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“And, if memory serves, despite Agent Matthews’s best efforts, we have learned virtually nothing, via Detective Payne, of interesting things going on within the Philadelphia Police Department that we would not have learned of through other channels?”
“I’m afraid that’s true, sir.”
“That speaks well for Detective Payne, wouldn’t you say, Isaiah?”
“From the viewpoint of the Philadelphia Police Department, yes, sir, I would say it does.”
“It has occurred to me, Isaiah, that Detective Payne might very well have the makings of an outstanding FBI agent. How does that strike you?”
“Absolutely,” Isaiah Towne said. “He would bring to the Bureau a level of practical experience—”
Davis cut him off.
“See if Matthews is in the office, please,” he said. “If he is, why don’t you and I have a little chat with him about recruiting Detective Payne?”
Towne picked up one of the telephones on Davis’s desk, pushed the button marked “Duty Officer,” learned that Special Agent Matthews was in the office, and told the duty officer to send him to the office of the SAC.
EIGHT
Detective Matt Payne’s concentration was finally broken by the ringing telephone. He muttered a routine obscenity; pulled the dictating machine’s headset out of his ears; turned from the typewriter; looked around the office and saw that it was deserted and that it was dark outside; muttered another routine obscenity; glanced at his wristwatch, saw that it was half past seven; muttered a third routine obscenity; and picked up the telephone.
It had been a long, tiring, and not very productive day. He had been working without interruption on the obscenity-deleted tapes since Weisbach’s meeting in the morning.
All he had had to eat all day was a hamburger and a small fries. Jason Washington, who had felt sorry for him, had brought that to him in the middle of the afternoon.
He was nowhere near finished, and at half past four, Sergeant Sandow had informed him he was expected in Personnel in the Roundhouse anytime after half past nine, to go through the records of the men on Five Squad.
“Special Investigation, Detective Payne,” Matt said, as courteously as he could manage.
“As an act of Christian charity, your friendly local FBI agent is prepared to spring for supper,” his caller said.
“Jack, I’m really up to my ass in work.”
“You have to eat,” Special Agent Jack Matthews said, reasonably.
“Where are you?”
“At the FOP.”
The Fraternal Order of Police Building was on Spring Garden Street, just off North Broad Street. The well-patronized bar was in the basement. Matt could hear bar sounds; Matthews was using the phone on the bar.
“This is social, then, rather than official?”
“A little of each, actually,” Matthews said, surprised at the question. “Why did you ask?”
“You’re going to deliver a friendly lecture on the criminal penalties provided for interfering with FBI agents, right?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re right. I have to eat. You said you’re paying?”
“Right.”>
“In that case, since I really deserve it, something expensive. A lobster comes immediately to mind. Does Bookbinder’s, the Old Original, on Second Street, make you want to regret your kind offer?”
“Not at all. This feast goes on the expense account.”
“So those assholes did report me? I thought they’d be too embarrassed.”
