In an adjacent room was a long conference table, on which water and coffee carafes, cups and saucers, and even lined pads and ballpoint pens had been laid out. There were two telephones on the table, and television sets mounted on the walls.
This suite was designed not for luxury-although it’s no dump-but as somewhere the boss can gather the underlings together and inspire them.
Matt walked into the conference room, took a telephone cord from his briefcase, and looked along the walls for a telephone jack. Finding none, he dropped to his knees and got under the table. There were two double telephone jacks, and he plugged the telephone cord into one of them.
As he backed out, he became aware of nylon-sheathed legs.
“Can I help you?” a female voice asked as he got to his feet.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I managed to get it in… ”Jesus Christ! Will you look at this! “… the hole with only a little trouble.”
“Laptop?” the blonde asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“To take notes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She’s probably Stan Colt’s squeeze. Far too beautiful for a common man. Jesus Christ, she’s stunning!
She put out her hand.
“I’m Terry Davis,” she said. “With GAM.”
“Is that one ‘r’ and an ‘i’, or two ‘r’s and a ‘y’?”
“Not that it matters, but two ‘r’s and a ’y.’ ”
“And what’s GAM?”
“Global Artists Management,” she answered, making her surprise that he didn’t know evident in the tone of her voice.
“Of course,” Matt said, “I should have known.”
“If you need anything else, just let me know.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Have you had your breakfast?”
Not quite an hour before, Detective Payne had had two fried eggs, two slices of Taylor ham, two bagels, a glass each of orange juice and milk, and two cups of coffee.
“I could eat a little something, now that you mention it.”
“Well, when you have your laptop up and working, won’t you please have some breakfast?”
“You’re very kind,” Matt said.
She smiled at him and walked back to the room with the buffet, in the process convincing Payne that both sides of her were stunning.
He turned the laptop on, pushed the appropriate buttons, thought a moment about whether he wanted to make this official or not, decided he didn’t, and then typed, very quickly, for he was an accomplished typist, the private screen name for Inspector Wohl, and then his own; he wanted a copy of what he was about to type.
0935 dignitary is stan colt, coming to town to raise money for west catholic high school. So far two $$dinners, two $$lunches, and a $$benefit performance. will know dates locations etc after breakfasting upper floor suite ritz carlton with mcguire, monsignor schneider, terry davis of gam, others. I think I’m in love. 701.
In a moment, the computer told him his mail had been sent. Probably less than a minute later, the computer on the table behind Inspector Peter Wohl’s desk at Special Operations headquarters would give off a ping, and a message would appear on his monitor telling him he had an e-mail message from 701, which was Detective Payne’s badge number. A similar action would take place on Detective Payne’s desktop, and when he got back to the office, he would copy the message into his desktop.
Leaving the computer on, Payne went into the room with the buffet. Lieutenant McGuire, seated at a table with Monsignor Schneider and the other priest, waved him over.
“Yes, sir?”
“Payne, do you know the monsignor?”
“No, sir.”
“Monsignor, this is Detective Payne, of Special Operations, which will be providing most of the manpower for Mr. Colt’s security while he’s here.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” the monsignor said, smiling and standing up to offer his hand. “Your boss and I are old friends.”
Was that incidental information, to put me at ease, or are you telling me that if I displease you in any way, you’ll go right to Wohl?
“Detective Payne, this is Father Venno, of my office,” the monsignor went on, “who’ll be my liaison, representing the archdiocese.”
“How do you do, Father?” Matt said politely, putting out his hand and looking over Venno’s shoulder, finding Terry Davis at a table with two empty chairs, and wondering if he could get away with joining her.
“Why don’t you get a plate-the omelets are wonderful- and join us?” Monsignor Schneider said.
Shit!
“Thank you very much, sir,” Payne said.
Although he didn’t have nearly as much appetite as he’d had when contemplating taking breakfast with Miss Davis, the omelets offered did have a certain appeal, and Detective Payne returned to the table with a western omelet with everything, an English muffin, and a large glass of orange juice.
“That was an unfortunate business on South Broad Street last night, wasn’t it?” Monsignor Schneider said. “At the Gene Autry?”
“The Roy Rogers, Monsignor,” Father Venno corrected him.
“Wasn’t it?” the monsignor repeated, directing the question to Matt Payne, his face making it clear he didn’t like to be corrected.
“Yes, sir, it was,” Matt said.
“Have there been any developments in the case?”
“They’re working on it, sir,” Matt said. “I think they’ll wrap it up pretty quickly.”
“Greater love…,” the monsignor said, somewhat piously.
“Officer Charlton was a good man,” Lieutenant McGuire said. “A very sad situation.”
Over Father Venno’s shoulder, Matt saw that the two empty chairs at Terry Davis’s table were now occupied by Sergeant Al Nevins and another man-presumably from GAM-and that everyone was smiling at one another.
“I’ve just placed you,” Father Venno said, a tone of satisfaction in his voice.
“Excuse me?” Matt said.
“You were involved in that… unfortunate incident… in Doylestown a couple of months ago, weren’t you?”
