“Wasn’t it?” the monsignor repeated, directing the question to Matt Payne, his face making it clear he didn’t like to be corrected.
“Yes, sir, it was,” Matt said.
“Have there been any developments in the case?”
“They’re working on it, sir,” Matt said. “I think they’ll wrap it up pretty quickly.”
“Greater love…,” the monsignor said, somewhat piously.
“Officer Charlton was a good man,” Lieutenant McGuire said. “A very sad situation.”
Over Father Venno’s shoulder, Matt saw that the two empty chairs at Terry Davis’s table were now occupied by Sergeant Al Nevins and another man-presumably from GAM-and that everyone was smiling at one another.
“I’ve just placed you,” Father Venno said, a tone of satisfaction in his voice.
“Excuse me?” Matt said.
“You were involved in that… unfortunate incident… in Doylestown a couple of months ago, weren’t you?”
“Unfortunate incident?” And it was six months ago, not “a couple,” and I was just starting to think I’d be able to start really forgetting it. Thanks a lot, Father!
“What unfortunate incident was that?” Monsignor Schneider asked.
“At the Crossroads Diner, Monsignor,” Father Venno said. “The FBI and Detective Payne were attempting an arrest-”
“Of a terrorist,” the monsignor interrupted, remembering. “A terrorist armed with a machine gun. Several people lost their lives.” He looked at Payne. “You were involved in that, were you?”
“Yes, sir, I was,” Matt said.
“As I recall,” the monsignor said, “three people died, and another young woman was shot.”
“I believe there were just two deaths, Monsignor,” Lieutenant McGuire said. “The terrorist, a man named Chenowith, and a civilian, a young woman who was cooperating with the FBI. What was her name, Matt?”
“Susan Reynolds,” Matt answered.
And I loved her, and she loved me, but we didn’t make it to that vine-covered cottage by the side of the road because that lunatic Chenowith let fly with his automatic carbine.
He had a sudden painfully clear mental image of Susan on her back in the parking lot behind the Crossroads Diner, her mouth and her sightless eyes open, her blond hair in a spreading pool of blood. The carbine bullet had made a small, neat hole just below her left eye, and a much nastier hole at the back of her head as it exited.
He laid his fork down, put his napkin on the table, and stood up.
“Will you excuse me, please?” he said, and looked around the room in search of a bathroom.
As he walked across the room, he heard Monsignor Schneider ask, “Detective Payne has experience working with the FBI, does he?” and heard Lieutenant McGuire’s answer.
“Yes, he does, Monsignor
.”
Then he was in the bathroom, hurriedly fastening the lock, and hoping that he could splash cold water on his face quickly enough to force back the bile and nausea he felt rising.
Ninety seconds later, he was leaning with his back against the bathroom wall, wiping his face with a towel, exhaling audibly. He had managed to keep from throwing up, but there had been a cold sweat, and he could feel the clammy touch of his undershirt on his skin.
You’re going to have to stop this shit, Matthew. That was a long time ago, Susan is not going to come back, and you’re going to have to really put all of that out of your mind, or they’ll put you in a rubber room.
Finally, he hung the towel back on its rack, and then, after purposefully taking several slow, deep breaths, unlatched the door and went out of the bathroom. Everyone was filing into the conference room-how the hell long was I in the john? — and he joined the line at the end, taking his seat at the table where he had left the laptop.
He saw a dark blue plastic folder lying beside his laptop. There was a neatly printed label on its cover: Stan Colt’s Visit to Philadelphia. Matt looked around the table and saw that everyone had been provided with a folder, and that there was another laptop on the table, in front of a man about his age wearing a gray business suit.