The Investigators Part 51

"I'm sorry, honey."

"You think he took 'no' for an answer? Or will he call again?"

"He'll probably call again."

"If he does, stall him again. I don't know how yet, I'll have to think about it, but maybe we can put his wanting to hide the bank money to our advantage."

"Matt, I don't want to betray them!"

"For the last f.u.c.king time, Susan, get it through your head that you don't have any options. They're going down, and all we can hope for is that I can figure out some way to keep you from going down with them!"

She met his eyes but didn't reply.

He angrily tossed his towel on the floor and walked out of the bathroom.

After a moment, she went after him.

He was on his hands and knees, reaching under the bed, and he pulled his and her clothing out from where he had kicked it. And something else. A snub-nosed revolver in a holster.

"Did you really think you would have to use that on me?" Susan asked.

"I'm a cop. Cops carry guns," he said somewhat abruptly. He tossed the clothing and then the pistol onto the bed, and reached for his shorts.

"Honey, I'm sorry," Susan said. "I really don't want you to be angry with me."

"I'm not angry."

"Yes, you are."

He looked at her.

"You're too G.o.dd.a.m.ned smart to be stupid," he said. "And we can't afford it."

"I like the way you said 'we,' " she said softly.

That made him smile.

He made the sign of the cross. "I grant you absolution. Go, and be stupid no more."

"I'll try," she said.

She started to dress.

"Did you see what you did to my bra?" she asked a moment later, and showed it to him.

"I did that?"

"Yes, you did that."

"What's Mommy going to think when you come in the house flopping all over?"

"I'll keep my coat on."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"The bra? Throw it away. It's beyond repair."

"Can I have it?"

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Make a trophy out of it. A little foam rubber, so it looks lifelike, and a bra.s.s plate reading, 'Susan, 34B, Hotel Hershey,' and the date. Then I'll mount it on the wall, with all the others."

"d.a.m.n it, I'm serious."

He met her eyes.

"I don't know why I want it," he said. "I just do."

She held it out to him. When he put his hand out, she caught it and kissed it.

"For the record, it's a 34C," she said.

She let go of his hand, and he took the bra.s.siere and stuffed it in his trousers pocket.

"Thank you, honey, for wanting it," Susan said.

When Phil Chason came home from Captain Karl Beidermann's retirement party, it was half past two in the morning and he was half in the bag, and he almost didn't go into his bas.e.m.e.nt office to see if there were any messages for him on the answering machine.

Phil and Karl Beidermann had gone through the Academy together, had had their first a.s.signment-to the Central District-together, and had done a h.e.l.l of a lot of things together on the job, although Karl had liked working in uniform (he retired as commanding officer of the 16th District) and Phil had decided he'd rather be-and stay-a detective, who with overtime took home as much money as a captain anyhow.

And it was good to see a lot of the people at the party. Once you went off the job, you didn't see people very much, and that was sort of sad. On the way home, Phil had thought that if he had to do it all over again, he still would have become a cop. He had had a good twenty-six years on the job, and no real complaints.

As he started up the stairs to his bedroom, he remembered about the answering machine downstairs in the office, and decided, f.u.c.k it, even if there was something on it, it would most likely be somebody trying to sell him a house in Levittown or just begging for money, and not somebody who needed the professional services of Philip Chason, retired Philadelphia Police Department detective.

But halfway up the stairs, he decided that he might as well check the son of a b.i.t.c.h, or otherwise he would stay awake all G.o.dd.a.m.n night wondering what might be on it.

He stopped, turned around on the stairs, and went back down them and then into the bas.e.m.e.nt.

When he opened the door, the little red light indicating that somebody had called was flas.h.i.+ng, so he flipped on the light switch, waited for the fluorescent light fixtures to take their own G.o.dd.a.m.ned sweet time to come on, then sat down at the desk and pushed the Play switch.

"Phil, this is Joe Fiorello."

f.u.c.k you, Joey Fiorello. Now I'm sorry I came down here.

"I'm really sorry to call this late, but at least, since I got your answering machine, I didn't wake you up, right?"

Get to the f.u.c.king point, Fiorello!

"Well, I guess you can guess why I'm calling, right, Phil? I got another job for you."

I figured you called me because you love me, a.s.shole.

"So as soon as you get this message, you want to give me a call, Phil?"

It's half past two in the morning, Joey. You mean you want me to call you at half past two?

"This is important, Phil. And I would consider it a favor if you would get back to me just as soon as you can."

If it's important to you, then whatever it is, it's going to cost you through the nose, you sleazeball.

"I guess you've got the numbers, but just to be sure, I'll give you my private line at the lot and my number here at the house."

Fiorello recited the numbers slowly, then repeated them.

What I really should do is call you at your house and wake your greasy a.s.s up!

f.u.c.k it! I never should have come down here in the first place!

Phil stood up and walked to the door, turned off the flickering lights, and closed the door.

When he got to his bedroom, Mrs. Irene Chason greeted him by saying she knew he must have had a good time, because his breath smelled like a spittoon.

EIGHTEEN.

"Seven-C," Mrs. Loretta Dubinsky, RN, answered the telephone on her desk.

Ward 7C was the private-patient section of the Psychiatric Division of University Hospital. Mrs. Dubinsky, a slight, very pale-skinned redhead who looked considerably younger than her thirty years, was the supervisory psychiatric nurse on duty.

"Dr. Amelia Payne, please," the caller said.

"Dr. Payne's not on the ward."

"I got to talk to her. Do you know where I can find her?"

"I suggest you try her office. In the morning."

"I got to talk to her tonight."

"I can give you the number of Dr. Payne's answering service."

"I got that. They don't know where she is."

Mrs. Dubinsky knew better than that. The way the answering service worked, they never said they didn't know where someone was, they asked the caller for their number, and said they would try to have Dr. Whoever try to call the caller back. Then-unless the caller said it was an emergency, and especially at this time of night; it was half past two-they would make a note on a card and keep it until Dr. Whoever called in for his messages.

If the caller said it was an emergency, same procedure, except that they would call the numbers Dr. Whoever had given them, where he could be reached in an emergency.

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you, sir," Mrs. Loretta Dubinsky, RN, said.

"Look, I got an important message for her."

"Then I suggest you call her in the morning."

"This won't wait until morning."

"I'm afraid it's going to have to, sir. There's nothing I can do to help you."

"Who are you?"

Mrs. Dubinsky replaced the telephone in its cradle.

Two minutes later-Paulo Ca.s.sandro having worked his way through the hospital switchboard again-the telephone rang again, and Nurse Dubinsky picked it up.

"Seven-C."

"Look, lady, you don't seem to understand. This is important."

"Sir, I told you before," Mrs. Dubinsky said, her pale skin coloring, "that Dr. Payne is not on the ward, and that I have no idea where she is."

"I got to get a message to her."

"What is it?"

"Who are you? This is private, personal."

"My name is Dubinsky. I'm the nurse-in-charge."

"There's no doctor around there?"

"You want to give me the message or not?"

"Let me talk to a doctor," Ca.s.sandro said.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Mrs. Dubinsky said.

"Let me talk to a G.o.dd.a.m.n doctor!"

Mrs. Dubinsky again replaced the handset in its cradle.

And two minutes later, the telephone ran again.

"Seven-C."