"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You're right. I have to eat. You said you're paying?"
"Right."
"In that case, since I really deserve it, something expensive. A lobster comes immediately to mind. Does Bookbinder's, the Old Original, on Second Street, make you want to regret your kind offer?"
"Not at all. This feast goes on the expense account."
"So those assholes did report me? I thought they'd be too embarrassed."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't. You want to meet me there? Or should I pick you up?"
"I'll meet you there. When can you leave?"
"As soon as I can turn out the lights. I'm starved."
He hung up, looked out the window and saw that it was not only dark but raining, and went to what had been the classroom's cloakroom for his trench coat. When he picked it up, there was something heavy in the pocket. He fished it out. It was the small tape recorder that had come with the dictation system he had bought to transcribe the Kellog tapes, still in its box with compartments for the device, batteries, and three tape cassettes.
He started to put it on his desk, but changed his mind when he thought it might be useful to transcribe information at the Roundhouse. He put it back in the trenchcoat 's pocket, turned off the lights, and left.
"If you had a decent paying job, you wouldn't have to put in so much overtime," Special Agent Matthews, a tall, muscular, fair-skinned man in his late twenties, said to Detective Payne when Matt slid onto a stool beside him in the bar.
"Why do I suspect there is something significant in that remark?" Matt said. "What are you drinking?"
"Johnny Walker Black," Matthews said. "Would you like one?"
"You're paying?"
"The Bureau is paying."
"In that case, yes, thank you, I will," Matt said. He caught the bartender's eye and signaled for the same thing. "I will ask why the Bureau is paying later. I would have thought they would be just a little annoyed with me."
"Whatever for? The purpose of this little rendezvous is to point out to you all the nice things that would happen if you joined us."
"You're kidding."
"Not at all. Davis called me into his office and ordered me to wine and dine you with that noble purpose in mind."
Matt chuckled.
"You can tell Mr. Davis what I told the two assholes. One of my best friends is an FBI agent, but I wouldn't want my sister to marry one of them."
"Which two assholes would that be?"
"The two I led on a wild-goose chase up and down the alleys of North Philadelphia."
"FBI agents?" Matthews asked. Matt nodded. "Did they have names?"
Matt called the names from his memory.
"Jernigan and Leibowitz," he said. "Leibowitz seemed to be the brighter of the two."
"Never heard of them," Jack Matthews said. "Why did you lead them on a wild-goose chase?"
"They annoyed me," Matt said.
"Why did they annoy you?"
"They thought I had kidnapped an innocent maiden."
"You don't know any innocent maidens. There may not be an innocent maiden over the age of eleven in Philadelphia. Kidnapped? What the hell are you talking about, Matt? Try starting at the beginning."
"This is really the first time you're hearing this?" Matt asked.
Matthews held up his hands in a gesture of innocence.
"Somewhat reluctantly, I will take you at your word," Matt said, and told him of his encounter with Special Agents Leibowitz and Jernigan.
"We don't have any agents by those names in our of fice, Matt," Matthews said when Matt had finished. "Are you sure they were FBI agents? Not Treasury, or Secret Ser-"
"They had FBI credentials," Matt shut him off. "Which they shoved close enough under my nose for me to take a good look."
"I don't understand this at all," Matthews said. "And your lady friend was not kidnapped at all?"
"How do you get 'kidnapped at all'? Wouldn't that be like being a little pregnant?"
Matthews chuckled.
"Have you told anyone else about this?" he asked. "Wohl, for example?"
"Not a soul. And especially not Wohl. That would have triggered his 'we must be kind to the FBI' speech."
"I have no idea-"
"Let's get a table and eat," Matt said. "I'm starved. And when I'm finished, I have another couple of hours' work at the Roundhouse, which means I better not have another drink, even if the FBI is paying for it."
"What are you doing?"
"Is that you or the FBI asking?"
"Me."
"Checking some personnel records. It doesn't make me feel like Sherlock Holmes, but it's a dirty job that someone has to do."
Matthews chuckled.
"May I tell Mr. Davis that you have taken his kind offer of employment under consideration?"
"I don't give a damn what you tell him," Matt said. "Let's eat."
Cynthia Longwood took a long time to wake up, and when she did, she had no idea at all where she was. The room was dark.
She became aware first that she was wearing one of those awful hospital gowns that tie down the back and let your fanny hang out. And then, quickly, she realized that she was in a narrow hospital bed with chrome rails to keep you from falling out; and put that together to understand that she was in a hospital room.
She sat up-her muscles seemed stiff and she didn't seem to have much strength-and saw the glow of a cigarette. Someone was in the room with her.
Who? A nurse?
Cynthia let herself fall back on the bed.
The last thing she remembered clearly was being in her own room in Bala Cynwyd. Dr. Seaburg had been there.
Mother called him when I couldn't stop crying.
And he gave me something, a pill. A pill. A pill and then a shot. And told me it would let me sleep.
And then I was in a car, and going downtown…
They must have brought me here.
Dr. Seaburg was here, too. He had some other doctor with him. A nice old man.
My God, what did he give me? I can't seem to think, and I feel like I just swam across the Atlantic Ocean!
"Are you supposed to be doing that?" Cynthia challenged.
"Doing what?" a female voice near the cigarette glow asked.
"Smoking in here?"
"I didn't think anyone would notice. I'll put it out."
"No!" Cynthia said. "I don't mind. I could use one myself."
A body appeared at the bedside. A female body. Extending a lit cigarette.
"Will you settle for a puff on this?" she asked. "I don't want you falling asleep again with a lit cigarette."
Cynthia had trouble finding the hand holding the cigarette. But finally she got the cigarette to her lips and took a puff.
"You're right," the woman said. "I shouldn't be smoking in here. But it's been a long day, and I'm a nice girl, and I figured, what the hell?"
Cynthia chuckled and took another puff on the cigarette, and in its glow saw that the woman was young, and wore a simple cotton blouse and a skirt, with a sweater over her shoulders.
"Would you like something to drink?" the young woman asked. "There's water and 7-Up."
"Oh, yes, please, 7-Up," Cynthia said.
"Would it bother you if I put the lights on?" the young woman said. "I don't want to spill 7-Up all over you."
"Go ahead," Cynthia said. "Who are you?"
"My name is Amy Payne."
"You're a nurse?"
"No."
"I was wondering where your uniform was," Cynthia said.
The lights came on, painfully bright. It took what seemed to be a long time for her eyes to adjust to them.
When she finally had everything in focus, she saw that Amy-attractive, but no real beauty-was extending a paper cup to her.
Cynthia quickly drank it all, and held out the cup for a refill.