The driver of the Porsche rolled down the window.
"I think it'll be all right, Officer," he said. "I'm just here to pick up my date."
He pointed toward Detective Olivia Lassiter, who was leaning against the wall by the entrance.
The uniform sergeant whistled shrilly, attracting Detective Lassiter's attention.
"You know this guy, Lassiter?"
She looked, and then nodded.
"Yeah."
She walked to the Porsche.
"Next time, find some other place to park," the sergeant said.
"Yes, sir," Matt said.
Olivia got in the Porsche.
Where the hell did he get this car? A Porsche on a detective's pay?
"Have a good time, Lassiter," the sergeant said.
Matt grinned, but didn't say anything as he turned the Porsche around.
"What was that all about? 'Have a good time'?" Olivia asked.
Matt shrugged.
"What did you say to him?" Olivia challenged.
"Nothing," Matt said.
The hell you didn't. You're really a smart-ass. "You get a gold star for Mommy!" Jesus!
"Did you get anything from the Williamsons besides the name of this saloon?" Matt asked.
"The names of half a dozen guys Cheryl dated," she said. "And of a couple of her girlfriends."
"You'll have to give them to Joe."
"I already did."
"Where exactly is this saloon?"
"It's called Halligan's Pub. At Bethlehem Pike and College Avenue in Flourtown. I've been there. Sort of a neighborhood bar for the young and unattached."
"Spend a lot of time in places like that, do you?" Matt asked, innocently. "Looking for a little action?"
You sonofabitch!
She glared at him but said nothing.
If he thinks I'm looking for action, and so much as lays a hand on my hand, I'll knock him into next week.
"Hey, I'm kidding!" Matt said.
"I haven't been amused," Olivia snapped.
"Look, this is my first time," Matt said.
"First time for what? Working with a female detective, you mean?"
"Yeah. Or at least a good-looking one."
"Can we keep this professional?"
"I worked a couple of jobs with an Intelligence detective, a female," Matt said. "But she was old enough to be my mother. We got to be friends. So I asked her-we were having a couple of drinks-how I should behave with a younger female cop. And she said treat her like you would treat any other cop. That's what I was doing. Making a little joke."
Why do I believe him?
"What kind of a little joke were you making with Sergeant Pinski?"
"The uniform in the parking lot?"
"Yeah. What did you say to him?"
"I told him I was just picking up my date."
"You thought that was funny?"
"He believed it. And my other choice was to tell him I was on the job and show him my badge. Thirty minutes later, every uniform in the Thirty-fifth, and all your pals in Northwest Detectives, would have heard about the Homicide sergeant driving a Porsche picking up Northwest's good-looking Detective Lassiter."
He's right. That's exactly what would have happened.
"Where did you get this car, anyway?"
"When I finished college. It was my graduation present."
"It looks brand-new."
"It's five years old. I take pretty good care of it."
"It's beautiful," she said in genuine appreciation.
That was dumb. What's the matter with me?
"They're nice," Matt said. "Look, let's spell this out. I was not making a pass at you. I will not make a pass at you. I just got promoted, and I just transferred to Homicide. The last thing I want is for somebody to say Payne walked in, hung up his hat, and started hitting on Lassiter. That's the truth."
"Okay. Just so we understand each other."
"So what were you doing in Halligan's Pub? Looking for a little action?"
"You sonofabitch!" Olivia said, but she laughed.
And they found themselves looking at each other. And both looked quickly away.
"What can I get you?" the bartender at Halligan's Pub asked when they had taken stools at the bar.
"I don't know about Mother, but I would like a Famous Grouse on the rocks and a menu."
"You want to eat at the bar?" the bartender asked.
"I want to talk to you, and you're here," Matt said.
"And what for you, honey?" the bartender asked.
I will not ask what a famous whatever is.
"The same, please," Olivia said.
"You've been in here before, right?"
"Indeed she has," Matt said. "Mother tells me this is where the action is. Presumably there will be a shill's fee for her?"
The bartender chuckled, then turned to make their drinks. He put them on the bar and then laid two plastic covered menus on it.
Olivia picked up her glass and sipped it.
Scotch. Probably one of those very chic, very in, single malts or whatever they call them that the in people drink.
"Hot roast beef sandwich, please," Matt ordered after a ten-second perusal of the menu. "French fries, green beans. What about you, Mother?"
What the hell is that Mother business?
Damn it, a hot roast beef sandwich sounds good. But I'll sound like his echo.
To hell with it.
"The same, hold the fries," Olivia said.
"Coming right up," the bartender said, and walked down the bar to a computer.
Matt picked up his glass and raised it to Olivia.
"Mud in your eye, Mother."
"What's with 'Mother'?" Olivia asked.
"Even the Casanova of Center City does not make a pass at a mother," Matt replied.
"Oh, Jesus!" Olivia said.
"I'm just ensuring that I will not get carried away," Matt said.
"I won't let that happen," Olivia said.
"Good. I invariably falter in the face of temptation."
"You're out of your mind, you know that?"
"You sound just like my sister, Mother."
She shook her head, but she smiled.
"This is nice booze," she said. "I'm afraid to ask what it costs."
"Fear not, Mother, that was my round. But actually it's not very expensive. Not like twelve-year-old or single malts. I found it in Scotland. It was the bar whiskey."
"In Scotland?"
"My father and I, and my father's buddy and his-son-my-buddy, were shooting driven birds over there."
What the hell does that mean?
"I don't know what that means," Olivia confessed.
"They raise pheasants," Matt explained, "and charge people to shoot them. They call it a 'drive.' The shooters form a line, and then the beaters drive the birds-hence 'driven birds'-toward the line of shooters. Great shooting."
"It sounds barbaric," Olivia said.
"You're a vegetarian?"
"No."
"Where do you think your roast beef came from? A steer that died of old age?"
Olivia didn't reply.
"The pheasants are raised to be eaten, just like chickens and turkey. I suppose you could argue that wringing their necks would be kinder than shooting them, but I don't see the difference. And three hours after they're shot, they're cleaned, plucked, packed in ice, and on the way to a gourmet restaurant. "
"And you get your kicks by slaughtering the pheasants, right? You get a real kick out of killing things, right?"
"You got it, Mother," Matt said. "Once you understand that, everything falls in place."
She could tell by both the bitter tone of his voice and his eyes that she had really angered him.
He shook his head in disgust, turned away, and picked up his glass.
What made him so angry?
Oh, God! When Mickey O'Hara called him Wyatt Earp, he blew up. And then O'Hara told me about the bad guy Matt "put down"- by which he meant killed. I didn't mean to suggest he liked killing people! But I guess it sounded like I did.