The Investigators (Badge of Honor 7)

“How do you know that?”

“Because she told me.”

“When was this?”

“About an hour ago. She called just before she checked out of the hotel.”

“You’re sure it was her?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Did she tell you why she didn’t want to answer the telephone?”

“No, but I can guess, can’t you?”

“You’re suggesting she was in the sack with some guy all the time?”

“I suggested nothing of the kind. Susan isn’t that kind of girl.”

“Where is she now?”

“Probably, about now, about halfway to Harrisburg. Matt, I feel like such a shit for getting you involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“I know about her father’s lawyer calling your father.”

“No major problem, Daffy.”

“You want to come to supper? There’s all kinds of leftovers.”

“I’ll take a rain check.”

“You want Susan’s telephone number? If at first you don’t succeed, et cetera, et cetera . . .”

He stopped himself just in time from saying “no.” He wrote the number down, then said good-bye to Daphne.

Do I want to take another shot at that dame? No, I do not. Then why did I take down her phone number?

He crumpled the sheet of notepaper up and threw it at an overflowing wastebasket. He missed.

He spent the next thirty minutes in an only partially successful attempt to clean up the apartment, then started carrying bags of garbage down the stairs to the elevator. On his third trip, emptying the wastebasket in brown kraft paper bags from Acme Supermarkets, he saw the crumpled ball of paper with Susan Reynolds’s telephone number on it. He picked it up and after a moment’s hesitation stuffed it into his pocket.

Then he went down in the elevator with the half-dozen bags of garbage, set them where they would be collected in the morning, and walked back to the Porsche. He debated a moment about taking the unmarked car, then decided not to. He was going on duty, sure, extra duty, and therefore the taxpayers of Philadelphia should be happy to pay for his transportation.

But on the other hand, driving the Porsche was fun. And there was probably going to be little chance to drive it during the next week or ten days. With His Honor the mayor paying personal attention to the investigation of dirty cops in Narcotics, there was almost certainly going to be a lot of overtime.

He drove out of the garage, closed it after him, and then started for Special Operations, via Broad Street. As he passed Hahnemann Hospital, he glanced in the rearview mirror to change lanes and saw Special Agent Leibowitz of the FBI at the wheel of a green Chevrolet, with Special Agent Jernigan sitting beside him.

I’ll be goddamned! Those clowns are surveilling me!

They were still behind him after twenty mi

nutes and a lengthy trip up and down the back alleys off Frankford Avenue when he pulled into the Special Operations Division parking lot and into the parking spot reserved for the unmarked car he had left in the Cancer Society Building garage.

First of all, he thought, not without a certain pleasure, they’ll be wondering what I’m doing here. After a while—a long while, it is to be hoped—they may actually interrupt their dedicated surveillance of the kidnap suspect long enough to enter the building, identify themselves to the sergeant or the duty officer, and inquire of him if they happen to know what the occupant of the silver Porsche is doing in here.

At that point, they may actually get in touch with their supervisor, who will tell them that there is no kidnapping after all, and they will be denied the great pleasure of hauling the uncooperative wiseass off in handcuffs.