“Unfortunate incident?” And it was six months ago, not “a couple,” and I was just starting to think I’d be able to start really forgetting it. Thanks a lot, Father!
“What unfortunate incident was that?” Monsignor Schneider asked.
“At the Crossroads Diner, Monsignor,” Father Venno said. “The FBI and Detective Payne were attempting an arrest-”
“Of a terrorist,” the monsignor interrupted, remembering. “A terrorist armed with a machine gun. Several people lost their lives.” He looked at Payne. “You were involved in that, were you?”
“Yes, sir, I was,” Matt said.
“As I recall,” the monsignor said, “three people died, and another young woman was shot.”
“I believe there were just two deaths, Monsignor,” Lieutenant McGuire said. “The terrorist, a man named Chenowith, and a civilian, a young woman who was cooperating with the FBI. What was her name, Matt?”
“Susan Reynolds,” Matt answered.
And I loved her, and she loved me, but we didn’t make it to that vine-covered cottage by the side of the road because that lunatic Chenowith let fly with his automatic carbine.
He had a sudden painfully clear mental image of Susan on her back in the parking lot behind the Crossroads Diner, her mouth and her sightless eyes open, her blond hair in a spreading pool of blood. The carbine bullet had made a small, neat hole just below her left eye, and a much nastier hole at the back of her head as it exited.
He laid his fork down, put his napkin on the table, and stood up.
“Will you excuse me, please?” he said, and looked around the room in search of a bathroom.
As he walked across the room, he heard Monsignor Schneider ask, “Detective Payne has experience working with the FBI, does he?” and heard Lieutenant McGuire’s answer.
“Yes, he does, Monsignor
.”
Then he was in the bathroom, hurriedly fastening the lock, and hoping that he could splash cold water on his face quickly enough to force back the bile and nausea he felt rising.
Ninety seconds later, he was leaning with his back against the bathroom wall, wiping his face with a towel, exhaling audibly. He had managed to keep from throwing up, but there had been a cold sweat, and he could feel the clammy touch of his undershirt on his skin.
You’re going to have to stop this shit, Matthew. That was a long time ago, Susan is not going to come back, and you’re going to have to really put all of that out of your mind, or they’ll put you in a rubber room.
Finally, he hung the towel back on its rack, and then, after purposefully taking several slow, deep breaths, unlatched the door and went out of the bathroom. Everyone was filing into the conference room-how the hell long was I in the john? — and he joined the line at the end, taking his seat at the table where he had left the laptop.
He saw a dark blue plastic folder lying beside his laptop. There was a neatly printed label on its cover: Stan Colt’s Visit to Philadelphia. Matt looked around the table and saw that everyone had been provided with a folder, and that there was another laptop on the table, in front of a man about his age wearing a gray business suit.
Matt’s seat turned out to be beside Monsignor Schneider.
“Are you all right, son? You look a little pale.”
“A little indigestion, sir. I’m afraid I gulped the omelet.”
“If I may have your attention,” a natty, intense-looking man in a dark suit said, waited until everyone was looking at him, and then went on. “I think it might be a good idea if we all knew each other. I’ll start with me. My name is Rogers Kennedy, and I’m a senior vice president of Global Artists Management, heading up GAM’s New York office. Let me say that I’m delighted to be here, and it’s my intention to see that Mr. Colt’s activities here raise just as much money as possible for West Catholic High School, which is really dear to Mr. Colt’s heart, and to see that that’s done in such a manner that Mr. Colt will look back on the experience fondly. To make sure that any bumps in the road, so to speak, are smoothed out beforehand, or that the best possible detour is set up.
“This lovely young lady, who is living proof that there is such a thing as the opposite of the dumb blonde of fame and legend, is Miss Terry Davis, of GAM’s West Coast Division. Vice President Davis has been charged with the hands-on management of Mr. Colt’s visit…”
1005 head gam man is rogers kennedy senior vp from nyc terry davis gam vp from la is hands-on boss
“… and this is Larry Robards,” Rogers Kennedy went on, indicating the young man with the other laptop, “my administrative executive, who takes things down so we don’t forget anything.”
Mr. Robards smiled around the table.
“Administrative executive”? What the hell is that? larry robards is kennedy’s ‘administrative executive’ read male secretary
“Monsignor?” Kennedy asked.
“I’m Monsignor Schneider,” Schneider said, smiling but not standing up. “The archbishop has asked me to handle Stanley’s visit and the fund-raising events…”
Stanley? Is that Stan Colt’s real name-Stanley?
“… and this is Father Venno, who is under my orders to make himself available to Stanley from the moment he gets off the plane until he gets back on,” Monsignor Schneider said.
Venno smiled around the table. mons. schneider representing archbishop father venno his surrogate
… available to colt around the clock while he’s here.
“I’m Lieutenant McGuire,” McGuire said, getting to his feet. “I command the Dignitary Protection Unit. This is Sergeant Al Nevins, who will handle the paperwork. Both of us-all of the Philadelphia police department-are determined to make Stan Colt’s time in Philadelphia, to use your phrase, Mr. Kennedy, as bump-free as possible. Let me assure you that you will have our complete cooperation.”
