"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 anticipation," 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 scrap 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! and then to tell the butler she was not at home and would never be home to Mr. Payne.
"Hello?" 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 that's what Wilson said!" Mrs. Reynolds cried happily. "You're that wicked 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 class? 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, Matthew Payne. Daphne Browne-now she's Daphne Nesbitt, isn't she?-told me all about you! You're a wicked boy! Didn't you even think that we would be worried sick about her! Shame 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?"
"I thought perhaps tonight, if she didn't have previous plans."
"In Philadelphia?" she asked incredulously.
"No. Not in Philadelphia. Here. Harrisburg."
"You're in Harrisburg?"
"Yes, ma'am. On business."
"I really thought for a minute that you wanted to have dinner tonight with Susan in Philadelphia."
"No, ma'am. I'm here. And I thought she might be willing to have dinner with me."
"Well, I'll tell you what," Mrs. Reynolds said, and there was a long pause. "You come here and you can have dinner with Susan's daddy and me. And, of course, Susan. "
"I wouldn't want to impose," Matt said.
"Not at all," she said. "And I want to get a look at you, and give you a piece of my mind. You will come to supper, and that's that."
"In that case, thank you."
"You may change your mind about that after Susan's daddy lets you know what he thinks about you keeping Susan out all night."
"Yes, ma'am."
"We eat at seven-thirty sharp when we're at home. Is that convenient?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you know where we are?"
"No, ma'am. Just that you're in Camp Hill."
"I'll give you directions. They're not as complicated as they sound. Have you a pencil?"
"Yes, ma'am."
FOURTEEN
If he saw it at all, Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham paid little attention to the black GMC Suburban truck parked near the elevator in the basement garage of his garden apartment building on Overbrook Avenue.
The truck was inconspicuous, and intended to be that way. It was painted black, and all but the windshield and front-seat windows had been painted over. There were no signs on its doors or sides indicating its ownership or purpose; it was classified as a "Not For Hire" vehicle, and none were required by law.
The inconspicuous Suburban was normally used to carry the remains of the recently deceased from their place of death-usually a hospital, but sometimes from the Medical Examiner's office, if the deceased had died at home, or for some other reason was subject to an official autopsy-to a funeral home.
Larger undertaking establishments often had their own discreet vehicles for the purpose of collecting bodies and bringing them to their places of business, as they had their own fleets of hearses, flower cars, and limousines to carry the dear departed, his/her floral tributes, and his/her mourners to his/her final resting place. But many-perhaps most-of Philadelphia's smaller funeral homes had found it good business to take advantage of the corpse pickup service and delivery service offered by Classic Livery, Inc., which owned the Suburban Mr. Ketcham did not notice as he drove his Buick into his garage.
Even the larger undertaking establishments, when business was good, often used one of the four black Suburbans Classic Livery had made available to the trade, as they similarly availed themselves of hearses, flower cars, and limousines from Classic Livery's fleet when their own equipment was not sufficient to meet the demands of that particular day's service to the deceased and bereaved.
Classic Livery, Inc., also owned the black Lincoln sedan parked among the rows of cars in the basement garage of Ketcham's garden apartment, and the four men in it-who had been waiting for Ketcham for two hours before the shit-ass finally showed up-were longtime employees of Classic Livery.
Ketcham parked his Buick coupe in the place reserved for it, got out, reached in and took his briefcase from the rear seat, and walked toward the elevator.