If that is the case- and Jesus, that would be great- then why, when Father Venno "placed" me in "that unfortunate incident," was I instantly back in that goddamned Crossroads Diner parking lot, with Susan's blood sticky on my hands? Followed, as usual, with the cold-sweat-and-nausea business?

He looked across the table at Terry Davis again.

As if sensing his eyes on her, she looked at him.

Are you going to be the salvation of M. M. Payne, you stunning, long-legged blonde goddess? Or have I already slipped over the border into LaLa Land?

He winked at her.

She looked away, shaking her head, but he could see she was smiling.

He walked up to her when the meeting was over.

"Well, I guess we'll be seeing more of one another," she said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"You mean in connection with this?" he asked.

"Yes, of course."

"I don't think that's going to happen," he said. "The only reason I was here was because my boss had other things to do."

"And didn't want to come in the first place?"

"You said that, not me," Matt said. "But there is something you can do for me."

"Name it."

"Have dinner with me."

"No."

"That's getting right to the point, isn't it?" he said. "You didn't leave yourself any wriggle room."

"I'm on a red-eye back to the Coast at twelve-thirty," she said. "And between now and then I'm going to go make the appropriate noises over a girlfriend from college's toddler I've never seen."

"Dare I hope that changes your response from 'hell, no' to 'maybe some other time'?"

"We'll be working together. I'm sure we'll take some meals together."

"Matt," Lieutenant Gerry McGuire called, "I've got to get back to work."

He looked at her and shrugged, then walked out of the suite.

THREE

[ONE] Matt Payne dropped Lieutenant McGuire and Sergeant Nevins at the Roundhouse, and then-after thinking it over for a moment at the parking lot exit-headed back toward Center City rather than toward the Delaware River and Interstate 95, which would have taken him to Special Operations headquarters.

Inspector Wohl would expect him to come to the Arsenal-still called that, although the U.S. Army was long gone-directly from the meeting with Dignitary Protection, but that couldn't be helped. He needed a quick shower and a change of linen. The cold sweat he had experienced had been a bad one, and had produced an offensive smell. Sometimes, the cold sweats just left him clammily uncomfortable, but sometimes they were accompanied by an unpleasant odor, which he thought was caused by something he had eaten. He hoped that was the reason; he didn't want to think of other unpleasant possibilities.

He went over to Spruce Street, and west on it past Broad Street to Nineteenth, where he turned right and then right and right again onto Manning. Manning was more of an alley than a street, but it gave access to the parking garage beneath the brownstone mansion on Rittenhouse Square that housed the Delaware Valley Cancer Society.

The 150-year-old building had been converted several years before to office space, which, as the owner of the building had frequently commented, had proven twice as expensive as tearing the building down and starting from scratch would have been.

Inside, the building-with the exception of a tiny apartment in the garret-was now modern office space, with all the amenities, including an elevator and parking space for Cancer Society executives in the basement. Outside, the building preserved the dignity of Rittenhouse Square, thought by many to be the most attractive of Philadelphia's squares.

When the owner-the building had been in his family since it was built-had authorized the expense of converting the garret, not suitable for use as offices, he thought the tiny rooms could probably be rented to an elderly couple, perhaps, or a widow or widower, someone of limited means who worked downtown, perhaps in the Franklin Institute or the Free Public Library, and who would be willing to put up with the inconvenience of access and the slanting walls and limited space because it was convenient, cheap, and was protected around-the-clock by the Wachenhut Security Service.

It was instead occupied by a single bachelor, the owner's son, Matthew M. Payne, because the City of Philadelphia requires that its employees live within the city limits, and the Payne residence in Wallingford, a suburb, did not qualify.

The owner of the building had decreed that two parking spaces in the underground garage be reserved for him. Both his wife and his daughter, he thought, would appreciate having their own parking spaces in downtown Philadelphia, and it was, after all, his building.

Matt Payne pulled the unmarked Crown Victoria into one of the two reserved parking spots. The second reserved parking spot held a silver Porsche 911 Carrera, which had been his graduation present when he had finished his undergraduate work at the University of Pennsylvania.

He carefully locked the car, then trotted to the elevator, which was standing with its door open. He pressed 3, the door closed, and the elevator started to move. Once he was past the ground floor, he pulled his necktie loose and began to open his shirt. The buttons were open nearly to his belt when the door opened, and he started to step out onto what he expected to be the third floor.

It was instead the second. Two female employees of the Delaware County Cancer Society had summoned the elevator to take them to the third floor, which was occupied by the various machines necessary to keep track of contributors, and the technicians-all of whom were male-and was seldom visited by anyone not connected with the machines.

The ladies recoiled at the unexpected sight of a partially dressed male-obviously in the act of undressing even further, and from whose shoulder was slung a rather large pistol-coming out of the elevator at them.

"Sorry," Matt Payne said, gathering his shirt together with both hands, and indicating with a nod of his head that they were welcome to join him in the elevator.

The ladies smiled somewhat weakly and indicated they would just as soon wait for the next elevator, thank you just the same.

He pushed 3 again, and the elevator rose one more floor.

When the door opened, there was no one in sight. Matt crossed the small foyer quickly, pushed the keys on a combination lock on a door, shoved it open, and went up the stairs to his apartment two at a time.

Not quite ninety seconds later, he was in his shower-a small stall shower; there wasn't room for a bathtub-when his cell phone went off.

He stuck his head and one arm out from behind the shower curtain.

"Payne."

There was no direct response to that. Instead, Matt heard a familiar voice say, somewhat triumphantly, "Got him, Inspector!"

A mental picture of police officer Paul T. O'Mara came to Payne's mind. Officer O'Mara, a very neat, very wholesome-looking young officer in an immaculate, well-fitting uniform, was sitting at his desk in the outer office of the commanding officer of Special Operations. Officer O'Mara was Inspector Wohl's administrative assistant.

He had assumed that duty when the incumbent-Officer M. M. Payne-had been promoted to detective.

Officer O'Mara, like Inspector Wohl, was from a police family. His father was a captain, who commanded the Twenty-fifth District. His brother was a sergeant in Civil Affairs. His grandfather, like Peter Wohl's father and grandfather, had retired from the Philadelphia police department.

More important, his father was a friend of both Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Chief Inspector (Retired) Augustus Wohl. When Officer O'Mara, who had five years on the job in the Traffic Division, had failed, for the second time, to pass the examination for corporal, both Commissioner Coughlin and Chief Wohl had had a private word with Inspector Wohl.