A car turned off Broad Street and stopped across from them. A slender man with glasses got out and waved to Selby.
The redhead said, “Fuck you, big man.” Collecting her shoulder bag, she stood and moved off into the shadows of the shops around City Hall, the click of her heels fading into the silence.
Sergeant Wilger crossed the street and joined Selby. “Anybody I know?” He stared after the woman. “The hooker made me, right?”
“I guess she did.”
“I look like an unemployed druggist when I see myself in shop windows,” Wilger said. “Everybody else sees cop. It’s probably glandular. You sure you weren’t tailed back there?”
“I don’t think so. After I called you I got on Flight 10 to Memphis. Just before takeoff I told the stewardess I’d forgot something, had to make a phone call. I said I’d try to get back in time but told her not to page me if I didn’t show. I stayed in the men’s room until Flight 10 was airborne. I killed the rest of the time in an all-night movie out on City Line.”
They crossed Chestnut Street and got into Wilger’s car. “I called Petey Komoto twice on my car phone driving over,” the detective told Selby. “He’s not home. Talked to his lady. Her name’s Maria-Encarna. She’s from Tijuana. I got that from Vice here. Petey’s sitting up with a sick friend, she says. Putting splints on busted flushes, I’d say. They live on Pine Street, near Rittenhouse Square. We’ll wait for him.”
Swinging off Chestnut Street, Wilger turned into Broad. They drove through the early light past the Bellevue Stratford and rows of closed shops and bars.
“It worked like you wanted,” Wilger said. “I did what you told me. But there’s something could screw it all up, Harry. Better tell me your end of it first.”
“I’ve got to be right,” Selby said. “Thomson hid the tree in the middle of the forest. Nothing else makes sense.”
“Fine,” Wilger said. “The film could be at Komoto’s. But that’s not the only problem.”
He turned off Broad onto Pine. A newsdealer was opening his corner stand, the bang of the shutters loud in the early morning stillness. An Inquirer truck swung in front of them and a man on the tailgate threw off a wired bundle of newspapers.
After routinely cursing the driver, Wilger said, “What about the bank?”
The preceding afternoon, when Selby left the hospital, Senator Lester’s limousine had been waiting for him in the driveway. So had the senator, in the rear of the big car, holding a phone.
“Get in,” he’d said, and then to the driver, “Clem, drive around for five or ten minutes before you take Mr. Selby out to the airport.”
He’d then explained in detail about his committee’s single undercover contact in Summitt City, Lee Crowley.
“We’ve had Crowley down there less than a year,” the senator told Selby. “He wasn’t in town the weekend after you and Jennifer met with your brother. He got sent up to Wilmington on what seemed a routine business trip. But Crowley was in Summitt a month or so later when Earl Thomson made a quick trip into town. He helped Thomson get a copy of the film he was looking for, arranged lab passes and clearance, ensured him some privacy. Crowley included that incident in his report, but he never actually knew what the film was all about.”
The senator’s limousine drove slowly through the center of the town and then into Society Hill on narrow streets with refurbished old row houses and budding spring trees.
“I can check out half of it.” The senator nodded at the phone in his hand. “I’ve got a call through to Judge Dowd, district court here. A federal court order is required to open Thomson’s safe deposit box under these circumstances, but you’d better be guessing right.”
“The master print has got to be at Summitt to start with,” Selby had said. “Jennifer Easton wasn’t lying. But Thomson showed the copy to Derek Taggart at a porn shop here in Philadelphia, then returned it to the bank. Or let us think he did that.”
“But if you go down to Summitt like some goddamn gunfighter,” the senator said, “you’ll wind up with your jewels in the wringer.”
“Right, Senator, but when I played in the pros we still faked people out with Statue of Liberty plays. If they’re expecting me in Summitt City, and your man, Crowley, plays along, that could nail them in place for a while.”
The senator spoke into the phone. “Yes, it is important, goddammit. Tell Judge Dowd it’s Dixon Lester, ma’am.” He turned and stared at Selby. “But how in hell do you convince Davic and Thomson you’re really on your way to Memphis?”
“Just get me to the airport now, Senator,” Selby said. “I can handle it from there.”
Sergeant Wilger turned out of Rittenhouse Square and parked in a street of renovated four-story homes, their fresh paint and cleanly blasted red brick fronts shining in the early sunlight. Komoto’s house was dark. Wilger turned off the motor.
“One thing, when Komoto shows, he belongs to me. It’s my job, understand?” Wilger looked at Selby. “So what about the bank?”
“I talked to Lester from a phone booth in City Line,” and Selby explained what he had learned then. With a federal court order, the senator had inspected the contents of Earl Thomson’s safety deposit box in the Wilmington bank. No film of any sort was there, only Xeroxed copies of Thomson’s driver’s license, school report cards, personal papers.
“In which case,” Wilger then said, “it looks good, Harry. The tree’s in the forest, like you guessed.”
“What we need is stashed away somewhere at Hell for Leather.” Selby studied the detective’s frowning face. “So what’s bothering you? What went wrong?”
Wilger hesitated, watched a Chrysler LeBaron driving slowly past Komoto’s house. “Okay, you called me at the Division from the airport,” he said when the car turned toward Rittenhouse Square. “You knew your home phone was wired, you didn’t trust Brett’s, but you figured nobody’d dare tap the phone at police headquarters, right? Okay. Brett was in Superior Nine then, Shana was testifying. I made a quick check of Brett’s office, swept it for taps. The bug was under her back desk drawer, a tidy job, probably Eberle’s work, he’s good at that. I didn’t touch it, I left it in place.” Wilger rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, twisting his head to relax the muscles. “After court adjourned I went back up to Brett’s office. Shana was with her. I dropped in on them, like you said to. Told Brett and Shana you were on your way to Memphis. We went downstairs and sent Shana home in a squad car. Brett was excited, told me she finally had something damaging, maybe conclusive to hit Thomson with.” He checked his watch. “Which will be in just a few hours... What happened, Harry, was this. Before I got to Brett’s, Shana had explained to her everything about Thomson’s swastika, just like she told you she wanted to in that note I gave you at the hospital. They were talking right into the bug, probably direct to Slocum’s office.”
“Christ,” Selby said softly.
“That’s about what I thought,” Wilger said, “So I sent a detail of uniforms out to your place for the night, and a squad over to Brett’s. They’re okay—”
“But Brett goes into court with three strikes against her,” Selby said.
Wilger opened the glove compartment and took out a half pint of Old Granddad, unscrewed the top and offered the bottle to Selby. “Davic and Slocum,” he said, “know every goddamn card she’s holding. Brett understands that. I told her about the bug right away. She knows she’s got to stall them until this deal pays off.”
Selby took a sip of whiskey and returned the bottle to Wilger. “Davic’s had all night to come up with a cover story,” Selby said. “Thomson will say he lost the swastika somewhere, and he’ll have friends and cops to prove it.”