Investigators
Page 30
“You don’t need the money. You have enough now.”
“Good lawyers are very expensive, Susie,” Bryan said reasonably.
“You’ve got more than enough for a good lawyer,” Susan said. “I can’t get away so soon again without having people ask questions.”
“Think of something. You’re an intelligent girl. And we’re in this together, Susie.”
What is that, a not so lightly veiled threat?
“I’m not going to debate this with you,” Susan replied. “There are reasons I can’t make a trip there anytime soon.”
“I’m waiting to hear them.”
“Well, for one thing, I’ve got a cop on my back.”
That comment obviously set him back. There was a perceptible pause before he replied:
“Don’t you think you should tell me about that, Susie? What makes you think the cops are onto you? Why should they be? Are you suffering from paranoia?”
“I didn’t say ‘cops,’ I said ‘cop,’ singular.”
“Where did he come from?” Bryan asked, and Susan detected concern in his voice.
As hard as the macho son of a bitch is trying to hide it.
“Philadelphia,” she said.
“A Philadelphia cop in Harrisburg?” Bryan asked doubtfully, and then went on patronizingly: “Susie, Philadelphia cops have no authority outside Philadelphia.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that’s so. You’re sure he’s a cop, and not FBI? How did he get onto you, anyway?”
“He’s a Philadelphia cop. Actually, a detective. I met him at Chad Nesbitt’s birthday party.”
“What was a cop doing at Mr. Canned Chicken Soup the Fourth’s birthday party?”
“He’s Mr. Canned Chicken Soup the Fourth’s oldest friend, and godfather to their baby.”
“And he’s a cop?” Bryan asked dubiously again.
“Detective.”
“Susie, this sounds unreal.”
“It feels unreal. But there it is. Every time I look in the mirror, there he is, on my back, making sophomoric jokes.”
“He came on to you?”
“He came on to me, and I put him down, and then—to hell with it. It’s a long story. The last chapter is that the Philadelphia police sent him here on some kind of an investigation—”
“So he says,” Bryan interrupted. “That could be a story. I suppose it did occur to you that he may not be what he says he is?”
“Now who’s sounding paranoid? I have good reason to believe he’s here for the reason he gives.”
“We can’t be too careful,” Bryan said seriously. “The FBI is not always as stupid as generally believed.”
“Anyway, he called the house and my mother invited him for dinner. And I’m going to have dinner with him tonight. There was no way I could get out of it.”
“How hard did you try?”
“Go to hell, Bryan,” Susan said. And then, before he could reply, Susan went on, “I’ve got to get off the phone. All you have to understand is that with the cop on my back, I can’t go anywhere near you.”
“Susie, let’s think about—” Bryan responded.
Susan hung up on him.
SIXTEEN
Susan Reynolds had to stop for a red light near the Penn-Harris hotel, and saw Matt Payne before he saw her. And when she saw him, her heart jumped.
He was leaning on the brass sign next to the revolving door, legs crossed, reading the newspaper. He was wearing a very well-cut glen plaid suit, a crisp white button-down-collar shirt, and gleaming loafers.
The son of a bitch is good-looking, she thought. And that is a very nice suit. Whatever he looks like, he doesn’t look like what comes to mind when you hear the word “cop.”
The light changed and she drove toward the hotel, then blew the horn to attract his attention.
She saw him lower the newspaper to look around, and then he saw her. A wide smile appeared on his face, and she remembered what he had said about her not having any trouble spotting him: “I’ll be the handsome devil with the look of joyous anticipation in his eyes.”
She told herself: Don’t hold your breath, Matt Payne, waiting for the satisfaction of your joyous anticipation. That just isn’t going to happen.
She pulled to the curb, and he opened the door and got in.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She pulled into traffic.
I have no idea where we’re going.
“It smells good in here,” Matt said.
“And you just love women who wear French perfume, right?”
“I was talking about the smell of the leather,” Matt replied. “Peculiarly Porsche, so to speak.”
My God! He either thinks very quickly, or he really was talking about the damned leather.
He leaned close to her and sniffed.
“But now that you mention it, I do love women who wear French perfume.”
And I can smell him, too. I don’t know what that aftershave is, but he didn’t get a large economy bottle of it for ninety-eight cents in Woolworth’s.
And he’s freshly shaven. He probably took a shower and a shave, getting all ready for the big date.
I wonder what he looks like in the shower?
What’s the matter with you? Stop that!
“Is where we’re going far?” Matt asked. “More than, say, two miles?”
“I haven’t made up my mind where we’re going. Only that it’s not going to take long.”
“Whatever you decide is fine with me, fair maiden. But keep in mind the two-mile limitation.”
“What’s with two miles? What are you talking about.”
“These are marvelous machines, fair maiden, the ne plus ultra of German automotive engineering. But even a 911 requires what the Germans call, I think, ‘petrol.’ Or, maybe, essence. It’s needed, you see, to make the pistons go up and down.”
