Part 8 (2/2)

Then he pushed himself out of the banquette.

[FOUR].

Matt started to head for the Schuylkill Expressway as the fastest way out of town. When he turned onto South Street, he punched the autodial b.u.t.ton on his cellular, which caused Inspector Wohl to answer his cellular on the second ring.

”Matt, boss. Commissioner Coughlin's on his way back to the Roundhouse, and I'm on my way to Easton. Okay?”

”From the cheerful sound of your voice, I guess you again refused to listen to his sage advice?”

”He didn't offer any,” Matt said. ”He tried to sandbag me with Tony Harris.”

”And?”

”Tony said I already think like the Black Buddha, they can teach me what I have to know, and 'welcome'-no, 'welcome, welcome'-to Homicide.”

There was a moment's silence.

”He also told me he gave you the Ca.s.sidy job,” Matt said.

Again there was a perceptible pause.

”If you come up with something unpleasant, give me a call,” Wohl said. ”Otherwise fill me in in the morning.”

”Yes, sir,” Matt said.

Wohl broke the connection without saying anything else.

At the next intersection-South and Twentieth Streets- Matt changed his mind about the Schuylkill Expressway and instead drove back to Rittenhouse Square, where he drove into the underground garage, parked the unmarked Ford, and got in the Porsche.

It had occurred to him that he hadn't driven the Porsche much lately, and it needed a run. What he liked best about the Porsche-something he somewhat sn.o.bbishly thought most people didn't understand-was not how easily you could get it up to well over 100, 120 miles per hour-a great many cars would do that-but how beautifully it handled on narrow, winding roads, making 60 or 70 where lesser cars would lose control at 50 or less. Such as the twenty miles or so of Route 611 between Kintnersville and Easton, where the road ran alongside the old Delaware Ca.n.a.l.

With the winding road, and a lot else on his mind- G.o.d, that was an unexpected compliment from Tony Harris, me thinking like Jason . . .

And it couldn't have been timed better. Uncle Denny had egg all over his face. . . .

I wonder when the promotion will actually happen?

What am I going to do if Captain Ca.s.sidy's brother's will hasn't been filed in the courthouse? Some people don't even have wills. What do they call that, intestate, something like that?

With a little luck, the courthouse'll have a computer and I can do a search for all real estate in the name of John Paul Ca.s.sidy. . . .

I've got to find out more about Whats.h.i.+sname who stuffed his girlfriend in a trunk and sends Dave Pekach taunting postcards from Europe. . . .

Uncle Denny said the body was (a) mummified and (b) in the trunk for a year? Didn't it smell?

I'll have to find out when Stan Colt is going to grace Philadelphia with his presence. I really would like to see more-a h.e.l.l of a lot more-of Vice President Terry Davis. . . .

Nice legs. Nice everything. . . .

-he didn't think about Route 611 pa.s.sing through Doylestown, right past the Crossroads Diner, until the diner itself came into view.

s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t!

The mental image of Susan with the neat hole under her sightless eyes jumped into his mind.

No, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. No! Not twice in one day!

Think of something else.

Terry Davis in the shower.

A mummified body in a trunk. If you want to feel nauseous, think of a stinking, mummified body.

But (a) mummies don't stink. They look like leather statues, but they don't smell, (b) mummies are bodies that have gone through some sort of preservation process. They gut them, I think I remember from sixth grade, and then fill the cavity with some kind of preservatives-or was it rocks? sand?-and then wrap them in linen.

The body in this weirdo's trunk might have been dried out after a year, but, technically speaking, it wasn't mummified. After a year, why wasn't it a skeleton? Wouldn't the flesh have completely decomposed-giving off one h.e.l.l of a stink-in a year?

There is a lot you don't know about bodies. And ergo sum, a sergeant of the Homicide Bureau should know a lot about dead bodies.

Maybe I can take a course at the university.

Not a bulls.h.i.+t undergraduate course, but a course at the medical school. Amy's a professor. She should (a) know and (b) have the clout to have her little brother admitted.

Christ, I'm going seventy-five in a fifty-five zone!

Sorry to be speeding, Officer. What it was, when I pa.s.sed the Crossroads Diner, was that I naturally recalled my girlfriend with the back of her head blown out in the parking lot. . . .

Terry Davis has long legs. Nice long legs.

Why do long legs turn me on?

Why do some bosoms, but not others, turn me on?

Why did Terry Davis turn me on like that?

She really does have nice legs.

And she smelled good, too.

He recognized where he was. What he thought of as ”the end of Straight 611 out of Doylestown.” The concrete highway turned into macadam, made a sharp right turn, then a sharp left turn, and then got curvy.

Right around the next curve is where we pick up the old ca.n.a.l.

I'll be d.a.m.ned! I'm not going to throw up.

And I'm not sweat-soaked.

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