The investigators boh-7, page 27
part #7 of Badge of Honor Series
She turned and looked at him, and obediently slumped back into her seat.
He turned, so that his back was resting on the door. His hand and arm came to rest on the back of her seat. She could feel the warmth of his hand.
But it's not as if he's trying to put his arm around me or pull me over to him or anything.
"What?" she asked.
"It could have been one of those unexplained phenomena one hears about, something that happens only once in ten thousand years," Matt said.
He's talking about that damned kiss. Goddamn him, he knows what it did to me.
"What could?"
"On the other hand, it could well be a harbinger of heaven on earth," Matt said.
"Harbinger of heaven on earth"? My God! Give credit where it's due. That's one hell of a line.
"I think, before we have our supper, in the interest of scientific research, let the chips fall where they may, so to speak, we should attempt the experiment again."
"Matt…"
"You agree?"
God, if he puts his hand on my shoulder, if he touches me, I don't know what I'll do.
"Matt…"
Matt pushed himself away from the door far enough so that he could reach her right shoulder with the balls of his fingers.
"Matt, I don't want to kiss you, I'm not going-"
And then she was on his side of the Porsche, the gearshift jabbing her painfully in the back. She was breathing heavily, looking up at him, seeing that his face was really smeared with her lipstick.
"Well," Matt said. "Now we know, don't we?"
"The gearshift," Susan said.
"Oh! Sorry!" he said, and she was aware they had moved on the seat, and that they were now close enough to conduct the experiment again.
And she became aware that his hand was under her blouse.
Why don't I slap his face, or at least push his hand away?
"Don't," she ordered, and heard in her voice that it was a lie.
He kissed her again.
I've got to stop this! Why don't I just push him away?
And then she was looking at his face again, aware that she was breathing heavily. And then she was horrified to hear herself challenging, bitchily, "Well, you seem to have recovered very well from your tragic loss of Penny, haven't you?"
"I've thought about that," he replied immediately, matter-of-factly.
God, was he thinking about that, too?
"I don't think I ever loved Penny. She needed me. She was really fucked up. I got sucked into that. It was the, quote, decent, unquote, thing to do. Doing the right thing keeps getting me in trouble."
What did he say? "She needed me. She was really fucked up. I got sucked into that"?
He looked down at her again.
"Don't be a bitch, Susan."
"Sorry," she heard herself say, and that sounded very honest to her ears.
He kissed her again, and this time she became aware that the hand that had been on her breast was now between her legs.
Oh, God, I'm all wet! He'll know!
She freed herself violently, and sat erect in her seat and put her clothes in order.
My bra is loose. Did he unfasten it?
"I am not going to do this in a car," she said righteously.
"Sorry, I got carried away," he said.
That sounded sincere.
Matt opened his door and got out of the car.
What's this? What's he doing?
He walked around the rear of the Porsche and opened her door.
If he thinks I'm just going to go in there and have dinner…
She swung her feet out of the Porsche and got out.
She looked at his lipstick-smeared face, then for a moment into his eyes, and then quickly averted hers.
I'm not going in there with him looking like that!
She took the crisp white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and rubbed at his lips. When the lipstick didn't want to come off, she spat on his handkerchief and resumed rubbing with it.
I can't believe I did that.
"All right," she said finally.
He nodded and took her elbow and led her through a rear entrance into the hotel building, and down a corridor into, finally, the lobby. She saw a green neon arrow and the word "Restaurant."
God, my hair must be a mess, and my face is probably as smeared with lipstick as his was and everybody in the restaurant will see.
"Wait," Matt ordered.
He left her.
Where's he going? God, he's going to the desk. He doesn't actually expect me to go to a hotel room with him. I can't believe that this is happening. I won't let it happen. I'll just go back to the car…
Two minutes later, he was back, swinging a hotel key.
"We have a small suite overlooking the tenth green," he announced.
Susan nodded her head.
He took her arm and led her to the elevator.
I can't believe I'm doing this!
