it, and he took the keys to it from his pocket and was about to put them in the door when he reconsidered.
Whatever Charley McFadden wants, it’s personal, and I don’t want to be about personal business when I run into one of Wohl’s station wagons full of nuns. But on the other hand, it was made goddamned clear to me that Wohl wants to know where I am, second by second, and there’s no radio in the Porsche. The minute I drive the Porsche out of here, Wohl will call, and when he gets the answering machine, will get on the radio. And I won’t answer.
He got in the unmarked car and drove out of the garage. There wasn’t much traffic, and he was lucky with the lights. The only one he caught was at North Broad Street and Ridge Avenue, which gave him a chance to look at the Divine Lorraine Hotel, and wonder what the hell went on in there.
Wouldn’t the bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Philadelphia have a heart attack if there was suddenly a booming voice from heaven saying, “You’re wrong, Bishop; my boy Father Divine has it right”?
He remembered he hadn’t reported in. He switched to the J frequency and told Police Radio that William Fourteen was en route to Northwest Detectives.
He then wondered, as he continued up North Broad Street, whether what Charley was so upset about was the missing Bug.
I know goddamned well I left it at the apartment. Stolen? Out of the basement, past the rent-a-cop, who knows who it belongs to? And who the hell would steal the Bug when the Porsche was sitting right next to it? Who would steal the Bug if nothing was sitting right next to it?
That impeccable logical analysis of the situation collapsed immediately upon Detective Payne’s entering the parking lot of Northwest Detectives, which shares quarters with the 35th District at Broad and Champlost Streets.
There was the Bug.
Jesus, what the hell is this all about?
He went in the building and took the stairs to the second floor two at a time.
“I’m Detective Payne of Special Operations,” Matt said, smiling at the desk man just inside the squad room. “Charley . . .”
“I know who you are,” the desk man said with something less than overwhelming charm. He raised his voice: “McFadden!”
Charley appeared around the corner of a wall inside.
“What’s with my car?” Matt asked.
McFadden, who looked very uncomfortable, didn’t reply. He came to Matt, and motioned for him to follow him down the stairs.
They went into the district holding cells.
“You got him?” Matt asked. “Brilliant work, Detective McFadden!”
“You better take a look at this,” Charley said, pointing at one of the cells.
A very faint bulb illuminated the cell interior just enough for Matt to be able to make out a figure lying on the sheet steel bunk. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Matt saw that the figure was in a skirt, and thus a female, and there was just enough time for the thought, Christ, a woman stole my Bug? when he recognized the woman.
“Jesus Christ!” he said.
Charley McFadden tugged on his sleeve and pulled him out of the detention cell area.
“Okay, what happened?” Matt asked, hoping that he was managing to sound matter-of-fact and professional.
“I was out, serving a warrant, and when I brought the critter in here, two Narcotics undercover guys, I know both of them, brought her in.”
“On what charges?”
McFadden did not reply directly.
“They were watching a house on Bouvier, near Susquehanna,” he said, avoiding Matt’s eyes. “Thinking maybe they’d get lucky and be able to grab the delivery boy.”
“What delivery boy? What are you talking about?”
“You know where I mean? Bouvier, near Susquehanna?”
Matt searched his memory and came up with nothing specific, just a vague picture of Susquehanna Avenue as it moved through the slums of North Philadelphia near Temple University.
“No,” Matt confessed. “Not exactly.”
“You don’t go in there alone, you understand?” Charley said.
Matt understood. He was not talking about it being the sort of place it was unwise for Miss Penelope Detweiler of Chestnut Hill to visit alone, he was talking about a place where an armed police officer did not go alone, for fear of his life.
He nodded.
“So they see this white girl in a Volkswagen come down Bouvier, and that attracts their attention. So she circles the block, they think looking for the house they’re sitting on. And weaving. They think she’s either drunk or stoned. These are not nice guys, Matt, do-gooders. But