Anton C. Phebus, who was not a stupid man, felt a sudden pain in the pit of his stomach.
“Okay,” he said. “I hear and obey.”
As soon as Hormel had left his office, he called the Goddamned Nun’s office and left a message for her to the effect that an emergency situation had arisen that would preclude his meeting with her as scheduled. He would call her later in the day and attempt to schedule another meeting at a mutually convenient time.
Then he dialed the home telephone number of Officer Joe Grider. Mrs. Grider informed him that Joe hadn’t come home yet.
He dialed the home number of Officer Herbert Prasko, and there was no answer. He remembered that Prasko’s wife had a job, which would explain why nobody answered the phone, particularly if Prasko, like Grider, had worked until the wee hours and then had a couple of belts afterward. There wasn’t much sense—unless all you wanted to do was sleep—in going home if the old lady was out working.
There was one way of finding out for sure, of course. Call the Narcotics Unit and talk to somebody and find out what had happened the previous night. He dialed the number of the Narcotics Unit, but changed his mind and hung up before it was answered.
He was letting his imagination run away with him. He had thought this whole thing through very carefully. Nothing had gone wrong because nothing could go wrong.
“Well, good morning!” Vice President James C. Chase of the First Harrisburg Bank & Trust Company cried cheerfully when he saw Lieutenant Paul Deitrich and Detective Matt Payne walk into his outer office. “You wanted to see me?”
“We’d appreciate a few minutes of your time, Mr. Chase,” Deitrich said.
“Anytime, Paul, you know that,” Chase said. “Come on in.”
They went into the inner office.
“Actually, Matt,” Chase said, “I was hoping to catch you before you went across the floor. Our Mr. Hausmann is back from Boston, and we’re going to have to find you another desk somewhere.”
“I won’t be needing a desk anymore, Mr. Chase,” Matt said.
Chase picked up on something in Matt’s voice, or perhaps his demeanor.
“That sounds, forgive me, a little ominous, Matt. Is something wrong?”
“I’m afraid so, sir,” Matt said. “I’m afraid I was right when I thought I saw someone I recognized going into the safe-deposit area yesterday, Mr. Chase.”
“But Adelaide, Mrs. Worner, had no record—”
“We just arrested him, Mr. Chase,” Matt said. “On charges of misprision of office as a Philadelphia police officer. We have reason to believe that Mrs. Worner has been making a safe-deposit box available to him off the records.”
“That’s hard to accept,” Chase said, somewhat coldly. “Paul?”
“We could, of course, be wrong, Mr. Chase,” Deitrich said. “But I don’t think so.”
“To what end? You’re not trying to tell me Adelaide could possibly have any involvement with a call girl ring in Philadelphia?”
“We believe the box is being used to hold money—and maybe drugs—acquired illegally by Philadelphia police officers,” Matt said.
“And maybe drugs?” Chase quoted, horrified. “And you’ve come equipped with a search warrant, is that what you’re telling me?”
“No, sir,” Deitrich said. “We don’t have a search warrant, Mr. Chase. We can get one, but we’re hoping that won’t be necessary.”
“Well, certainly—as I’m sure you understand, Lieutenant—I can’t permit you access to a safe-deposit box without one.”
“We’re hoping that we can get Mrs. Worner to show us which box it is, and give us the key to it, without our having to get a search warrant,” Matt said.
“If she has been up to what you’re suggesting, Matt, why would she do that? I must tell you, I find this entire—”
“I don’t think Mrs. Worner really knew what she was doing, Mr. Chase,” Deitrich said. “I don’t know how familiar you are with her personal situation . . .”
“I know that she has had a very difficult time with her husband, if that’s what you mean. And that he is a highly decorated, grievously wounded—”