Stecker didn’t say anything.
“The only tie we have to these critters is this,” Tony said. He held up the plastic evidence bag containing the crownless visor cap.
“That’s all? No witnesses?”
“Nothing’s worked.”
“Grace, why don’t you get Detective Harris a cup of coffee and a piece of cake while I put my shirt on.”
“Luther, your party starts in an hour and ten minutes.”
“You told me,” Lieutenant Stecker said.
The chancellery of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia was prepared for the “photo op” presented by Mr. Stan Colt paying a courtesy call upon the cardinal.
The cardinal “just happened” to be on the ground floor of the chancellery as the Highway bikes, Lieutenant McGuire’s unmarked car, the white Lincoln limousine, and the mayoral Cadillac limo rolled up it. That permitted the recording for posterity of images of the cardinal warmly greeting Mr. Colt as he got out of the limo.
The Hon. Alvin W. Martin had to move quickly to get in that shot, but he made it.
The cardinal, the mayor, and Mr. Colt, preceded by the fat photographer in the pageboy haircut, then entered the building. Lieutenant McGuire trotted after them, turned at the door, spotted Matt getting out of his car, and signaled for him to come along.
“Are you going in there?” Matt asked Terry Davis.
“That’s what I get paid for,” she said.
When they reached the cardinal’s office, there was a delegation of faculty from West Catholic High School lined up to shake Mr. Colt’s hand and to welcome him back to his alma mater. The mayor didn’t manage to get in that shot, but he did manage to get in another shot in front of the cardinal’s desk, of the cardinal, the principal of West Catholic, Monsignor Schneider, and Mr. Colt.
Then, after shaking hands a final time, Mr. Colt, again preceded by the fat photographer moving backward and frantically snapping pictures, left the cardinal’s office.
Mr. Colt stopped when he saw Terry Davis.
“Where’s the homicide detective?” he demanded.
Terry pointed at Matt.
Mr. Colt’s eyebrows rose in surprise, or disbelief, and then he moved on.
As the procession went back through the lobby, Matt heard the engines of the Highway bikes roar to life.
The mayor of Philadelphia shook Mr. Colt’s hand a final time, said he looked forward to seeing him a little later, and then walked back to the mayoral limousine.
Mr. Colt paused as he was about to enter the limousine, spotted Terry Davis, and called: “He’s going to be at the hotel, right?”
“Right, Stan,” Terry called back.
Mr. Colt nodded, then got in the white limousine.
The fans who had somehow learned that Mr. Colt would be staying at the Ritz-Carlton and had waited there in hopes of seeing him, and perhaps even getting his autograph, touching him, or perhaps coming away with a piece of his clothing, were disappointed.
All they got was a smile and a wave, as-preceded yet again by the fat photographer running backward-Colt went quickly into the hotel and through the lobby to a waiting elevator.
Stan Colt was sprawled on a couch in the sitting room of his suite, taking a pull from a bottle of beer from the Dock Street Brewery, when Lieutenant McGuire, Sergeant Payne, and Miss Terry Davis were ushered into his presence by the gray-haired, stylishly dressed woman Matt had seen carrying luggage from the Citation.
The stylishly dressed young man from the airport was talking on a telephone on a sideboard.
“With that out of the way, Terry, what’s next?” Stan Colt greeted them.
“There’s a cocktail party at the Bellvue-Stratford-it’s right around the corner…”