The Investigators Part 31

"See if Lieutenant Deitrich's got a minute, will you, please, Agnes?" he ordered, and then turned to Matt. "Deitrich, a good man, heads up our White Collar Crime Division. He can get you into the banks."

Deitrich, a very large, nearly bald man in his forties, came into Mueller's office two minutes later.

"Paul, say h.e.l.lo to Detective Matt Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department," Chief Mueller said.

Deitrich examined Matt carefully before putting out his enormous hand.

"How are you?" he said.

His handshake was surprisingly gentle.

"You remember reading in the papers about that dirty Vice lieutenant-what was his name, Payne?"

"Meyer, sir," Matt furnished.

Deitrich nodded his head, confirming Matt's snap decision that Lieutenant Deitrich was a man who didn't say very much.

"The Philadelphia Police Department thinks that ex-Lieutenant Meyer may have some money and/or some property hidden up here," Mueller went on. "And sent Payne up to see if he can find it."

Deitrich nodded again.

"That's a righteous job so far as I'm concerned, so I have offered him our full support."

Deitrich nodded again.

"And Detective Payne comes with a first-cla.s.s recommendation from a mutual friend of ours. You getting the picture, Paul?"

Again the ma.s.sive head bobbed once.

"And, for the obvious reasons, he wants to do this as quietly as possible," Mueller said.

"I told him, for openers, that you can get him into the banks," Mueller went on, "and-I just thought of this-you have friends in the county courthouse if he wants to check property transfers."

"When do you want to start?" Deitrich asked.

"How about tomorrow morning?" Chief Mueller answered for him. "Get him a chance to get settled in his hotel. The Penn-Harris."

The ma.s.sive head bobbed.

"I'll make some calls this afternoon," Deitrich said.

"Thank you."

"You'll be moving around," Mueller said. "What kind of a car are you driving?"

"A Plymouth."

"Yours, or the department's?"

"An unmarked car."

"What year? Does it have official plates?"

"A new one," Matt said. "Blue. Regular civilian plates."

"They must like you in Philadelphia," Deitrich said. "Before you leave, get me the plate numbers. I'll have the word put out that a suspicious, not-one-of-ours unmarked car is to be left alone."

"Thank you."

Deitrich wordlessly took a business card from his wallet and handed it to Matt.

"Thank you," Matt repeated.

"Nine o'clock?" Deitrich asked.

"Nine's fine with me."

Deitrich looked at Mueller to see if there was anything else.

"Thank you, Paul," Mueller said.

Deitrich nodded first at Mueller and then at Matt and then sort of shuffled out of the room.

Mueller waited until he was out of earshot, then said, "Paul doesn't say much. When he does, listen."

"Yes, sir."

"Why don't you let me welcome you to Harrisburg with a home-cooked dinner?" Mueller asked.

"That's very kind, sir. But could I take a rain check?"

Mueller looked at Matt, his bushy eyebrows raised. Then he nodded.

"I hope she's pretty," Mueller said.

"She is," Matt said.

Mueller put out his hand. The meeting was over.

"I meant what I said about if you need anything, anytime, you have my numbers."

"Thank you, sir," Matt said, "for everything."

The Penn-Harris hotel provided Detective Payne with a small suite on the sixth floor at what Matt guessed was half the regular price. There was a bedroom with three windows-through which he could see the state capitol building-furnished with a double bed, a small desk, a television set, and two armchairs. The sitting room held a couch, a coffee table, two armchairs, and another television set.

While he was unpacking, he opened what he thought was a closet door and found that it was a kitchenette complete to a small refrigerator. To his pleased surprise, the refrigerator held a half-dozen bottles of beer, a large bottle of c.o.ke, and a bottle of soda water.

He decided this was probably due more to Chief Mueller's wish to do something nice for a friend of Chief Inspector (Retired) Augustus Wohl than to routine hotel hospitality, particularly for someone in a cut-rate room.

Matt finished unpacking, then took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, settled himself on the sitting-room couch with his feet up on the coffee table, and reached for the telephone.

Jason Washington's deep, vibrant voice came over the line.

"Special Operations Investigations. Sergeant Washington."

"Detective Payne, Sergeant Washington, and how are you on this warm and pleasant afternoon?"

"How good of you to call. We were all wondering when you were going to find the time."

"I just got here," Matt protested, and then asked, "Did something come up?"