Susan dropped her eyes to the dashboard. The red FUEL WARNING light was blinking, and the needle on the gas gauge pointed below Empty.
“Shit!” Susan said, and started looking for a gas station.
“These are a real bitch to start after you’ve run them completely dry,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Among your many other qualifications, you’re a Porsche expert, right?” she snapped.
“Maybe ‘journeyman craftsman’ would be more accurate.”
“I’m touched by your modesty,” she said.
“And well you should be,” he said.
She pulled into a gas station and stopped at a line of pumps. Matt opened the door and got out.
The attendant appeared.
“You mind if I do it myself?” Matt asked.
“Help yourself,” the attendant said.
“How about getting me a little rag? I want to check the oil, too.”
“You got it.”
“The oil’s fine,” Susan said.
“An ounce of prevention is worth several thousand dollars’ worth of cure,” Matt proclaimed solemnly. “Pop the lid, fair maiden.”
“Shit,” Susan said, and got out of the car to check the oil herself.
“The way you do that,” Matt called to her from the gas pump, “is that there’s a long thin metal thing that fits in a hole.”
“Screw you, Matt.”
“Who taught you all the dirty words? Good ol’ Whatsisname?”
She pulled the dipstick, wiped it, dipped it again and looked at it in disbelief, and dipped it again. And again there was only a trace of motor oil on it.
“How much does it need?” Matt asked, and when she looked at him, he added, “I was watching your face.”
“A lot,” she confessed.
“What do you run in it?” he asked.
“Pennzoil 10W-30,” she said.
“Good stuff,” he said. He turned to the attendant. “Two, and possibly three, quarts of your very best Penn zoil 10W-30, please.”
“You got it,” the attendant said, smiling at him.
Matt put the oil in. It took three quarts, and half of a fourth.
“It was just a little low, I would say,” Matt said.
“Okay. You were right and I was wrong. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, I guess, and just didn’t check.”
“I have a sister who does the same sort of thing,” he said with a smile.
“Anyway, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Can I make a request?”
“Request.”
“A truce until after dinner? Hostilities can resume immediately after the second cup of coffee.”
“Okay,” she said after a just perceptible hesitation.
Why not? What’s playing the bitch with him going to accomplish?
“Deal?” Matt asked.
He put out his hand and, without thinking about it, she took it. His hand was warm and strong.
“Deal,” Susan said. She was aware her voice sounded strange.
“Good,” he said. “Then pay the man, fair maiden, and we’ll be on our way.”
He got behind the wheel and closed the door.
“What makes you think I’m going to let you drive?” Susan demanded.
“Because we are in a state of truce,” Matt replied. “And also maybe because you are grateful I kept you from running out of gas.”
Why not? Same reason as before.
She gave the attendant her credit card, signed the form, and got in beside him. She was a trifle amused at the care with which he adjusted the driver’s seat.
He pulled out of the station, and she saw that he was better working the gears than she was.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the only decent restaurant I know around here. Except, of course, the Penn-Harris. They gave me a very nice breakfast. My lunch was a disaster.”
“Where is this only decent restaurant?”
“Little town called Hershey,” Matt said. “They make chocolate there, you know.”
“I don’t want to go all the way out to Hershey.”
“Not to worry, fair maiden. We now have a full tank of petrol. And I’m driving.”
Susan elected not to make an issue of it.
He got on U.S. 422 and immediately pushed harder on the accelerator.
“You’re going to get a ticket,” Susan said.
“Fear not, fair maiden.”
The speedometer was indicating seventy-five when there was the sound of a siren and the image of the flashing lights of a bubble-gum machine on a state trooper’s car in the rearview mirror.
Matt immediately slowed, but did not pull off the highway onto the shoulder. The state trooper pulled alongside. Matt held his identification folder up for the trooper to see.
The trooper made a slow-it-down gesture. Matt nodded his willingness to do so. The trooper’s car slowed and fell behind. Susan turned and looked out the window. The trooper had pulled his car off the road, and was about to make a U-turn back toward Harrisburg.
Back to give a ticket to some ordinary citizen for going five miles over the speed limit.
“That’s outrageous!” Susan said indignantly.
“That’s what’s known as professional courtesy,” Matt said. “You know, like sharks don’t eat lawyers?”
“It’s an abuse of power!”
“It’s legal,” he said. “Traffic officers have the option of issuing a citation or a warning. He opted to give me a warning.”
“Jesus!” she said in contempt.
Five minutes later, with the speedometer indicating sixty-five—fifteen miles over the posted limit—Matt said:
“I really like the smell in here. And I am not talking about the leather.”
Susan didn’t reply.
He drove into the town of Hershey. The delightful smell of cocoa beans overwhelmed the smell of her perfume, and he told her so.
“That may not be a bad thing,” he said. “Have you ever thought of rubbing a Hershey bar behind your ears? Or someplace more feminine? You might be able to save some money that way. What you’re wearing has to be awfully expensive.”
