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He started to put on the clothing Evans had laid out for him, and remembered she had asked a question.
“No. Not as far as Sabara knew. I sent a Highway RFC down there. I can’t imagine anybody trying to firebomb a Highway car.” He looked at her, and added, “I’ll have to go down there, to the Roundhouse.”
“Of course,” she said, and then, a moment later, “I suppose that means I should make arrangements for my dinner? And about seeing the Payne boy?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he said. “You’d probably have to wait around—”
“I don’t mind,” Martha said very evenly.
Pekach suddenly realized that a very great deal depended on his response to that.
“On the other hand, if you came along, it would save me coming all the way back out here to get you. You sure you wouldn’t mind waiting?”
“I don’t have anything else to do,” she said. “Why should I?”
Dave Pekach understood that he had come up with the proper response. He could see it in her eyes, and then confirmation came when she impulsively kissed him.
When they went out under the portico, the Mercedes was there. He looked at the garage. Not only had the Department’s car been put away, but a snowplow sat in front of the garage door where it had been put.
He went to the Mercedes and put his hand on the door, and then remembered his manners and went around and held the passenger side door open for Martha.
I have been manipulated, he thought. Why am I not pissed off?
As Peter Wohl looked for a place to park at Frankford Hospital, he saw two Highway cars, the first parked by the main entrance, and the second near the Emergency entrance.
Jesus Christ, has something happened?
His concern, which he recognized to contain more than a small element of fear for Matt Payne’s well-being, immediately chagrined him.
You’re getting paranoid. They have this clever thing called “police radio.” You have one. If something had happened, you’d have heard about it.
He had trouble finding a place to park and finally d
ecided he had as much right to park by the main entrance as the Highway RPC did. He wasn’t here to visit an ailing aunt.
He walked past the “Visitors Register Here” desk by holding out his leather badge-and-photo-ID case to the rent-a-cop on duty. But when he walked across the lobby toward the bank of elevators he saw that the hospital rent-a-cops had set up another barrier, a guy sitting behind a table you had to get past before you could get on an elevator.
This time, holding out the leather folder and murmuring the magic words “police officer” didn’t work.
“Excuse me, sir,” the rent-a-cop said, getting to his feet after Wohl had waved the leather folder in front of him. “I don’t see your visitor’s badge.”
Another rent-a-cop he hadn’t noticed before stepped between Wohl and the elevator.
“I don’t have one,” Wohl said. “I’m a police officer.” He gave the rent-a-cop a better look at his identification.
“Who are you going to see?”
“Matthew M. Payne,” Wohl said. “He’s on the surgical floor.”
“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no patient here by that name,” the rent-a-cop said.
He had not, Wohl noticed, checked any kind of a list before making that announcement.
He chuckled. “I’m Inspector Wohl,” he said. “The police officers keeping an eye on Officer Payne work for me.”
“Just a moment, sir,” the rent-a-cop said, and sat down at his table and dialed a number. A moment later he said, “You can go up, sir.”
“You guys are really doing your job,” Wohl said. “Thank you.”