"I have had three telephone calls from Special Agent Matthews asking if we had heard from you. Weren't you supposed to liaise with him, Matthew?"

"I'm not sure I know what that means," Matt said. "Anyway, I don't have anything to tell him. I just got here."

"So you said. And how were you received by our brothers of the Harrisburg police?"

"By the chief. Nice guy. He said Chief Wohl had called him."

"That's interesting."

"Yeah, I thought so. Anyway, Chief Mueller set me up with their White Collar Crimes guy, a lieutenant named Deitrich, who's going to get me into both the banks and the hall of records in the courthouse."

"Where are you, Matthew?"

"Six twelve in the Penn-Harris," Matt said. He took a close look at the telephone and read the number to Washington.

"I will share that with Special Agent Matthews," Washington said. "Is there anything else, in particular anything concerning your-what shall I say, 'social life in romantic Harrisburg'-that you would like me to tell him?"

"I haven't called her. I will when I get off the phone with you. And that one telephone call may be, probably will be, the end of that."

"And how is that?"

"You were there when I told Davis that her eyes glazed over when I told her I was a cop."

"If at first you don't succeed, to coin a phrase. You might try inflaming her natural maternal instincts, and get her to take pity on a lonely boy banished to the provinces far from home and loved ones."

Matt chuckled.

"If you were she, would you be eager to establish a close relationship with a cop?"

"That might well depend on the cop," Washington said. "Think positively, Matthew."

"I'll let you know what happens."

"Would a report at, say, eight-thirty in the morning be too much to ask? I would so hate to disappoint Agent Matthews should he call about then, as I'm sure he will."

"I'll call you in the morning," Matt said.

"I will wait in breathless antic.i.p.ation," Washington said, and hung up.

Matt took the telephone number for the Reynolds home Daffy had given him from his wallet, read it aloud three times in an attempt to memorize it, and then dialed it. As the phone was ringing, he looked at the sc.r.a.p of paper in his hand, decided this was not the time to rely on memory tricks-even one provided by Jason Washington-and put it back in his wallet.

"The Reynolds residence," a male voice announced.

Jesus, they have a butler!

Why does that surprise me? Dad said her father was an "extraordinarily successful" businessman, and that's Dad-speak for really loaded/stinking rich.

"Miss Reynolds, please. Miss Susan Reynolds. My name is Matthew Payne."

"One moment, please, sir."

It was a long moment, long enough to give Matt time to form a mental image of Susan being told that a Mr. Matthew Payne was on the line, taking a moment to wonder who Matt Payne was, to remember, Oh, that cop at Daffy's! Oh, that cop at Daffy's! and then to tell the butler she was not at home and would never be home to Mr. Payne. and then to tell the butler she was not at home and would never be home to Mr. Payne.

"h.e.l.lo?" a female voice chirped.

"Susan?"

That doesn't sound like her.

"No," the female voice said, coyly. "This is not Susan. This is Susan's mother. And who is this, please?"

"My name is Payne, Mrs. Reynolds. Matthew Payne. I met Susan at Daffy . . . Daphne Nesbitt's-"

"I thought thought that's what Wilson said!" Mrs. Reynolds cried happily. "You're that that's what Wilson said!" Mrs. Reynolds cried happily. "You're that wicked wicked young man who kept Susan out all night!" young man who kept Susan out all night!"

Christ, she's an airhead. In the mold of Daffy's mother, Chad's mother, Penny's mother. What is that, the curse of the moneyed cla.s.s? Or maybe it's the Bennington Curse. The pretty young girls grow up and turn into airheads. Or otherwise go mad. Like those who believe in being kind to dumb animals by blowing buildings up. Or at least aid and abet those who think that way.

"I think you have the wrong man, Mrs. Reynolds."

"Oh, no, I don't, don't, Matthew Payne. Daphne Browne-now she's Daphne Nesbitt, isn't she?-told me all about you! You're a Matthew Payne. Daphne Browne-now she's Daphne Nesbitt, isn't she?-told me all about you! You're a wicked wicked boy! Didn't you even think that we would be worried boy! Didn't you even think that we would be worried sick sick about her! about her! Shame Shame on you!" on you!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, she's not at home. I mean, she's really not at home. She's at work."

"I'd like to call her there, at work, if that would be possible."

"That's not possible, I'm afraid. They don't like her to take personal calls at work. Could I give her a message?"

"What I was hoping to do was ask her to have dinner with me."

"When?"