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“One of the troubles you have when dealing with banks is that nobody in a bank wants to believe that honest somebody could possibly have his, or especially her, hand in the till,” he said. “I guess you already learned that.”
I have just been complimented.
“I’ll check this Adelaide Worner out. Where are you going to be?”
“At the bank. Tonight I’m going out to dinner.”
“Eight o’clock at the Penn-Harris too early for you?”
“
No, sir. Thank you very much.”
Deitrich pulled to the curb, and Matt understood he was to get out.
“Thank you, sir.”
Deitrich nodded at him but did not speak.
Matt got out. He had no idea where he was, and had to ask directions to get back to the First Harrisburg Bank & Trust.
He called Jason Washington, was told he was not available, then tried Staff Inspector Weisbach’s number and was told he was out sick with a cold. Finally, he called Inspector Peter Wohl.
I really don’t want to talk to Wohl.
Wohl listened to his recitation of Calhoun going into a box without there being a record of it, and what he had done about it.
“Call in when you have something,” Wohl said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I had lunch with Chief Coughlin,” Wohl said. “I told him that I felt sure you were not going to do anything stupid in Harrisburg. Don’t make a liar of me, Matt.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Anything happening with your lady friend?”
“No, sir.”
Jesus, I hate to lie to him. It makes me want to throw up.
“Take care, Matt,” Wohl said and hung up.
Matt hung up, then leaned back in the high-backed executive chair.
His foot struck the attaché case half full of stolen money and knocked it over.
He sat there another minute or two, considering the ramifications of what he had done, and what he was doing.
And then he stood up, reached under the desk for the attaché case, picked it up, and walked out of the bank with it.
TWENTY
While Mr. Michael J. O’Hara of the Philadelphia Bulletin enjoyed a close personal relationship with many—indeed, almost all—of the senior supervisors of the Philadelphia Police Department, the White Shirts, as a general rule, did not provide him with the little tidbits of information from which Mr. O’Hara developed the stories in which his readers were interested.
The unspoken rules of the game were that if Mr. O’Hara posed a question to a senior White Shirt based upon what he had dredged up visiting the various districts and the special units of the Philadelphia Police Department, he would either be given a truthful answer, or asked to sit on the germ of a story, and they would get back to him later—and more important, first, before his competitors—when releasing the information would be appropriate.
The unspoken rules were scrupulously observed by both sides. The White Shirts would indeed get back to Mickey O’Hara first as soon as they could. And on his part, even if Mr. O’Hara himself uncovered the answers to the questions-on-hold, he would not print them without at least asking for the reasons he should not, and in nine occasions of ten, having been given a reason, would sit on the story until he was told it would be appropriate to publish it.
