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“So he says,” Bryan interrupted. “That could be a story. I suppose it did occur to you that he may not be what he says he is?”
“Now who’s sounding paranoid? I have good reason to believe he’s here for the reason he gives.”
“We can’t be too careful,” Bryan said seriously. “The FBI is not always as stupid as generally believed.”
“Anyway, he called the house and my mother invited him for dinner. And I’m going to have dinner with him tonight. There was no way I could get out of it.”
“How hard did you try?”
“Go to hell, Bryan,” Susan said. And then, before he could reply, Susan went on, “I’ve got to get off the phone. All you have to understand is that with the cop on my back, I can’t go anywhere near you.”
“Susie, let’s think about—” Bryan responded.
Susan hung up on him.
SIXTEEN
Susan Reynolds had to stop for a red light near the Penn-Harris hotel, and saw Matt Payne before he saw her. And when she saw him, her heart jumped.
He was leaning on the brass sign next to the revolving door, legs crossed, reading the newspaper. He was wearing a very well-cut glen plaid suit, a crisp white button-down-collar shirt, and gleaming loafers.
The son of a bitch is good-looking, she thought. And that is a very nice suit. Whatever he looks like, he doesn’t look like what comes to mind when you hear the word “cop.”
The light changed and she drove toward the hotel, then blew the horn to attract his attention.
She saw him lower the newspaper to look around, and then he saw her. A wide smile appeared on his face, and she remembered what he had said about her not having any trouble spotting him: “I’ll be the handsome devil with the look of joyous anticipation in his eyes.”
She told herself: Don’t hold your breath, Matt Payne, waiting for the satisfaction of your joyous anticipation. That just isn’t going to happen.
She pulled to the curb, and he opened the door and got in.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She pulled into traffic.
I have no idea where we’re going.
“It smells good in here,” Matt said.
“And you just love women who wear French perfume, right?”
“I was talking about the smell of the leather,” Matt replied. “Peculiarly Porsche, so to speak.”
My God! He either thinks very quickly, or he really was talking about the damned leather.
He leaned close to her and sniffed.
“But now that you mention it, I do love women who wear French perfume.”
And I can smell him, too. I don’t know what that aftershave is, but he didn’t get a large economy bottle of it for ninety-eight cents in Woolworth’s.
And he’s freshly shaven. He probably took a shower and a shave, getting all ready for the big date.
I wonder what he looks like in the shower?
What’s the matter with you? Stop that!
“Is where we’re going far?” Matt asked. “More than, say, two miles?”
