Investigators

by W. E. B Griffin

  Jesus, she didn’t! She has never talked to Chenowith about what he did! How do I know that? I don’t know how I know, but I know.

  “What was it? Feminine curiosity?” Matt asked.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “Like I said, have another cracker,” Matt said, and made her another one.

  She took it, put it in her mouth and added wine, and chewed. And smiled.

  “That is good.”

  “I’m surprised your father doesn’t do it. He takes his food seriously.”

  “What you really said was ‘Go home, Susan,’ ” she said.

  “I can’t believe I said something like that,” Matt said. “Not when we still have half a bottle of wine and two pounds of cheese.”

  She smiled.

  “I’m sorry I said that,” Matt said. “I apologize. I really don’t want you to go home.”

  “I’m going to have to. I have to go to work tomorrow. And so do you.”

  “Have another cracker,” he said, and made her another one.

  She took it.

  “I learned something about you tonight I didn’t know,” she said. “That may have had something to do with my uncontrolled curiosity.”

  “Like what?”

  Susan looked into his eyes. “I never connected you with Penny before,” she said.

  “I don’t recall mentioning Penny,” Matt said. “Oh, that’s right. You’re another product of Bennington, aren’t you?”

  “We were friends,” Susan said.

  “How did you come to connect me with Penny?”

  “This is awkward,” Susan said.

  “Go ahead. If we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, we should have no secrets from each other.”

  She smiled at him again.

  “Oddly enough, I seem to like you better when you’re playing the fool,” she said.

  “Thank you very much,” Matt said.

  “When I went to get my car from the garage? And my mother came to the garage?”

  Matt nodded.

  “Mommy told you?”

  “Mommy said I should be especially nice to you because of your tragic loss,” Susan said. “So I naturally asked, ‘What tragic loss?’ ”

  “Okay. So are you going to be nice to me?”

  “What happened to her?”

  “You don’t know?” Matt asked. “She got some bad shit, stuck it in her vein, and ‘So Long, Penelope Detweiler. ’ ”

  “You sounded like a policeman just then.”

  “I am a policeman.”

  “I mean instead of her fiancé.”

  “We never got quite that far,” Matt said. “Close, but not that far.”

  “But it hurt, right?”

  “It was a tragedy. She had everything going for her—”

  “Including you?” Susan interrupted.

  “That was a possibility. But she couldn’t leave it alone. The drugs, I mean. Her parents sent her to a place in Nevada, but it didn’t work.”

  “How did she get started on it?”

  “She started running around with a gangster named Anthony J. DeZego, also known as Tony the Zee. I have no idea how that happened—she was probably looking for a thrill. But I’m sure he’s the bastard that got her hooked.”

  “And he’s still around?”

  “No, he’s not. The mob, for reasons still unknown, blew him away. That’s why Penny wasn’t Daffy’s maid of honor when she married Chad. Penny was with Tony the Zee when they hit him. Shotgun. When Chad and Daffy were married, Penny was in Hahnemann Hospital, full of number eight shot, wrapped up like a mummy. Mummy with a U; as in Egyptian.”

  “My God!”

  “You didn’t go to the wedding? It gave everybody something to talk about.”

  “I couldn’t get away,” Susan said.

  “No, of course you weren’t at the wedding. If you had been, I would have remembered.”

  She looked at him uncomfortably.

  “This is all new to me.”

  “Daffy didn’t tell you?”

  “Daffy told me drugs were involved in Penny’s death. I didn’t pry.”

  They lapsed into silence. Finally, Susan stood up.

  “I really have to go,” she said.

  Matt scrawled his name on the check.

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Susan said. “Stick around. The hunting looks good.”

  “Not to me,” Matt said.

  “I told you, Matt, I’m just not interested.”

  “I remember,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  They walked out of the club and to her Porsche.

  She unlocked the car and stood by the open door and held her hand out. He took it.

  “Drive slow. That uniform may have a quota of tickets to pass out.”

  “I will,” she said. “And thank you for being a good guy at the house tonight.”

  “Good ol’ Whatsisname would never know,” Matt said.

  “Know what?”

  “If you gave me the briefest, most platonic possible kiss good night.”

  “I don’t want to,” Susan said. “Can’t you get that into your head?”

  “A teeny-weeny, absolutely innocent kiss that not even the Pope could object to, much less Mommy and Daddy.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” she said, and moved her head very quickly and brushed his lips.

  Then she stood back and they looked at each other in something close to amazement.

  Jesus H. Christ! Matt wondered. What the hell was that? Lust at first touch?

  Susan quickly crawled into the Porsche, slammed the door closed, started the engine, and drove quickly out of the parking lot without looking at Matt again.

  Matt watched until the car disappeared from sight, exhaled audibly, and went looking for the unmarked Plymouth.

  Mrs. Reynolds came into Susan’s room as she was undressing.

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, we did. He taught me to put Roquefort on a cracker and then take a swallow of wine.”

  “Daddy used to do that,” Mommy said.

  “Did he really?”

  “He seems to be a very nice young man,” Mommy said.

  “For a cop,” Susan said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “At least he’s working, and according to Mr. Emmons, very highly regarded in his chosen profession.”

  “And what else did Mr. Emmons have to report?”

  “He’s very comfortable. I mean, personally, now. And the Paynes are more than comfortable.”

  “Where do you think we should be married, Mommy?” Susan said.

  “Don’t be like that, Susie, you asked!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you going to see more of him?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I think you like him.”

  “Good night, Mommy.”

  Mrs. Reynolds turned as she passed through Susan’s door.

  “Mary-Ellen Porter called,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Mary-Ellen Porter. She said you were together at Bennington.”

  Since I never heard the name Mary-Ellen Porter until this moment, then it has to be either Jennie or Eloise.

  “Oh, of course. Mary-Ellen. What did she want?”

  “She said she would call you at work tomorrow. I told her they didn’t like that, but she said she had to talk to you in the morning.”

  “I wonder what she wants?” Susan asked, more or less rhetorically.

  FIFTEEN

  “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 & Trust Company identified him as “Vice President.”

  Matt had instantl
y 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.