The elevator operator, an old man, held his hand out to look at the key. When the elevator stopped and the door opened, the old man said, "To the right, sir. About halfway down."
"Thank you," Matt said, and waved Susan out of the elevator in front of him.
He unlocked the door to the suite, went inside, found and snapped on the lights, and turned to Susan, still standing in the corridor.
Their eyes met, and again she averted hers, and then went through the door.
She stopped six feet from the door and looked at him.
"What did you say about Penny?" Susan asked.
He looked confused, searched his memory, and shrugged.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"You said Penny needed you. That she was really fucked up. That you got sucked into it."
"Yeah, I said that. It's true."
"And that doing the right thing keeps getting you in trouble."
"Shut up, Susan," Matt ordered with a smile.
He crossed the few steps to her, put his hand on her cheek, and tilted her face up to look at him.
Their eyes met, and this time she didn't avert hers.
She felt his fingers working the buttons of her blouse. Her breasts, because he had unfastened her brassiere, were not restrained by it.
When he put his hand on her breast, then his mouth on her nipple, she heard herself saying, softly and plaintively, "Matt, I have to sit down. Lie down."
He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, where, with one hand, he jerked the cover off the bed. Then he lowered her onto it, and as they looked into each other's eyes, took off the rest of her clothing.
Mr. Paulo Cassandro, the owner of record of Classic Livery, Inc., and its president, a 185-pound gentleman who stood six feet one inches tall, who had been summoned nevertheless, entered the living room of Mr. Vincenzo Savarese very carefully, and was immediately pleased that he had.
Mr. Pietro Cassandro, who was carried on the books of Classic Livery, Inc., as its vice president, immediately looked up at Paulo and made a gesture indicating that Paulo should wait and say nothing.
Pietro, who was twenty pounds heavier than Paulo, two inches taller, four years older, and equally well-tailored, was not, however, quite as bright. For that reason, Mr. Savarese had some years before decided that Paulo was better equipped to direct Classic Livery and Pietro was better suited to function as a companion, which translated to mean that Pietro served Mr. Savarese as a combination chauffeur, bodyguard, and guardian of Mr. Savarese's privacy.
Paulo saw why Pietro had held up his hand, fingers extended in a warning to say nothing and wait until Mr. S. was ready for him.
Mr. S. was sitting slumped in a very large, comfortable-appearing armchair, his highly polished shoes resting on its matching footstool. His eyes were closed, and his right hand was moving in time with tape-recorded music being reproduced through a pair of five-foot-tall, four-feet-wide stereophonic loudspeakers.
I know that, Paulo thought with just a little pride. That's Otello, by whatsisname, Verdi. Giuseppe Verdi. And that's the part where the dinge offs the broad.
Paulo had three times accompanied Mr. S. to the Metropolitan Opera in New York City to see a performance of the opera. He could see it now in his mind's eye.
He very carefully backed up to the wall and leaned on it, to wait for Mr. S. to have time for him.
Three minutes later, Mr. Savarese pushed himself away from the cushions of his chair, causing Paulo concern that he might have inadvertently made a noise, distracting Mr. S. from his enjoyment of the opera.
Mr. S. did not seem annoyed with him.
Maybe he turned around to see if I was here yet.
Confirmation of that seemed to come when Mr. S. turned the volume off all the way.
"Pietro, rewind the tape carefully, please, and put it away."
"You got it, Mr. S.," Pietro said.
"Thank you for coming, Paulo," Mr. S. said. "Will you have a glass of wine?"
"That would go nice, if it wouldn't be an inconvenience, Mr. S."
"Get a bottle of wine and some glasses, Pietro, please," Mr. Savarese said, then motioned Paulo into one of the chairs surrounding an octagonal game table.
"Thank you, Mr. S.," Paulo said.
"If there had been any activity with the man, you would have told me, Paulo?"
"I had one of the guys ride by there every forty-five minutes, no less than once an hour. Nothing, Mr. S."
