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And he thought again that it was a shame he’d never gotten to meet Martha’s father. He had apparently been one hell of a man. A man’s man, and not only because he had hunted and shot at least one each of the world’s big game, but also because he did things like install a urinal in his bathroom, because that’s what he wanted, and to hell with what people thought.
Martha had told him she was positive her father would have loved him. Pekach wasn’t so sure about that. He thought it more likely that if he were Alexander F. Peebles he would have wondered long and hard about whether Captain David Pekach was in love with his daughter or her money.
As far as Dave Pekach was concerned, if Martha didn’t have a goddamned dime, she would still be the best thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life. But right now, there were only two people who believed that: he and Martha. Well, maybe Matt Payne. And probably, too, Matt’s father, the lawyer.
If Brewster Cortland Payne thought all he was after was Martha’s money, he would have done something about it. He’d been Martha’s father’s lawyer—and friend—for a long time. He wasn’t going to stand idly by and just watch her get screwed. Get taken advantage of. If he believed that, or even suspected it, Brewster C. Payne would not be going to give the bride away when they got married. More than that, he wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to fix their getting married by both a Roman Catholic monsignor (to satisfy Dave’s mother) and an Episcopalian (to satisfy what Martha thought her father would want).
But everybody else figured that he was going to marry her for her money. Nobody was willing to believe that it had been love at first sight, any more than anyone would believe that he was the first man Martha had ever gone to bed with. And, of course, he couldn’t say anything about that.
When the telephone began to buzz, Dave Pekach was nowhere close to finishing what he had risen from bed to accomplish.
He was, therefore, not surprised when he went back into the bedroom to find that the bedside lights were lit, and that Martha was sitting up against the massive carved headboard (her father had bought the bed in Borneo; the most prominent of the bas-relief carvings was of a snarling tiger with ivory teeth) holding the telephone out to him.
“It’s Peter Wohl, precious,” she said.
Martha had long hair, which she braided at night, and which Dave thought was really beautiful. He could also see her nipples through her thin nightgown. Just the sight of Martha’s nipples made his heart jump, and he sometimes wondered if that was dirty of him, or whether it was just one more proof that he loved her.
“I’m sorry you woke up,” he said as he sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I always wake up whenever you get up,” she said.
“Yes, sir,” Dave said into the telephone.
“Sorry to do this to you, Dave,” Wohl said. “But I want you in my office, in uniform, and in a Highway Patrol car as soon as you can get there.”
“What’s up?”
Wohl did not respond to the question.
“If I’m not there—I’m calling from South Detectives—wait for me,” Wohl said, and hung up.
“What is it?” Martha asked.
“He wants me in his office right away,” he said. “What time is it?”
Martha glanced at the clock on her bedside table.
“Twenty after three,” she said and started to get out of bed.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re not going out at this hour without at least a cup of coffee,” she said.
“Sweetheart, there’s no time.”
“By the time you’ve dressed, I’ll have it ready.”
“You don’t have to, baby.”
“Precious, I want to.”
He returned his attention to the telephone and dialed a number f
rom memory.
“Special Operations, Lieutenant Malone.”
“Dave Pekach, Jack. Is anything going on around there?”
