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“Where are we going?” Susan asked.
“Not far. Just the other side of New Hope,” Jennie said. “Bryan found a house on a hill. You can see the Delaware.”
“Where is he?”
“Working,” Jennie said. “He plays from nine to one.”
“Plays?”
“The piano. In a bar outside New Hope.”
“How long has he been doing that?”
“Couple of weeks. He used to go there at night and play for the fun of it. So the owner asked him if he would play for money. Off the books.”
“He doesn’t need money,” Susan said. It was a question.
“I think he likes to get out of the house,” Jennie said. “The baby makes him nervous.”
And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there were single women around this place where he plays the piano.
Matt Payne was lying on his back, sound asleep, his arms and legs spread, his mouth open, and wearing only a T-shirt, when the telephone rang. He was snoring quietly.
The second ring of the telephone brought him from sound asleep to fully awake, but except to open his eyes and tilt his head so that he could see the telephone half-hidden behind his snub-nosed revolver in its ankle holster on his bedside table, he did not move at all.
The telephone rang twice more, and then there was a click as the answering machine switched on, and then his prerecorded voice filled the tiny bedroom.
“If this is an attempt to sell me something, your telephone will explode in your ear in three seconds. Otherwise you may wait for the beep, and leave your name and number, and I will return your call.”
There was a beep.
And then a rather pleasant, if somewhat exasperated in tone, male voice came over the small loudspeaker.
“Cute, very cute! Pick up the damned telephone, Matt.”
Matt Payne recognized Peter Wohl’s voice. His arm shot out and grabbed the telephone.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Is it too much to hope that I’m interrupting something lewd, immoral, and probably illegal?”
“Unfortunately, you have found me lying here in a state of involuntary celibacy.”
“Mighty Matthew has struck out? How did that happen?”
“I strongly suspect the lady doesn’t like policemen. I was doing pretty well, I thought, before what I do for a living came up.”
“Sometimes that happens.” Wohl chuckled.
“What’s up, boss?”
“Golf is off, Matt. Sorry.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Carlucci called my father last night and ‘suggested’ everybody get together for a little pasta at my father’s house this afternoon, and then ‘suggested’ who else should be there. You weren’t on the list. I wish I wasn’t.”
The mayor’s habit of issuing orders in the form of suggestions was almost infamous. Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, Retired, had been Carlucci’s rabbi as Carlucci had worked his way up through the police ranks. Carlucci had once, emotionally, blurted to Peter that Chief Wohl was the only man in the world he completely trusted.
