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“I will share that with Special Agent Matthews,” Washington said. “Is there anything else, in particular anything concerning your—what shall I say, ‘social life in romantic Harrisburg’—that you would like me to tell him?”
“I haven’t called her. I will when I get off the phone with you. And that one telephone call may be, probably will be, the end of that.”
“And how is that?”
“You were there when I told Davis that her eyes glazed over when I told her I was a cop.”
“If at first you don’t succeed, to coin a phrase. You might try inflaming her natural maternal instincts, and get her to take pity on a lonely boy banished to the provinces far from home and loved ones.”
Matt chuckled.
“If you were she, would you be eager to establish a close relationship with a cop?”
“That might well depend on the cop,” Washington said. “Think positively, Matthew.”
“I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Would a report at, say, eight-thirty in the morning be too much to ask? I would so hate to disappoint Agent Matthews should he call about then, as I’m sure he will.”
“I’ll call you in the morning,” Matt said.
“I will wait in breathless anticipation,” Washington said, and hung up.
Matt took the telephone number for the Reynolds home Daffy had given him from his wallet, read it aloud three times in an attempt to memorize it, and then dialed it. As the phone was ringing, he looked at the scrap of paper in his hand, decided this was not the time to rely on memory tricks—even one provided by Jason Washington—and put it back in his wallet.
“The Reynolds residence,” a male voice announced.
Jesus, they have a butler!
Why does that surprise me? Dad said her father was an “extraordinarily successful” businessman, and that’s Dad-speak for really loaded/stinking rich.
“Miss Reynolds, please. Miss Susan Reynolds. My name is Matthew Payne.”
“One moment, please, sir.”
It was a long moment, long enough to give Matt time to form a mental image of Susan being told that a Mr. Matthew Payne was on the line, taking a moment to wonder who Matt Payne was, to remember, Oh, that cop at Daffy’s! and then to tell the butler she was not at home and would never be home to Mr. Payne.
“Hello?” a female voice chirped.
“Susan?”
That doesn’t sound like her.
“No,” the female voice said, coyly. “This is not Susan. This is Susan’s mother. And who is this, please?”
“My name is Payne, Mrs. Reynolds. Matthew Payne. I met Susan at Daffy . . . Daphne Nesbitt’s—”
“I thought that’s what Wilson said!” Mrs. Reynolds cried happily. “You’re that wicked young man who kept Susan out all night!”
Christ, she’s an airhead. In the mold of Daffy’s mother, Chad’s mother, Penny’s mother. What is that, the curse of the moneyed class? Or maybe it’s the Bennington Curse. The pretty young girls grow up and turn into airheads. Or otherwise go mad. Like those who believe in being kind to dumb animals by blowing buildings up. Or at least aid and abet those who think that way.
“I think you have the wrong man, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Oh, no, I don’t, Matthew Payne. Daphne Browne—now she’s Daphne Nesbitt, isn’t she?—told me all about you! You’re a wicked boy! Didn’t you even think that we would be worried sick about her! Shame on you!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, she’s not at home. I mean, she’s really not at home. She’s at work.”
