cheerfully changing the subject. “I think I’ll have a martini.”

  Reynolds turned to make her one.

  “Susan’ll be down in just a minute or two, Matt—you don’t mind if I call you by your Christian name, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Susan’s having her shower,” Mrs. Reynolds went on.

  A quite clear image of Susan in her shower popped up in Matt’s brain.

  Cool it. For one thing, she is not at all interested, and Wohl was right. It would be really stupid.

  “That’s nice,” Matt said.

  “I called her at work. I’m not supposed to do that, unless it’s important, but after I asked you to join us, I didn’t want her running off to the movies with a girlfriend, or anything.”

  “And she was no doubt thrilled to hear I was coming?”

  “Actually, it was more surprise than anything else, to tell you the truth,” she said.

  Her husband handed her a martini, and then, suddenly, a warm smile appeared on his face.

  “Princess!” he said.

  Matt turned and saw Susan coming toward them. She was dressed like her mother, Matt thought, and then amended the thought: simple black dresses and single strands of pearls were very nearly a uniform for females of her age and social position.

  Susan smiled—it looked genuine—and gave him her hand.

  “A pleasant surprise, Matt,” she said.

  “Ten thousand horsemen,” Matt said, very seriously, “and all the king’s men could not have kept me away.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Susan said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Susie!” her mother said, in shock.

  “If you’re going to blaspheme like that, Susie, we’ll just have to call the whole thing off,” Matt said piously.

  Susan’s father laughed, and her mother looked confused.

  “I should have warned you, Daddy, he’s an idiot.”

  “So far, I like him.”

  “Daddy, could I have a scotch?” Susan said.

  “Well, as Mommy said, this is an occasion,” he said. “Why not?”

  “Give her a weak one,” Matt ordered, “And only one. Two drinks and she’ll want to stay up until the sun comes up.”>

  “Is that what really happened?” Mrs. Reynolds asked. “Susie had too much to drink?”

  “I did not,” Susan protested automatically.

  “How much?” Mommy demanded to know.

  “Not much, really,” Matt said, “I mean, after the mar tinis—and, of course, the champagne—at Daffy’s, all you had was a couple of tequila surprises in the Mexican place, and then no more than three, well, maybe four, beers in the Dixieland place.”

  “What’s a ‘tequila surprise’?” Mrs. Reynolds asked.

  “They call them that because after the second tequila surprise, nothing surprises you,” Matt said seriously.

  “Mommy,” Susan protested. “He’s pulling your leg.”

  If I called Mother “Mommy,” she’d throw up.

  “I didn’t believe him for a second,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

  “Are you a golfer, Matt?” Mr. Reynolds asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you bring your clubs?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What I was thinking was that I could call the club, and get you a guest membership while you’re here.”

  “That would be very kind of you, sir.”

  “How long will you be here?”

  “That’ll depend on how long it takes me to get what I’m after. A week, or ten days, anyway.”

  “Then I’ll call the club and set you up,” Reynolds said.

  A middle-aged woman in a black dress with a white maid’s apron appeared in the door.

  “Anytime you’re ready, Mrs. Reynolds,” she announced.

  “Thank you, Harriet,” Mr. Reynolds said. “We’ll be right in.”

  The dining room was so small that Matt decided there must be another, larger one, and that they were dining en famille. Confirmation of that came immediately when Mr. Reynolds asked him if “he would like to watch a master of the broiler at work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We can finish our drinks out there,” Reynolds said.

  Reynolds led Matt out to the patio, where a gas charcoal grill was giving off clouds of smoke. What looked like a London broil was on a large white plate.

  “It’s one of the unanswered questions of my life,” Reynolds said as he opened the grill’s top, “whether women are congenitally unable to cope with a charcoal grill, or whether they are all united in a conspiracy to give that impression, and have the men do their cooking for them.”

  “I would bet on the conspiracy theory,” Matt said.

  Reynolds threw the slab of beef on the grill, closed the top, and pushed a button on the stainless-steel Rolex Chronograph on his wrist.

  “I don’t know,” Reynolds said. “I think it’s significant that until very recently, there have been very few females among the great chefs of the world. I think it has to do with the difference in the way men and women think.”

  “How so?”