He sat down. lieut gerry mcguire for dignitary protection
“Thank you, Captain, that’s good to hear,” Kennedy said, and added: “Mr. Colt will have his own security, of course. Wachenhut, I believe, Terry?”
“Wachenhut Security Services, right,” Terry Davis confirmed.
“I’ll have them liaise with you, Lieutenant McGuire, as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” McGuire said. wachenhut rent-a-cops
Kennedy looked around the table, and smiled at Matt.
“And this gentleman?”
“My name is Payne, Mr. Kennedy. I’m with Special Operations. ”
“I don’t think I quite understand.”
“We’re going to provide the detectives, and Highway Patrol officers-and just about whatever else Lieutenant McGuire asks for. I’m here to get a preliminary idea of what that might be.”
“You’re with the police department?” Kennedy sounded surprised.
“Yes, sir.”
“Detective Payne, Mr. Kennedy,” Monsignor Schneider said, “if I may put it this way, is one of the finest of Philadelphia’s finest.. ”
Jesus, where did that come from?
“Detective Payne?” Terry Davis asked in surprise.
“… whose real-life exploits could really serve as the basis for one of Stanley’s films,” the monsignor went on. “I’m delighted the police department has assigned him to this project.”
Hey, I’m not assigned to this “project.”
“No offense intended, certainly, Detective,” Kennedy said. “We’re delighted to have you.”
I think I have just been had. And I really don’t want to baby-sit a movie actor.
Matt looked at Lieutenant Gerry McGuire, who, smiling at Matt’s discomfort, sarcastically gave him a hidden-behind-his — hand thumbs-up gesture. Matt returned it with a hidden-behind — his-hand gesture of his own, the index finger of his balled fist held upright. Lieutenant McGuire smiled even more broadly.
“If you’ll open the folder before you,” Rogers Kennedy went on, “you’ll find the tentative schedule we have worked out for Mr. Colt’s visit, and I think it would be a good idea to go over it now, to see if there are any potential bumps in Stan’s road we may have missed.”
Matt opened the folder.
Wohl’s going to want at least three copies of this. I can take it to the office and xerox it. Better yet, scan it into the computer, so when the inevitable changes are made to it, they won’t have to be written on it, and the whole thing rexeroxed. Or I can type it into the laptop now, and skip the scanning.
He immediately began to type, and was finished long before Rogers Kennedy, Monsignor Schneider, and Lieutenant McGuire had worked their way through it, item by item. When he looked up, he saw that Terry Davis was looking at him. When he smiled at her, she looked away.
Think about this, Matthew: If your life was really over when that sonofabitch Chenowith killed Susan, would you now be wondering what Vice President Davis looks like in her birthday suit? Or considering the possibilities of getting her into that condition?
Peter Wohl said, Dad said, Amy said, just about everybody — including the second-rate shrink with the bad breath they made me go see-told me that it would take time, but I would get over Susan.
If that is the case-and Jesus, that would be great-then why, when Father Venno “placed” me in “that unfortunate incident,” was I instantly back in that goddamned Crossroads Diner parking lot, with Susan’s blood sticky on my hands? Followed, as usual, with the cold-sweat-and-nausea business?
He looked across the table at Terry Davis again.
As if sensing his eyes on her, she looked at him.
Are you going to be the salvation of M. M. Payne, you stunning, long-legged blonde goddess? Or have I already slipped over the border into LaLa Land?
He winked at her.
She looked away, shaking her head, but he could see she was smiling.
He walked up to her when the meeting was over.
/> “Well, I guess we’ll be seeing more of one another,” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You mean in connection with this?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he said. “The only reason I was here was because my boss had other things to do.”
“And didn’t want to come in the first place?”
“You said that, not me,” Matt said. “But there is something you can do for me.”
“Name it.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“No.”
“That’s getting right to the point, isn’t it?” he said. “You didn’t leave yourself any wriggle room.”
“I’m on a red-eye back to the Coast at twelve-thirty,” she said. “And between now and then I’m going to go make the appropriate noises over a girlfriend from college’s toddler I’ve never seen.”
“Dare I hope that changes your response from ‘hell, no’ to ‘maybe some other time’?”
“We’ll be working together. I’m sure we’ll take some meals together.”
“Matt,” Lieutenant Gerry McGuire called, “I’ve got to get back to work.”
He looked at her and shrugged, then walked out of the suite.
THREE
Matt Payne dropped Lieutenant McGuire and Sergeant Nevins at the Roundhouse, and then-after thinking it over for a moment at the parking lot exit-headed back toward Center City rather than toward the Delaware River and Interstate 95, which would have taken him to Special Operations headquarters.
Inspector Wohl would expect him to come to the Arsenal-still called that, although the U.S. Army was long gone-directly from the meeting with Dignitary Protection, but that couldn’t be helped. He needed a quick shower and a change of linen. The cold sweat he had experienced had been a bad one, and had produced an offensive smell. Sometimes, the cold sweats just left him clammily uncomfortable, but sometimes they were accompanied by an unpleasant odor, which he thought was caused by something he had eaten. He hoped that was the reason; he didn’t want to think of other unpleasant possibilities.
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