Pietro took a bottle of an Italian Chablis from the sterling-silver cooler where it had been kept ready for Mr. S. in case he wanted a little grappa, opened it, and set it on the table. He added two glasses.
"You'll have a glass, too, Pietro," Mr. S. said, "when you have finished with the tape."
"Thank you, Mr. S."
Savarese nodded and smiled at him, then turned to Paulo.
"I have been thinking that I would like to be there when you talk with this man," he said.
"You don't mean you want to go there, Mr. S.," Paulo said in surprise.
"I think that would be best, under the circumstances," Savarese said. "I would like to personally hear what he has to say."
"What I meant, Mr. S., is that you don't want to go there, do you? I mean, I can have him at the garage, for example, or anyplace else, thirty minutes after you give me the word."
Mr. Savarese poured wine in two glasses and handed one to Paulo.
"Salute," he said.
"Salute," Paulo repeated.
Mr. Savarese took a small, appreciative sip of the wine.
"That would involve moving him," he said. "I would rather that he not be moved. I think that would be better."
"Whatever you say, Mr. S."
"Paulo, he is in a certain state of mind after having been where he has been, under those circumstances, for twenty-four hours. If we move him, that would, I think, break the spell, so to speak."
"You're right, Mr. Savarese. I didn't think about that."
Paulo was frequently reminded, when dealing with Mr. S., that if he was one and a half times as smart as Pietro, Mr. S. was like five times, ten times as smart as he was.
"There'll be no problem, nothing to worry about," Paulo said. "I'll get enough people to guard that place like fucking Fort Knox!" When he saw the pained look on Mr. S.'s face, his own colored quickly. "Sorry about that, Mr. S."
Mr. S. did not like either profanity or obscenity.
Mr. S. accepted his apology with a curt nod of the head.
"This man is strong and dangerous. Paulo?"
"No, Mr. S. He's not. Not at all."
"And there is no question in your mind that you and Pietro can deal with him in any circumstance that you can think of?"
"I don't even need Pietro, Mr. S."
"Nevertheless, I want Pietro to go along with us."
"Right, Mr. S."
"I don't want this man to see me, for obvious reasons," Mr. S. said. "Or to hear my voice."
"No problem, Mr. S."
"Although I doubt it very much, he may have had nothing to do with the problems my granddaughter is having. I don't want to close any doors that might have to later be opened, you understand?"
"Absolutely, Mr. S."
"And, of course, we don't want to be interrupted while we are talking with him."
"I understand."
"I wondered if someone saw the vehicle you previously used there if it might not cause curiosity."
"I see what you mean, Mr. S. Let me think a minute."
Mr. Savarese waited patiently.
"How about a Chevy station wagon, Mr. S.? We got a couple of them. At a big funeral, we use them to haul flowers ahead of the procession, you know, enough to cover the phony grass by the grave-"
"They are black, like the Suburban?" Mr. Savarese interrupted him.
Paulo nodded. "And they don't have any signs painted on them or anything."
"I was thinking of something more on the order of a utility vehicle."
Again he waited patiently for Paulo to give that some thought.
"What we do have is a Ford pickup, Mr. S. We keep it around with a jack and a couple of spare wheels and tires in the back, in case a hearse or a flower car has a flat."
"Does that happen often, Paulo?"
"No, Mr. S. But sometimes, you know, you get a bad tire or pick up a nail."
"Yes," Mr. Savarese said, understanding. Then he gave a dry chuckle. "The final indignity of life, Paulo, a flat tire on your way to your last resting place."
"Yeah, I see what you mean, Mr. S."
"Is there room for the three of us in this flat-tire truck?"
"You know, it's a regular pickup truck. It would be a tight squeeze. And it's sometimes dirty."
"The upholstery, you mean?"
Pietro finally came to the table and sat down.
"You heard what we have been talking about, Pietro?" Mr. Savarese asked.
"We could put a blanket or something on the seats, if they're dirty, Mr. S.," Pietro said.