  “Women are always changing, and improvising. Men solve a problem—for example, how long over a fire of a certain temperature one broils a London broil. In this instance, four minutes on one side, three a
nd a half on the other for medium rare—is that how you like your broil, Matt?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And once we have solved the problem, that’s it. We go on to other problems. Females, on the other hand, cannot resist tampering. If you’re a chef, feeding, say, fifty people in the course of an hour, you can’t tamper. A certain efficiency is required, and, generally speaking, most women just don’t have it in them to be efficient.”

  “I suppose that could be true,” Matt said.

  “I know it’s true,” Reynolds said. “You start thinking about it—I don’t mean just tonight, I mean over the next six months or so, and you’ll find plenty of examples to prove I’m right.”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” Matt agreed.

  Reynolds consulted his watch, and at what was presumably precisely four minutes, opened the grill and flipped the broiler. Then he reset his watch.

  “Do you cook, Matt?”

  “I’m a bachelor,” Matt said. “Sometimes it’s necessary.”

  “You should give it a shot,” Reynolds said. “It’s really quite rewarding.”

  “I don’t have much of a kitchen,” Matt said.

  “Then get one,” Reynolds said. “There are three things that give a man contentment in life. Good shoes, a good mattress, and a decent kitchen.”

  “How about a good woman?”

  “That’s a given,” Reynolds replied. “Of course a good woman.”

  At what was presumably precisely three minutes and thirty seconds after he had flipped the London broil, Reynolds removed it from the grill with an enormous stainless-steel fork and laid it on the plate.

  Then, with Matt following, he marched back into the small dining room, laid the platter on the table, and motioned for Matt to take a seat.

  “The final step,” he announced, “is to let the meat stand for five minutes before slicing. That gives the juices a chance to settle, and while that’s happening, to have a little glass of wine to cleanse the taste buds. I asked Harriet to open some cabernet sauvignon, to let it breathe. I hope that’s all right with you?”

  “That’s fine with me,” Matt said. He smiled at Susan. “Do you cook, Susie?”

  Her mother answered for her.

  “Daddy’s tried to teach her. But Susie really doesn’t seem to care much about it.”

  “My mother was always telling my sister that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach,” Matt said.

  “That would be useful information,” Susan replied, “presuming one was looking for the way to a man’s heart. Did your sister pay attention?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, perhaps she saw her future as a wife and homemaker.”

  “As opposed to doing something useful—say, being a social worker?”

  “Something like that. Nothing wrong with being a wife and homemaker, of course. Each to his own,” Susan said.

  “Actually, my sister is a physician. A psychiatrist, as a matter of fact,” Matt said.

  “He got you, Princess!” Mr. Reynolds said, obviously pleased.

  Susan smiled.

  What is that, Susie, the smile to freeze a volcano?

  Mr. Reynolds filled their glasses.

  “To friends old and new,” he said, raising his.

  He consulted his watch, had another sip of wine, consulted his watch again, and, the requisite five minutes apparently having passed, skillfully sliced the London broil with an enormous French chef’s knife.

  The meat was perfectly done, and Matt said so.

  “What I was saying before, Matt. Solve a problem, file the answer away for future use, and go on to the next problem.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Daddy,” Susan said, “I was just thinking. I’m sure Matt—he’s here working, not on vacation—doesn’t want to make a long evening of it.”

  “I get by on very little sleep, actually,” Matt said.

  “And,” Susan went on, ignoring him, “he doesn’t know where the club is. What I was thinking, Daddy, was that after dinner, he could follow me there in his car, we could have our coffee there, and he would know how to find the club.”

  “Good idea,” her father said. “How’s that sound to you, Matt?”

  “Sounds fine to me,” Matt said.

  “Then it’s done,” Reynolds said. “On to the next problem to be solved, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Matt, you haven’t told us what you’re doing in Harrisburg,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

  “No, I guess I haven’t,” Matt said.

  Reynolds laughed.

  “I didn’t mean to be nosy,” Mrs. Reynolds said in a hurt tone.

  “I’m looking for ill-gotten gains,” Matt said.

  “If I didn’t think you’d think me nosy, I’d ask what that means,” Mrs. Reynolds asked.

  “There was a police officer in Philadelphia who took money he shouldn’t have taken,” Matt said. “We suspect he may have hidden it up here.”

  “Really?” Reynolds asked.

  “I don’t really expect to find it,” Matt said. “But someone has to look, and I am the junior man on the totem pole.”

  “I think you’re being far too modest, Matt,” Mr. Reynolds said.

  “Sir?”

