Part 36 (1/2)
”I'm going to call the club now, so they'll expect you. I want you to feel free to use it. The food's good.”
”Maybe Susie would go to dinner with me there,” Matt said.
”All she can say is no. But I think she'd like that.”
The garage door opened and Susan's Porsche emerged.
Matt shook Daddy's hand again and got into his Plymouth.
Susan drove off down the driveway so fast that Matt wondered for a moment if she was trying to lose him. On reflection, under the circ.u.mstances, that didn't seem likely.
Five minutes later, by which time Matt had decided Princess Susie had a really heavy foot, the red and blue lights of a bubble-gum machine appeared in his rear window.
s.h.i.+t! That's all I need!
He flicked on the turn signal, slowed, and moved to the shoulder of the road.
The patrol car-there was a reflective HARRISBURG POLICE sign on the trunk-went by him without slowing. Matt pulled back onto the pavement and saw, five hundred yards or so down the road, that the uniform had pulled the Porsche over.
He drove the five hundred yards and pulled in behind the patrol car. He took his ID folder from his jacket pocket and got from behind the wheel, holding the ID so the badge would be visible.
The uniform looked concerned. When he walked toward Matt, he had his right hand where it could quickly un-holster his pistol.
Susan, Matt saw, had not gotten out of her Porsche.
Matt held out the ID so the uniform could see it.
”What can I do for you?” the uniform-a football-tackle type, with a ruddy complexion-asked after he had given the ID and Matt a good look.
”Philadelphia, huh?” the uniform said, then looked back at Matt's car and added, ”Blue Plymouth. We got the word on you.”
”What word is that?”
”That you're up here looking for some money some dirty cop in Philadelphia's trying to hide up here, and we should leave you alone.”
”Guilty.”
”This is part of that?”
”No. This is personal. You are about to ruin my romantic evening. How does the Harrisburg Police Department feel about professional courtesy?”
”You know how fast she was going?”
”Too fast for me to take my eyes off the road to look for speed-limit signs.”
”Sixty-five. This is zoned forty.”
”I understand. If you feel that duty requires you toss her in the slam and ruin the best chance I've had in six months, I will understand.”
The uniform laughed.
”If you put it that way, how could I run her in?”
”You could be a p.r.i.c.k like my corporal when I was in Highway.”
”Have a word with her,” the uniform said, chuckling.
”I will,” Matt said, and put out his hand. ”Thanks, I appreciate it.”
”Good luck,” the uniform said, and got back in his car.
Matt walked up to Susan's car. The window was down, but she didn't say anything. She looked a little frightened.
”I just got you off,” he said. ”Say, 'Thank you, Matthew. ' ”
”I heard,” she said. ”Everything. I think I'd rather have gotten the ticket.”
”You're welcome,” Matt said.
The window whooshed up.
”Drive slow,” Matt muttered a little bitterly and then walked back to the Plymouth.
When he flicked the Plymouth's headlights, the Porsche moved off the shoulder and down the road and he followed it.
He had a sudden insight: She was not being routinely rude. She was frightened. But why? I just got the uniform not to pinch her. And she knew that. She said she ”heard everything.”
In which case, she heard the uniform verify my story about why I'm in Harrisburg. That should have put her mind at rest about me, if indeed Daddy had turned on her alarm system and she was wondering if I was really here looking for hidden money.
But if I was involved in something like she is, and a police car with its bubble-gum machine flas.h.i.+ng pulled me over, I'd be p.i.s.sing my pants, too. And while Wohl is probably right-Chenowith, who robs banks with a sawed-off shotgun, and the sc.u.mbag with the acne are dangerous-from what I've seen tonight, Susan is more a Presbyterian Princess who calls her parents ”Mommy” and ”Daddy,” than a cold-blooded terrorist.
She didn't blow up the Biological Sciences building. If she had, the FBI would have said so. Helping those lunatics makes her an accessory after the fact, sure, but it doesn't mean she's as cold-blooded as they are.
Can I use that somehow?
FOURTEEN.
If he saw it at all, Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham paid little attention to the black GMC Suburban truck parked near the elevator in the bas.e.m.e.nt garage of his garden apartment building on Overbrook Avenue.
The truck was inconspicuous, and intended to be that way. It was painted black, and all but the winds.h.i.+eld and front-seat windows had been painted over. There were no signs on its doors or sides indicating its owners.h.i.+p or purpose; it was cla.s.sified as a ”Not For Hire” vehicle, and none were required by law.
The inconspicuous Suburban was normally used to carry the remains of the recently deceased from their place of death-usually a hospital, but sometimes from the Medical Examiner's office, if the deceased had died at home, or for some other reason was subject to an official autopsy-to a funeral home.
Larger undertaking establishments often had their own discreet vehicles for the purpose of collecting bodies and bringing them to their places of business, as they had their own fleets of hea.r.s.es, flower cars, and limousines to carry the dear departed, his/her floral tributes, and his/her mourners to his/her final resting place. But many-perhaps most-of Philadelphia's smaller funeral homes had found it good business to take advantage of the corpse pickup service and delivery service offered by Cla.s.sic Livery, Inc., which owned the Suburban Mr. Ketcham did not notice as he drove his Buick into his garage.
Even the larger undertaking establishments, when business was good, often used one of the four black Suburbans Cla.s.sic Livery had made available to the trade, as they similarly availed themselves of hea.r.s.es, flower cars, and limousines from Cla.s.sic Livery's fleet when their own equipment was not sufficient to meet the demands of that particular day's service to the deceased and bereaved.