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“Adelaide Worner, she’s been in charge of the safe-deposit vault for . . . God, I don’t know, at least ten years, and is absolutely reliable; there were only two people who went into their boxes between eleven forty-five and twelve-fifteen. One of them was a man I’ve known for years, who makes nearly daily visits to his box, and who I don’t think could possibly be involved in the sort of thing you’re interested in. And the other was a young lady with whom I believe you’re acquainted, Susan Reynolds, Tom Reynolds’s daughter.”
“We had lunch,” Matt said.
Shit. This smells. I know Calhoun went in there. But I can’t tell Chase that Adelaide Worner, his faithful tender of the safe-deposit vault, is either mistaken or—worse!—might be involved with Calhoun.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Matt,” Chase said.
“When all else fails, tell the truth,” Matt said with a smile. “ ‘Matt, you were obviously wrong.’ ”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” Chase said. “Did you have a nice lunch?”
“Susan took me to a Pennsylvania Dutch place a couple of blocks from here.”
“Christianson’s?”
“They wheel enough food to feed a family of ten to your table.”
“Christianson’s,” Chase confirmed. “I was going to recommend it to you.”
“Very nice place. I ate too much.”
“That’s why people go to Christianson’s, to eat too much.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If there’s anything else you need, Matt?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Matt waited until he saw Chase enter his office across the lobby and then called the number Lieutenant Deitrich had given him. There was no answer. Matt let it ring long enough first to decide that it was Deitrich’s private number—otherwise someone would have answered it—and then to have the thought Shit, is good old Adelaide Worner going to be suspicious about Chase’s interest in her records and ring the warning bell to Calhoun? and then hung up.
He called Chief Mueller.
“Chief, I really need to talk to Lieutenant Deitrich,” Matt said. “And his phone doesn’t answer.”
“Time important, Payne?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give me your number. I’ll get back to you.”
Three minutes later, the telephone rang.
“Deitrich will pick you up on the corner—turn right when you leave the bank—in five minutes,” Chief Mueller announced, without any preliminary greeting.
“Thank you very much.”
“Happy to do it.”
Almost exactly five minutes later, a pea-green unmarked Ford with Deitrich at the wheel pulled up at the corner. He signaled Matt to get in.
“You got something?” Deitrich asked.
Matt recited the chain of events as they drove through traffic.
Deitrich nodded his head.
