"You must have been pretty sure I'd… make you my doctor last night," Cynthia challenged.
"No, I wasn't. Last night, when I called your mother, that was one young female taking care of another. I hate those damned hospital gowns myself."
"Thank you."
"I'm going to keep you in here for at least of couple of days," Amy said. "But that doesn't mean in bed. If you'd like, put some clothes on, and we can have lunch in the cafeteria. The food isn't any better, but it's not on a tray."
"Thank you," Cynthia said.
Amy smiled at her and walked out of the room.
When Inspector Peter Wohl walked into the Investigations Section of Special Operations, he found just about the entire staff, plus Staff Inspector Mike Weisbach and Captain Dave Pekach, in the former classroom. Pekach, in the unique uniform-breeches and boots-of the Highway Patrol, was the only one in uniform.
"Am I interrupting anything important?" Wohl asked.
"A suitable description of our present labors," Sergeant Jason Washington announced in his deep, sonorous voice, "would be 'spinning our wheels.' "
"What are you doing?" Wohl asked.
"Trying to make sense of Matt's transcriptions of the Kellog tapes," Pekach explained. "And getting nowhere. "
"They're useless?"
"They've made me change my mind about nothing dirty going on in Five Squad," Pekach said. "But what, nobody seems to be able to figure out, at least from the tapes. And as far as using them as evidence-"
"Is Payne essential?" Wohl asked.
Matt picked up on Wohl calling him by his last name; he suspected it might suggest he was in disfavor.
What did I do?
Shit, those FBI clowns did report me!
"I fear that all those hours our Matthew put in transcribing the tapes were a waste of time and effort," Washington said.
"Not a waste, Jason," Weisbach said. "Finding nothing we can use, so to speak, has taught us they are (a) up to something and (b) rather clever about whatever it is."
"I stand corrected, sir," Jason said.
"I can have Payne?" Wohl asked.
"He's all yours," Weisbach said. "See me later, Matt."
"Yes, sir," Matt said.
Matt stood up and followed Wohl out of the room. Wohl walked quickly, and Matt almost had to trot to catch up with him.
"What's up?" Matt asked.
Wohl ignored him.
They went down the stairs and then up the corridor to Wohl's office. Matt followed him inside.
Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin-a tall, heavyset, large-boned, ruddy-faced man with good teeth and curly silver hair-was sitting on the couch before Wohl's coffee table in the act of dunking a doughnut in a coffee mug.
For all of Matt's life, Coughlin had been "Uncle Denny" to him. He had been his father's best friend, and Matt had come to suspect that Denny Coughlin, who had never married, had been in love-secretly, of course-with Patricia Stevens Moffitt Payne, Matt's mother, for a very long time.
He also suspected that this was not an occasion on which Chief Inspector Coughlin should be addressed as "Uncle Denny."
"Good morning, Chief," he said.
Coughlin looked at him for a long moment, expressionless, before he replied.
"Matty, what's with you and the FBI?"
"Is that what this is about?"
"I asked you a question," Coughlin said evenly.
"I suppose I shouldn't have taken them on the wild-goose chase like that, but they're-"
"Start at the beginning," Wohl shut him off. "And right now, neither the Chief or I are interested in what you think of the FBI."
Matt related, in detail, his entire encounter with Special Agents Jernigan and Leibowitz. When he came to the part of leading them up and down the narrow alleys of North Philadelphia before finally parking in the Special Operations parking lot, Chief Inspector Coughlin had a very dif ficult time keeping a straight face.
"Okay," he said finally. "Now let me tell you what's happened this morning. I had a telephone call from Walter Davis. You know who he is?"
"Yes, sir."
"Davis said that he would consider it a personal favor if I would set up a meeting, as soon as possible, between himself, the two agents you got into it with, Peter, and me. And that he would be grateful if I kept the meeting, until after we'd talked, under my hat. Do you have any idea what that's all about, Matty?"
"No, sir."
"Somehow, I think there's more to this than you being a wiseass with his agents," Coughlin said. "I think if that's all there was to this, the Polack would have gotten a formal letter complaining about the uncooperative behavior of one of his detectives."
The Polack was Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernich.
"Yeah," Inspector Wohl said thoughtfully.
"And he wants me to keep this under my hat until after we have a meeting," Coughlin went on. "Which makes me think of something else. Did either of the FBI guys do anything they shouldn't have done, Matty?"
"Well, they should have been sure there was a kidnapping before they started asking a lot of questions," Matt said.
"That's not what I mean. Did they violate any of your civil rights? Push you around? Brandish a pistol? Anything like that?"
"No, sir."
"Maybe Matt's onto it with what he said," Wohl said. "Maybe Davis is embarrassed that he had people running around investigating a nonkidnapping. And doesn't want Matt to tell the story to an appreciative audience at the FOP Bar. The FBI is very image conscious."
Detective Payne was enormously relieved that he had become "Matt" again.
"Could be," Chief Coughlin said. "But I have a gut feeling there's more to this than that. I have been wrong before."
Coughlin heaved himself off the couch with a grunt, walked to Wohl's desk, consulted a slip of paper he took from his pocket, and dialed a number.
"Chief Inspector Coughlin for Mr. Davis, please," he said to whoever answered, and then, a moment later: "Dennis Coughlin, Walter. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. I've had a chance to speak with Peter Wohl. The best I have been able to set up is half past four at the Rittenhouse Club. Would that be convenient?"
Davis's reply could not be heard.
"Look forward to seeing you, too, Walter," Coughlin said, and hung up. He looked at Wohl and Payne. "Pay attention, you two," he said, smiling. "Write this down. When dealing with the enemy, never meet him on his own turf-Davis wanted us to come to the FBI office-and, if possible, keep him waiting."
Walter Davis, trailed by Special Agents Howard C. Jernigan and Raymond Leibowitz, walked up to the porter's desk in the Rittenhouse Club at 4:15 and announced, "I'm Mr. Davis. I'm expecting a gentleman named Coughlin."
The porter turned and examined the membership board.
I'll be damned. Coughlin is a member. Of course. He would have to be. He suggested this place to meet. Why didn't I think of that?
"Chief Coughlin is in the bar, sir," the porter said, his tone suggesting that life would be much easier if stupid members took a look at the membership board themselves.
Coughlin, Peter Wohl, and Matt Payne were sitting at a large table-with room for six chairs-and had been there, Davis saw, at least long enough to get bar service.
The three of them stood up as Davis approached.
"You're looking well, Walter," Coughlin said, offering his large hand.
"As you do, Dennis," Davis said, and offered his hand first to Wohl-"Thank you for making time for me, Peter "-and then to Matt. "How are you, Payne?"
"Very well, thank you, sir," Payne said.
"You've met these fellows," Davis said. "But let me introduce them to Peter and Dennis. Raymond Leibowitz and Howard Jernigan."
The men shook hands.
A waiter appeared. Davis ordered a Jack Daniel's on the rocks, Leibowitz the same, and Jernigan ginger ale.