The Investigators Part 43

"Jennie, there are reasons I can't come there anytime soon. You're just going to have to tell Bryan that, and to put the package someplace safe where you are."

"What reasons?" Jennie asked, almost indignantly.

"Good and sufficient reasons, Jennie. I'm sorry."

"You better tell that to Bryan yourself," Jennie said.

"I don't want to tell him-"

"Just a minute, Susie," Jennie interrupted. "Hang on." The son of a b.i.t.c.h is there. Probably sitting in his car. Let Jennie do the work. The son of a b.i.t.c.h is there. Probably sitting in his car. Let Jennie do the work.

What I should do is just hang up. But if I do that, he'll make her call the office, or the house. What the h.e.l.l am I afraid of? If he comes on the phone, I'll tell him why I don't want to go get his "package" for him.

Bryan's voice came over the line. "Hey, Susie, what's going on?"

"I told Jennifer there are reasons I can't meet her."

"So she said. What are the reasons?"

"One of them is that the last time I spoke to you on this subject, you told me that was the last time."

"You know we need money," he said, "and this was too good to pa.s.s up."

"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 b.i.t.c.h 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 cop doing at Mr. Canned Chicken Soup the Fourth's birthday party?" doing at Mr. Canned Chicken Soup the Fourth's birthday party?"

"He's Mr. Canned Chicken Soup the Fourth's oldest friend, and G.o.dfather 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 soph.o.m.oric jokes."

"He came on to you?"

"He came on to me, and I put him down, and then-to h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l, 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 bra.s.s sign next to the revolving door, legs crossed, reading the newspaper. He was wearing a very well-cut glen plaid suit, a crisp white b.u.t.ton-down-collar shirt, and gleaming loafers.

The son of a b.i.t.c.h is good-looking, she thought 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 antic.i.p.ation in his eyes."

She told herself: Don't hold your breath, Matt Payne, waiting for the satisfaction of your joyous antic.i.p.ation. That just isn't going to happen. Don't hold your breath, Matt Payne, waiting for the satisfaction of your joyous antic.i.p.ation. 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 G.o.d! He either thinks very quickly, or he really was talking about the d.a.m.ned leather.

He leaned close to her and sniffed.

"But now that you mention it, I do love love women who wear French perfume." 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 ne plus ultra of German automotive engineering. But even a 911 requires what the Germans call, I think, 'petrol.' Or, maybe, of German automotive engineering. But even a 911 requires what the Germans call, I think, 'petrol.' Or, maybe, essence. essence. It's needed, you see, to make the pistons go up and down." 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.

"s.h.i.t!" Susan said, and started looking for a gas station.

"These are a real b.i.t.c.h 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."

"s.h.i.t," 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.