"Why do I have this unpleasant feeling that we are about to have a very serious conversation?"
"Because we are," Susan said. "I've been thinking."
"Pure, asexual thoughts only, obviously."
"I've been thinking about what you said at lunch."
"I said a lot of things at lunch," Matt replied. "You mean about letting me arrest Jennifer?"
Susan nodded. "Would that work?"
"It's iffy, honey," Matt said now serious. "Starting with the first premise, that she can get away from Chenowith. "
"She met me alone the last time. Behind a restaurant in Doylestown. And she had their baby with her."
"And if she doesn't bring the baby this time?"
"Matt, this was your idea in the first place."
"I'm trying to think of all the things that can-and probably will-go wrong."
"Tell me what will happen from the moment you arrest her."
"Well, I put the cuffs on her-and there's problem one, because I don't have any handcuffs."
"Excuse me?"
"My handcuffs are in Philadelphia. When you first go on the job, you carry your handcuffs with you all the time. After a while, you realize (a) that not only aren't you using them very much-in my case, never-and (b) that they're uncomfortable to carry around, so you start leaving them at home, which is where mine are."
"Is that important?"
"Yeah, it's important. From what you tell me, Jennifer is not going to go to the slammer willingly. I'm going to have to immobilize her."
"Can you buy a pair of them here?"
"I don't know. I'll have to do something."
"And then what?"
"Well, I could put her arm behind her back, and physically restrain her-which isn't as easy as it looks in the movies-until I can get on the radio and call for the local cops. I'm not sure, problem two, if the Doylestown cops are on one of my frequencies. We'd have to play that by ear."
"I'm confused."
"Presuming she will meet you in Doylestown, we won't know if I can call the cops on the radio until we get there and I can try it. Let me put it this way. Best possible situation. I put handcuffs on her, throw her in the back of the car, and drive her to the Doylestown Police Station. They'll hold her for me-I think-if I identify myself as a Philadelphia cop who has made an arrest in their jurisdiction.. .."
Matt stopped, obviously having had another, distressing, thought.
"What?" Susan asked, picking up on this.
"If the Doylestown cops, or the state police, see you, they'll wonder who you are. So we can't let them see you. And…"
He stopped again, and then, after a long moment, shrugged.
"What's that shrug of resignation all about?" Susan asked.
He met her eyes.
"My orders are quite clear," he said. "I am not to do anything but inform the FBI when I think you are about to go meet any member of the Chenowith Group. I am not supposed to try to make the collar by myself. I've been told that by everybody but the mayor."
"So you'll be in trouble?"
He nodded.
"And you don't want to do it, now that you've thought it over?"
"I didn't say that," he said. "What we're doing now is talking. The money is another problem. My priority is to get you out of this mess. I'm trying to figure the best way to do that. And the thing we have to keep in mind is what Lincoln said."
"What Lincoln said?"
" 'You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time,' " Matt quoted. "We'll be dealing here with some very bright people. We-"
"You're talking about the cops?"
He nodded. "And the FBI. Most of what really will have happened is going to come out. Right now, they can't prove-although I'm sure they suspect-that you've been holding the money for them. Maybe throwing the money in the river is the best thing to do with it. You would have to lie under oath-or at least claim the Fifth Amendment-that you never had it."
"I'm not a very good liar."
"You're better than you think you are," he said. "On the other hand, we could try this…"
He stopped, and visibly considered what he was about to say until Susan's curiosity got the best of her.
"What, Matt?"
"It's closer to the truth. Hell, it is the truth. Our story is that I made you realize the error of your ways. I convinced you that holding the money for these people was the wrong thing to do, and that your only chance was to cooperate with the authorities-me-and you (a) turned the money you had been holding over to me, and (b) arranged for me to meet, and thus be able to arrest, Jennifer, in exchange for me offering you immunity from prosecution. "
"Can you do that?"
"I wish I could. No, I can't. But cops have lied before, to get information they want, and if a lawyer can make the jury feel sorry for the accused, because she-you-were lied to, they might go a little easier on you. Maybe, knowing they were facing a damned good lawyer, the U.S. Attorney might decide to nol pros that one charge. It's unlikely, but possible. He's got other charges against you-meeting Chenowith in the Poconos, for one example-that he's not going to have any trouble proving."
"I am going to prison, aren't I?"
"It looks that way," Matt said almost idly. "But going with this repentant-sinner line, let me think out loud a little more. Are you sure you know where Chenowith is?"
"I know where they were living, if that's what you mean."
"You could lead someone there?"
"I'm not going to lead the FBI there, if that's what you're suggesting, not with Jennie and the baby in the house. He's not just going to give up, and you told me he's got a machine gun. I don't want Jennie or the baby shot."
"How do you feel about this?" Matt asked. "We meet Jennie. She has the baby. I arrest her. We take the money-hers and yours-and turn it over to the FBI. Who you then lead to Chenowith's house. It seems to me that a good lawyer just might be able to convince a jury that the repentant sinner was really trying to make things right, and was a nice person, to boot. She didn't want to tell the FBI where Chenowith was until she was sure the other misguided innocent, Jennifer, and her appealing babe-in-arms, were safe from danger from both the wicked Chenowith and the noble forces of law and order. But once she was sure the-"
"I don't like you very much when you sound so cynical, " Susan said.
"Oh, Jesus!"
"Sorry."
"While we were talking about this-you being repentant and wanting to make amends-the situation was unexpectedly brought to a crisis when Jennifer called, announced she wanted to get away, in fear of her life, from the monster Chenowith, and we had to act."
Susan looked at him, her lips pursed, for a long moment.
"How did we act?" she asked finally.
"I call Jack Matthews, and tell him I have to talk to him. He meets us in the restaurant. In Doylestown. While we are explaining to Jack how you have decided to do the right thing, Jennifer shows up-so far as Matthews is concerned-much earlier than she is supposed to. There is no time for Matthews to summon the Anti-Terrorist Group, or, for that matter, the local cops. We arrest Jennifer. You tell her not to say a word to anybody about anything until she's talked to a lawyer."
"She might not listen to me. As far as she is concerned, I will have betrayed her. Which is what I would have done."
"Get it through your head, goddamn it, that neither of you is going to walk on this. All we can do is cut our losses. If Jennifer insists on being a revolutionary heroine, that's her choice. And once she does that, you shift into your save-my-own-ass mode. Otherwise, you're going down the toilet with her."
"Maybe that's what's going to happen anyway," Susan said.
"What about us? Does this nutty bitch mean more to you than I do?"