"You understand, Mr. S.," Paulo explained, "we get a call there's a flat, one of the mechanics drops whatever he's doing and jumps in the pickup-"
Mr. Savarese held out his hand in such a manner as to indicate that a further explanation was not necessary.
"What I think we should do," Mr. Savarese said, "unless this interferes with your plans, Paulo…"
"My time is your time, Mr. S., you know that."
"… is send Pietro to the garage, where he will clean this flat-tire truck up as well as he can, and if necessary, as he suggested, put a clean blanket over the dirty seats, and then bring it here. By then it will be dark."
"Good thinking, Mr. S.," Paulo said.
"And in the meantime, you and I will discuss what you're going to talk to this man about."
"Right, Mr. S.," Paulo said.
Paulo Cassandro's prediction that it would be a tight squeeze in the front of the Ford pickup truck proved to be true, and the blankets-he had sent one of the Classic Livery mechanics to a dry goods store to get two nice ones-proved to be hot and slippery when installed over the greasy upholstery, and Paulo knew Mr. S. was uncomfortable.
But Mr. S. hadn't said anything. Paulo interpreted this to be another manifestation of Mr. S.'s being fair. Mr. S. knew that he was the one who had ordered the pickup, so it wouldn't be right to bitch about what happened when he got what he asked for.
At five minutes to eight, the pickup stopped outside a ten-foot-high hurricane fence in a field south of the Philadelphia International Airport. There were metal signs reading, U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. TRESPASSING FORBIDDEN UNDER PENALTY OF LAW attached at twenty-five-foot intervals to the fence.
As they had driven up to the fence, Mr. Savarese had seen where there once had been provision for floodlights to illuminate the entire perimeter of the fenced-in area. They were no longer in use. Neither was what had been contained inside the fence: a battery (four launcher emplacements) of U.S. Army antiaircraft weaponry.
During a particularly tense period of the Cold War, the installation had been one of many such batteries surrounding Philadelphia and from which, should the Russian bombers have come, NIKE rockets would have been launched to blow them out of the sky.
Roughly in the center of the four launcher emplacements (their launching mechanisms long since removed) was a windowless concrete building. Its thick concrete walls had been designed to resist anything short of a direct hit from a low-yield nuclear weapon. When the site had been active, the building had held, in four interior rooms, an additional dozen NIKE rockets, as well as some maintenance supplies and equipment.
The dozen NIKEs were to be used to reload the four launchers, a process that would take-presuming the launchers and their crews were still intact after the first Russian assault-about twenty minutes. The possibility had occurred to the planners that the shock waves generated by the first bombs dropped would almost certainly put any elevator system bringing the spare NIKEs from underground storage out of whack, even if there was, immediately post-strike, any electricity to power the elevator.
So the spare NIKEs were stored at ground level, behind thick concrete walls and heavy steel doors, in rooms from which they could be manhandled to the launchers.
Paulo Cassandro was impressed-but not surprised-when Mr. Savarese had told him about the NIKE sites, and how he thought they might come in useful at some time for some purpose. Mr. S. had said he thought they would be around for some years, deserted but in reasonably intact condition.
Wherever possible, Mr. S. had told him, they had been built on land that was cheap, which meant that no one could see much that could be done with it, and for which there was still not much demand. Now that use of the areas would require the demolition-very expensive demolition-of thick, steel-reinforced concrete before anything else could be erected on it, the land was even less desirable.
But what he had found really interesting about the NIKE sites, Mr. S. had told him, was that they were federal property, much like Fort Dix over in New Jersey. Local police did not have authority on federal property. Which meant not only that the Philadelphia police would not be patrolling the NIKE sites, but also that the federal authorities, with nothing to protect but empty, and practically indestructible, buildings, would not be giving them very much attention, either.
Mr. Savarese had told Paulo to put an eye on several of the NIKE sites and determine which of them could be put to use while attracting the least attention. And after that, to keep an eye on it, in case anything should change.