“No,” she said as sternly as she could manage. But she had to smile.
He pulled into the parking lot behind the Hotel Hershey.
Susan started to open the door.
“Wait a minute,” Matt ordered.
She turned and looked at him, and obediently slumped back into her seat.
He turned, so that his back was resting on the door. His hand and arm came to rest on the back of her seat. She could feel the warmth of his hand.
But it’s not as if he’s trying to put his arm around me or pull me over to him or anything.
“What?” she asked.
“It could have been one of those unexplained phenomena one hears about, something that happens only once in ten thousand years,” Matt said.
He’s talking about that damned kiss. Goddamn him, he knows what it did to me.
“What could?”
“On the other hand, it could well be a harbinger of heaven on earth,” Matt said.
“Harbinger of heaven on earth”? My God! Give credit where it’s due. That’s one hell of a line.
“I think, before we have our supper, in the interest of scientific research, let the chips fall where they may, so to speak, we should attempt the experiment again.”
“Matt . . .”
“You agree?”
God, if he puts his hand on my shoulder, if he touches me, I don’t know what I’ll do.
“Matt . . .”
Matt pushed himself away from the door far enough so that he could reach her right shoulder with the balls of his fingers.
“Matt, I don’t want to kiss you, I’m not going—”
And then she was on his side of the Porsche, the gearshift jabbing her painfully in the back. She was breathing heavily, looking up at him, seeing that his face was really smeared with her lipstick.
“Well,” Matt said. “Now we know, don’t we?”
“The gearshift,” Susan said.
“Oh! Sorry!” he said, and she was aware they had moved on the seat, and that they were now close enough to conduct the experiment again.
And she became aware that his hand was under her blouse.
Why don’t I slap his face, or at least push his hand away?
“Don’t,” she ordered, and heard in her voice that it was a lie.
He kissed her again.
I’ve got to stop this! Why don’t I just push him away?
And then she was looking at his face again, aware that she was breathing heavily. And then she was horrified to hear herself challenging, bitchily, “Well, you seem to have recovered very well from your tragic loss of Penny, haven’t you?”
“I’ve thought about that,” he replied immediately, matter-of-factly.
God, was he thinking about that, too?
“I don’t think I ever loved Penny. She needed me. She was really fucked up. I got sucked into that. It was the, quote, decent, unquote, thing to do. Doing the right thing keeps getting me in trouble.”
What did he say? “She needed me. She was really fucked up. I got sucked into that”?
He looked down at her again.
“Don’t be a bitch, Susan.”
“Sorry,” she heard herself say, and that sounded very honest to her ears.
He kissed her again, and this time she became aware that the hand that had been on her breast was now between her legs.
Oh, God, I’m all wet! He’ll know!
She freed herself violently, and sat erect in her seat and put her clothes in order.
My bra is loose. Did he unfasten it?
“I am not going to do this in a car,” she said righteously.
“Sorry, I got carried away,” he said.
That sounded sincere.
> Matt opened his door and got out of the car.
What’s this? What’s he doing?
He walked around the rear of the Porsche and opened her door.
If he thinks I’m just going to go in there and have dinner . . .
She swung her feet out of the Porsche and got out.
She looked at his lipstick-smeared face, then for a moment into his eyes, and then quickly averted hers.
I’m not going in there with him looking like that!
She took the crisp white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and rubbed at his lips. When the lipstick didn’t want to come off, she spat on his handkerchief and resumed rubbing with it.
I can’t believe I did that.
“All right,” she said finally.
He nodded and took her elbow and led her through a rear entrance into the hotel building, and down a corridor into, finally, the lobby. She saw a green neon arrow and the word “Restaurant.”
God, my hair must be a mess, and my face is probably as smeared with lipstick as his was and everybody in the restaurant will see.
“Wait,” Matt ordered.
He left her.
Where’s he going? God, he’s going to the desk. He doesn’t actually expect me to go to a hotel room with him. I can’t believe that this is happening. I won’t let it happen. I’ll just go back to the car . . .
Two minutes later, he was back, swinging a hotel key.
“We have a small suite overlooking the tenth green,” he announced.
Susan nodded her head.
He took her arm and led her to the elevator.
I can’t believe I’m doing this!
The elevator operator, an old man, held his hand out to look at the key. When the elevator stopped and the door opened, the old man said, “To the right, sir. About halfway down.”
“Thank you,” Matt said, and waved Susan out of the elevator in front of him.
He unlocked the door to the suite, went inside, found and snapped on the lights, and turned to Susan, still standing in the corridor.
Their eyes met, and again she averted hers, and then went through the door.
She stopped six feet from the door and looked at him.
“What did you say about Penny?” Susan asked.
He looked confused, searched his memory, and shrugged.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“You said Penny needed you. That she was really fucked up. That you got sucked into it.”