"Is there sort of an inference in that that I should have called you, not this lieutenant?"

"That would have been nice. Dignitary Protection is under Special Operations. I run Special Operations."

"I thought it was run out of the commissioner's office."

"Not anymore."

"Oh, shit," Larkin said. "Okay, Inspector. You tell me. How do I make this right?"

"Are you open to suggestion?"

"Wide open."

"I was going to suggest…I understand you're coming by train?"

"Right. Arriving at 30^th Street at nine-oh-five."

"I was going to suggest that I have one of my men, Detective Payne, pick you up at 30^th Street and bring you by my office. By then, with a little luck, I can have my desk cleared for you."

There was a long pause before Larkin replied.

"That's very kind of you, Inspector," he said, finally.

"Detective Payne will be waiting for you at the information booth in the main waiting room," Wohl said.

"How will I know him? What does he look like?"

Wohl's mouth ran away with him: "Like a Brooks Brothers advertisement. What about you?"

Larkin chuckled. "Like a Brooks Brothers advertisement? Tell him to look for a bald fat man in a rumpled suit. Thanks for the call, Inspector."

There was a click on the line.

Wohl took the handset from his ear, held it in front of him, and looked at it for a moment before replacing it in its cradle.

"Tom," he said to Officer O'Mara as he tossed him a set of keys, " either tonight or first thing in the morning go get a car from the Schoolhouse, drop it at my apartment, and take my Department car. Pick Payne up at no later than eight-fifteen at his apartment. He lives on Rittenhouse Square, he'll tell you where."

"Yes, sir."

"Jack, I want you in uniform tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

"And I would be grateful if you two," he said, nodding at Pekach and Sabara, "could just happen to drop by the Schoolhouse a little after nine. You in uniform, Dave."

Pekach nodded.

"And between now and nine tomorrow morning, I want the more lurid graffiti removed from the men's room walls.Supervisory Special Agent Larkin may experience the call of nature, and we don't want to offend him."

"I'll drop by the Schoolhouse on my way home," Sabara said, "and be outraged at what I find on the toilet's walls."

"We are not about to start a guerrilla war against the Secret Service," Wohl said. "But on the other hand, I want to make sure that Larkin understands that Special Operations is a division of the Philadelphia Police Department, not of the Secret Service."

"I think you made that point, Peter," Sabara said.

Matt saw H. Richard Detweiler and Brewster C. Payne II sitting at a cast-iron table on the flagstone area outside the library of the Detweiler mansion, dressed in what Matt thought of as their drive-tothe-golf-club clothes when he drove up.

There goes any chance I had of just dropping Penny off. Damn!

"Your dad's here," Penny said.

"I saw them," Matt said, and turned the ignition off and got out of the car and started up the shallow flight of stairs to the front door.

Miss Penelope Detweiler waited in vain for Matt to open her door, finally opened it herself, got out, and walked after him.

Grace Detweiler came into the foyer as they entered. Behind her, in the "small" sitting room, he saw his mother, who saw him and waved cheerfully.

"Well, did you have a good time?" Grace Detweiler asked.

"Oh, yes!" Penny said enthusiastically.

"She especially liked the part where Dave Pekach bit the head off the rooster," Matt said.

"Matt!" Grace Detweiler said indignantly.

Matt saw his mother smiling. They shared a sense of humor. It was one of many reasons that he was extraordinarily fond of her.

"If you will excuse me, ladies, I will now go kiss my frail and aged mother."

"You can go to hell, Matthew Payne," Patricia Payne said, getting up and tilting her cheek to him for a kiss. "'Frail and aged'!"

She took his arm and led him toward the door to the library.

"You look very nice," she said. "Was that for Penny's benefit?"

"I didn't even know she was going to be there. Madame D. and Martha Peebles sandbagged me with that."

His mother looked at him for a moment and then said, "Well, thank you for not making that clear to Penny. Obviously, she had a good time, and that was good for her."

"I get a gold star to take home to Mommy, right?"

"Daddy," his mother replied. "He's with Penny's father out there." She made a gesture toward the veranda outside the library, then added, "Matt, it's always nice if you can make someone happy, particularly someone who needs, desperately, a little happiness."

She squeezed his arm, and then turned back toward the "small" sitting room.The sitting room of the Detweiler mansion was on the second floor, and Matt could never remember ever seeing anyone in it, except during parties.

H. Richard Detweiler got out of his chair and, beaming, offered Matt his hand.

"Hello, Matt," he said. "Sit down and help us finish the bottle."

That's my gold star. Your usual greeting is a curt nod of the head. Until I became He-Upon-Whose-Strong-Shoulder-Precious-PennyLeans, I was tolerated only because of Dad.

"Hello, Mr. Detweiler."

"He's only being generous because he took all my money at the club," Brewster Payne said. "I couldn't stay out of the sand traps."

"Or the water," Detweiler said. "Scotch all right, Matt?"

"Fine. Thank you."

Matt reached into his pocket and took out his wallet, and then five one-hundred-dollar bills. When Detweiler handed him the drink, Matt handed him the money.

"What's this?"

"The expense money. I didn't need it."

Detweiler took the money and held it for a moment before tucking it in the pocket of his open-collared plaid shirt.

"I didn't expect any back, and I was just about to say, 'Matt, go buy yourself something,' but you don't try to pay dear friends for an act of love, do you?"

Oh, shit!

Matt turned away in embarrassment, saw a cast-iron love seat, walked to it, and sat down.

"He doesn't need your money, Dick," Brewster C. Payne said. "He made a killing at the tables."

"Really?"

"More than six thousand," Brewster Payne said.

"I didn't know you were a gambler," Detweiler said.

"I'm not. That was my first time. Beginner's luck."

Detweiler, Matt thought, seemed relieved.

"You understand that the money I took from your father today," Detweiler went on, "is not really gambling."

"More beginner's luck?" Matt asked innocently.

His father laughed heartily.

"I meant, not really gambling. Gambling can get you in a lot of trouble in a hurry."

That's why you give your guests at the Flamingo a ten-thousanddollar line of credit, right? So they'll get in a lot of trouble in a hurry?

"Yes, sir," Matt said. He took a sip of his Scotch. "Nice booze."

"It's a straight malt, whatever that means," Detweiler said, "it suggests there's a crooked malt."

Penny Detweiler, trailed by her mother and Mrs. Payne, came onto the veranda. She had a long-necked bottle of Ortlieb's and a glass in her hands.

"What's that?" Detweiler asked.

"It's what Matt's been drinking all afternoon," Penny said. "When did you start drinking whiskey?"

"As nearly as I can remember, when I was eleven or twelve."

"No, he didn't," Patricia Payne said.

"Yes, he did, dear," Brewster Payne said. "We just managed to keep it from you."

Penny sat beside Matt on the cast-iron love seat.

"What am I suppose to do with this?" she asked.

"You might try drinking it," Matt said.

"Penny…" Grace Detweiler said warningly.