“And he wants me to keep this under my hat until after we have a meeting,” Coughlin went on. “Which makes me think of something else. Did either of the FBI guys do anything they shouldn’t have done, Matty?”
“Well, they should have been sure there was a kidnapping before they started asking a lot of questions,” Matt said.
“That’s not what I mean. Did they violate any of your civil rights? Push you around? Brandish a pistol? Anything like that?”
“No, sir.”
“Maybe Matt’s onto it with what he said,” Wohl said. “Maybe Davis is embarrassed that he had people running around investigating a nonkidnapping. And doesn’t want Matt to tell the story to an appreciative audience at the FOP Bar. The FBI is very image conscious.”
Detective Payne was enormously relieved that he had become “Matt” again.
“Could be,” Chief Coughlin said. “But I have a gut feeling there’s more to this than that. I have been wrong before.”
Coughlin heaved himself off the couch with a grunt, walked to Wohl’s desk, consulted a slip of paper he took from his pocket, and dialed a number.
“Chief Inspector Coughlin for Mr. Davis, please,” he said to whoever answered, and then, a moment later: “Dennis Coughlin, Walter. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. I’ve had a chance to speak with Peter Wohl. The best I have been able to set up is half past four at the Rittenhouse Club. Would that be convenient?”
Davis’s reply could not be heard.
“Look forward to seeing you, too, Walter,” Coughlin said, and hung up. He looked at Wohl and Payne. “Pay attention, you two,” he said, smiling. “Write this down. When dealing with the enemy, never meet him on his own turf—Davis wanted us to come to the FBI office—and, if possible, keep him waiting.”
Walter Davis, trailed by Special Agents Howard C. Jernigan and Raymond Leibowitz, walked up to the porter’s desk in the Rittenhouse Club at 4:15 and announced, “I’m Mr. Davis. I’m expecting a gentleman named Coughlin.”
The porter turned and examined the membership board.
I’ll be damned. Coughlin is a member. Of course. He would have to be. He suggested this place to meet. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Chief Coughlin is in the bar, sir,” the porter said, his tone suggesting that life would be much easier if stupid members took a look at the membership board themselves.
Coughlin, Peter Wohl, and Matt Payne were sitting at a large table—with room for six chairs—and had been there, Davis saw, at least long enough to get bar service.
The three of them stood up as Davis approached.
“You’re looking well, Walter,” Coughlin said, offering his large hand.
“As you do, Dennis,” Davis said, and offered his hand first to Wohl—“Thank you for making time for me, Peter”—and then to Matt. “How are you, Payne?”
“Very well, thank you, sir,” Payne said.
“You’ve met these fellows,” Davis said. “But let me introduce them to Peter and Dennis. Raymond Leibowitz and Howard Jernigan.”
The men shook hands.
A waiter appeared. Davis ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, Leibowitz the same, and Jernigan ginger ale.
“I’d really like to be somewhere where we won’t be overheard,” Davis said. “Is there somewhere . . .”
“Matty’s father told me they spent a lot of money designing this room,” Coughlin said, gesturing at the high, paneled ceiling, “as someplace where people could have discreet conversations. But if you’re uncomfortable, Walter, there are private rooms.”
“No. I’m sure this will be fine,” Davis said.
“You’re the commanding officer of Special Operations,
I understand, Inspector,” Jernigan said, oozing charm.
“Yes, I am,” Peter said, and added mischievously, “I understand you’ve seen our headquarters.”
Jernigan colored.
Coughlin laughed, and after a second, somewhat artificially, Davis joined in.
“Let’s clear the air,” Coughlin said. “Detective Payne should have told your people he was a police officer, and he should not have taken them on—what should we call it?—a tour of the scenic attractions of North Philadelphia, and he is prepared to apologize, isn’t that so, Matty?”
“Yes, sir. We just got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry.”
The waiter appeared with the drinks.
“I propose a toast to peace, friendship, and cooperation between the Philadelphia Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Coughlin said, and raised his glass.
“A very appropriate toast, one I quickly agree to, under the circumstances,” Davis said.
“What circumstances would those be, Walter?” Coughlin asked.
“I think I’ll let Raymond get into that,” Davis said. “But first let me tell you that Raymond and Howard aren’t in my office. They operate out of FBI Headquarters