  “On the night in question,” Reynolds said, making the cliché a joke, “and immediately thereafter, when we were still thinking of you as the ogre who had run off with the Princess, I asked Charley Emmons about you, and he said that you were—you had earned the right to be—the fair-haired boy of the Philadelphia Police Department.”

  “Really?” his wife said. “You didn’t say anything to me, Daddy.”

  “Among other things, Charley said your father told him you ranked number two on the detectives’ exam when you took it. First time out.”

  “Among what other things, Daddy?” Susan asked.

  “Well—there’s no need for you to feel embarrassed, Matt; you didn’t mention any of this yourself—he’s been in two gun battles, and won both of them. Killed both criminals who were trying to kill him. He has two citations for valor, and one for outstanding performance of duty.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Reynolds asked.

  “I’m impressed,” Susan said. “You want to tell us about the gun battles, Matt?”

  “No, ” Matt said simply.

  “I can understand that,” Mr. Reynolds said. “And I don’t think you should push him about that, Princess. But my whole point here is that I really don’t think Matt was sent here because he’s low man on the totem pole. His superiors, I am sure, sent him here because they think he can find whatever he’s looking for. He’s a very highly regarded detective.”

  Matt looked at Susan and saw something—more likely alarm rather than surprise—that hadn’t been in her eyes before.

  Thanks a lot, Daddy, for triggering Princess Susie’s alarm.

  Christ, have you—goddamn you, Daddy—blown this whole thing?

  Quick, change the subject.

  “How do you like your Porsche, Susie?”

  That wasn’t brilliant, but it certainly is a change of subject.

  “I like it fine,” she said. “How did you know I have a Porsche?”

  “Mommy and I really wish she didn’t,” Daddy said. “That’s really too much car for a girl.”

  “Oh, I agree,” Matt said.

  “How did you know I have a Porsche?” Susan repeated. “And it is not too much car for a girl. Sometimes, Daddy!”

  “Daffy told me,” Matt said. “Daffy said, ‘You’ll like Susie. She has a car just like yours.’ ”

  “You have a Porsche?”

  “Uh-huh. A silver 911.”

  “Susie’s is fire-engine red,” Mommy said. “She’s always getting speeding tickets.”

  “They—Porsche 911s—are known in the law-enforcement community as AHN cars,” Matt said.

  “Excuse me?” Daddy said.

  “Arrest Him—or of course, Her—Now. If he—she—is not s
peeding now, he—she—will be in the next ten minutes,”

  “That’s terrible,” Mommy said.

  “Unfortunately, it’s probably true,” Susan said.

  “Would you like some more broil, Matt?” Daddy asked.

  “No, thank you, sir. I’ve really had enough. And Susie’s right. I really should be on my way.”

  “Well, remember what I taught you. Four minutes, flip, three and a half minutes, and then let it stand for five.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  Mommy and Daddy came out onto the verandah with them. Susan went to the garage for her car.

  Mommy gave Matt her cheek to kiss, and said she hoped to see him again soon. And then she said she had something she had forgotten to tell Susie, and ran toward the garage after her.

  Daddy shook Matt’s hand and said he was sure Matt knew Susie had to be at work early.

  “Yes, sir, I know.”

  “I’m going to call the club now, so they’ll expect you. I want you to feel free to use it. The food’s good.”

  “Maybe Susie would go to dinner with me there,” Matt said.

  “All she can say is no. But I think she’d like that.”

  The garage door opened and Susan’s Porsche emerged.

  Matt shook Daddy’s hand again and got into his Plymouth.

  Susan drove off down the driveway so fast that Matt wondered for a moment if she was trying to lose him. On reflection, under the circumstances, that didn’t seem likely.

  Five minutes later, by which time Matt had decided Princess Susie had a really heavy foot, the red and blue lights of a bubble-gum machine appeared in his rear window.

  Shit! That’s all I need!

  He flicked on the turn signal, slowed, and moved to the shoulder of the road.

  The patrol car—there was a reflective HARRISBURG POLICE sign on the trunk—went by him without slowing. Matt pulled back onto the pavement and saw, five hundred yards or so down the road, that the uniform had pulled the Porsche over.

  He drove the five hundred yards and pulled in behind the patrol car. He took his ID folder from his jacket pocket and got from behind the wheel, holding the ID so the badge would be visible.

  The uniform looked concerned. When he walked toward Matt, he had his right hand where it could quickly un-holster his pistol.

  Susan, Matt saw, had not gotten out of her Porsche.

  Matt held out the ID so the uniform could see it.