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Matt started to head for the Schuylkill Expressw
ay as the fastest way out of town. When he turned onto South Street, he punched the autodial button on his cellular, which caused Inspector Wohl to answer his cellular on the second ring.
“Matt, boss. Commissioner Coughlin’s on his way back to the Roundhouse, and I’m on my way to Easton. Okay?”
“From the cheerful sound of your voice, I guess you again refused to listen to his sage advice?”
“He didn’t offer any,” Matt said. “He tried to sandbag me with Tony Harris.”
“And?”
“Tony said I already think like the Black Buddha, they can teach me what I have to know, and ‘welcome’-no, ‘welcome, welcome’-to Homicide.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“He also told me he gave you the Cassidy job,” Matt said.
Again there was a perceptible pause.
“If you come up with something unpleasant, give me a call,” Wohl said. “Otherwise fill me in in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
Wohl broke the connection without saying anything else.
At the next intersection-South and Twentieth Streets- Matt changed his mind about the Schuylkill Expressway and instead drove back to Rittenhouse Square, where he drove into the underground garage, parked the unmarked Ford, and got in the Porsche.
It had occurred to him that he hadn’t driven the Porsche much lately, and it needed a run. What he liked best about the Porsche-something he somewhat snobbishly thought most people didn’t understand-was not how easily you could get it up to well over 100, 120 miles per hour-a great many cars would do that-but how beautifully it handled on narrow, winding roads, making 60 or 70 where lesser cars would lose control at 50 or less. Such as the twenty miles or so of Route 611 between Kintnersville and Easton, where the road ran alongside the old Delaware Canal.
With the winding road, and a lot else on his mind-
God, that was an unexpected compliment from Tony Harris, me thinking like Jason…
And it couldn’t have been timed better. Uncle Denny had egg all over his face…
I wonder when the promotion will actually happen?
What am I going to do if Captain Cassidy’s brother’s will hasn’t been filed in the courthouse? Some people don’t even have wills. What do they call that, intestate, something like that?
With a little luck, the courthouse’ll have a computer and I can do a search for all real estate in the name of John Paul Cassidy…
I’ve got to find out more about Whatshisname who stuffed his girlfriend in a trunk and sends Dave Pekach taunting postcards from Europe…
Uncle Denny said the body was (a) mummified and (b) in the trunk for a year? Didn’t it smell?
I’ll have to find out when Stan Colt is going to grace Philadelphia with his presence. I really would like to see more-a hell of a lot more-of Vice President Terry Davis…
Nice legs. Nice everything…
— he didn’t think about Route 611 passing through Doylestown, right past the Crossroads Diner, until the diner itself came into view.
Shit, Shit, Shit!
The mental image of Susan with the neat hole under her sightless eyes jumped into his mind.
No, goddamn it. No! Not twice in one day!
Think of something else.
