He either has a great memory-which is of course possible-or he has been calling that number frequently.

"How much were you able to learn about the boyfriend?" Coughlin began the conversation without any other opening comment.

Wohl smiled. He knew that Jason Washington had begun his police career walking a beat in Center City under Lieutenant Dennis V. Coughlin. They had been friends-and mutual admirers-ever since. Polite opening comments were not necessary. Washington would immediately recognize Coughlin's voice and know what Coughlin wanted to know.

Coughlin, in an automatic action, had taken a small leather-bound notebook and a pencil from his pocket. He scribbled quickly on it as Washington replied.

"Sit on it until I get back to you. I'm with Wohl," Coughlin said and hung up.

Now it was Peter Wohl's turn to look at Coughlin with a question on his face.

"One boyfriend," Coughlin said. "Ronald R. Ketcham, twenty-five, five-ten, brown hair, 165 pounds, no record except for traffic violations, lives in one of the garden apartments on Overbrook Avenue near Episcopal Academy . . ."

He looked at Wohl until Wohl indicated he knew the garden apartment complex, and then went on: ". . . works for Wendell, Wilson, the stockbrokers in Bala Cynwyd. Has not been to work for three days, and has not been seen around his apartment. His car, a Buick coupe, is locked up in the garage. There are no signs of forcible entry into his apartment, and no signs of any kind of a struggle inside the apartment. He could, of course, be in Atlantic City."

"Or pa.s.sed through Atlantic City on his way to swim with the fishes," Peter said.

"You think?"

"If Savarese found out this guy was with his granddaughter when she was raped."

"How could Savarese know that?" Coughlin asked.

"How could he know she was raped?" Peter countered.

"Maybe he found this guy before Jason did."

"If that's the case . . ." Peter said.

"Yeah," Coughlin said. "Savarese is now looking for the cop."

"I'm tempted to say let him have him," Peter said.

"You don't even want to start thinking things like that, Peter," Coughlin said almost paternally.

"The other thought I have been having, if this went down the way I think it did, was that-"

"It sounds like something an already dirty Five Squad cop would do?"

Wohl nodded.

"Knowing that another dirty cop would not turn him in," Coughlin agreed.

Both of them fell silent for nearly a full minute.

"You open to suggestion, Peter?" Coughlin finally asked.

"Wide open," Wohl said.

"Okay. Tell Jason to find out what else he can about Mr. Ketcham. I'll put out a Locate, Do Not Detain on him. And I will think about what to do about our friend Vincenzo."

"For example?"

"I know that you think it would probably be a good thing, but we really can't permit Savarese to cut the limbs off this sc.u.mbag one at a time with a dull knife," Coughlin said.

"My mouth ran away with me," Peter said.

"So long as it wasn't your heart," Coughlin said.

"I wish we had more than 'seems likely' to tie somebody on Five Squad to the oral rape-"

"We don't even have 'seems likely,' all we have is 'could be,' " Coughlin interrupted. "What are you thinking?"

"We go into Calhoun's safe-deposit box in Harrisburg. And then Jason explains to him that not only do we now have him with money he can't explain, but that we are about to find out who raped this girl, and in his own best interests, he should tell us about everything."

"Too many 'ifs.' There may be nothing in that box to incriminate him about anything. And if we go into the box, then they know we're looking at them. And they shut down. And what if Calhoun is the sc.u.mbag who did that to the girl?"

"Then Jason tells him who the girl is, and that unless he goes along, we tell Grandpa."

Coughlin looked at him.

"Maybe you will get to be police commissioner," he said. "I am seeing in you a certain amoral ruthlessness I never noticed before."

He met Peter's eyes, then stood up.

"For the time being, only you, me, and Jason. Agreed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you for lunch, Peter."

"Chief, I'm sorry I didn't ask you before I accepted . . ."

"No problem. But there is one."

"Sir?"

"Does your dad know?"

Peter shook his head, "no."

"The problem is you're going to have to tell him before he finds out, for one thing. And when he finds out, he'll think you just might be getting a little too big for your britches."

"Yeah."

"Good. You've got that message?"

"Loud and clear, sir."

"Okay. Then I will take pity on you and tell you I already told him I was going to tell you to accept. But now you know how the phones work in here, I'd get on it. Call him and ask him what he thinks. Even money he'll say go ahead."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Thanks again for lunch, Peter," Coughlin said and walked out of the Grill Room.

Susan led Matt three blocks from the First Harrisburg Bank & Trust to a Pennsylvania Dutch restaurant.

The place was spotless, and the waitress, a tall blonde about as old as Susan looked, Matt thought, like a visual definition of innocent and wholesome. She wore a starched white lace hat on top of her blond hair, which was parted in the middle and done up in a bun at her neck. Her white cotton blouse-b.u.t.toned to the neck-was covered with an open black sweater. Her black skirt was more than halfway down her calves, and her starched white ap.r.o.n matched the cap. No makeup, of course.

She smiled gently, and apparently sincerely, at Susan and Matt.

I wonder what she would do if she knew she was about to serve two felons?

"Are you going to have lunch with us?" she asked. There was a Germanic accent to her speech.

"That depends on what you have," Matt said.

She looked at him curiously.

"Please," Susan said and kicked him under the table.

When the waitress left, Matt asked, "Did I say something wrong?"

"She's Amish, I think," Susan said. "But whatever, she's what they call plain people, and she would not understand your smart-a.s.s wit."

"How am I going to order lunch if I don't know what's on the menu?"

Susan inclined her head toward the waitress, who was pushing a large-wheeled cart toward their table.

"What a big-city sophisticate like you would probably call prix fixe," Susan said. "As much as you want, all one price. But don't be a pig; take only what you intend to eat. It hurts them when you don't eat everything on your plate. They think you didn't like it."

"Yes, Mother," Matt said.

There was an enormous display of food in bowls and on platters arranged on the cart.

Matt took roast pork, beef pot roast, potatoes au gratin, lima beans, apple sauce, beets, succotash, two rolls, b.u.t.ter, what looked to him like some kind of apple pie, iced tea, and coffee.

The wholesome waitress smiled at him approvingly, then served Susan approximately one-third as much food.

"Did you hear what I said about eating everything?" Susan said when the waitress had rolled the cart away.

"I intend to," Matt said.

She shook her head in disbelief.

"Do you know what happened when you put that briefcase under your desk?"

"No," Matt said, curious and therefore serious, "what? I think it's safe there, if that's what you mean."

"That's not what I mean," she said. "You had a choice to make, and you made one. Have you thought about that?"

"I didn't have any choice," he said. "You know that."

"Could you put yourself in Jennifer's shoes? Did she have any choice?"

"Oranges and lemons, Susan," Matt said. "And how did Jennifer manage to intrude herself on what I thought until sixty seconds ago was going to be a nice lunch?"

"She called this morning. Just before I went to the bank."

"And?"

"I told her I was busy and that she would have to call back."

"How much of the conversation did your pal from the FBI hear? Or record?"

"All of it. But there's nothing-"

"It was one more call in a series of recent calls. They'll think that something is about to happen. If I were in charge, I would tighten surveillance. We don't need that."

"What do I tell her? She'll keep calling until I talk to her."

"Tell her to call you tomorrow," Matt said.

"And what do I tell her tomorrow?"

"Between now and then, we'll think of something."

"What are you going to do with the mon-the briefcase?"

"Take it to my room."

"And then?"

"I don't know. I've been kicking the idea around that maybe we can-somehow, but don't ask me how-use your returning the loot to our advantage. It would at least show a change of heart. I don't know how much good that would do."

She looked at him but said nothing.

"Eat your succotash, like a good girl," Matt said. "An other option, of course, is to get rid of it. Then-"

"You mean destroy it?"

Matt nodded, and went on: "Then it would be your word against Chenowith that you ever had it."

"His and Jennifer's," Susan said. "She'll go along with whatever he says."