bar along one paneled wall, and tables with red leather-cushioned captain’s chairs scattered around the room.
Matt did not miss the eight or ten attractive young women in the room, sitting in groups of two or three at tables and at the bar.
Maybe I should have let her get away. I think the odds to make out in here look pretty good. My chances with Susie range from lousy to zip.
Not that I would, anyway. Could, anyway. Peter was right about that.
I will not, Boy Scout’s honor, make that mistake.
A waiter appeared as soon as they sat down.
“Good evening, Miss Reynolds,” he said.
“What do you drink, Matt?” Susan asked. “Let your imagination run loose. Da—my father will expect me to make this my treat.”
“Daddy’s going to pay?” Matt asked.
“That’s what I said.”
“Would you bring us the wine list, please?” Matt said.
“The wine list?” Susan asked incredulously.
“It’s a list of the available fermented grape juices,” Matt said seriously, “generally stapled into some kind of artificial leather folder.”
“Miss Reynolds?” the waiter asked in confusion.
“Go get the wine list,” Matt ordered. “If the lady’s going to welsh on her offer to spring for the booze, I’ll pay for it myself.”
“Get the wine list, please,” Susan said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Susan looked at him.
“I don’t think your insanity comes naturally,” she said. “I suspect you actually think you’re amusing, and really work on your crazy-man routine.”
“I’m disappointed that you can see through me so easily,” Matt said. “But now that you know my darkest secrets, are you going to tell me yours, to even the playing field?”
“Would it crush you even more if I told you I wouldn’t give you my phone number, much less tell you my darkest secrets?”
“I already have your phone number,” Matt said.
“Unfortunately,” she said.
“When did you first realize you were falling in love with me? At Daffy’s?”
“Oh, how I wish I had never seen you at Daffy’s!”
“Then it must have been when some primeval force, stronger than both of us, brought you to my hotel-room door.”
“Do you ever stop?”
“Not when I’m on a roll.”
The waiter laid a wine list in front of Matt.
Matt looked at Susan.
“You never saw one of these before?” he asked innocently. “They’re quite common in Philadelphia.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“What’s your pleasure, Susan?” Matt asked.
“Whatever you like,” she replied.
Matt looked at the waiter.
“Have they got any Camembert in the kitchen? Or Roquefort?”
“I’m sure there’s Roquefort, sir. I’m not sure about the other.”
“Okay. Well, ask, and bring us one or the other, preferably both. And some crackers, and of course a cheese knife, and a bottle of this Turgeson Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon. And a couple of glasses, of course.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We just had dinner,” Susan said when the waiter had gone.
“But—you were so anxious to be alone with me—no dessert.”
“I was anxious to get you out of the house as soon as possible.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Before you said something you shouldn’t have.”
“Not fair, fair maiden. I held up my side of the bargain.”
After a moment, she said, “You’re right. You did. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Matt said. “That brings me to the other ‘thank-you’ you owe me.”
“For what?”
“For talking that Harrisburg uniform out of giving you a ticket for going sixty-five in a forty-mile-per-hour zone, thereby offending the peace and dignity of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”
“Is that what you call them, ‘uniforms’?”
Matt cupped his hand behind his ear, signaling he was waiting to hear ‘thank you.’ ”
She smiled.
“Okay, thank you. Now answer the question.”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a little condescending?”
“Not at all. It’s simply an identifying term.”
“I have trouble picturing you in a policeman’s uniform.”
“I’m dashing. Within a two-mile circle, girlish hearts flutter,” Matt said, and then added, “Actually, I’ve hardly worn my uniform.”
“How’s that?”
“I went, right out of the Academy, to a plainclothes job.”
“How did you arrange that?”
“It was arranged for me. My father has friends in high places, one of whom believed—with my father—at the time that I would quickly come to my senses, resign from the cops, and go to law school. My father’s friend, he’s a chief inspector, arranged for me to be assigned as the administrative assistant—sort of a secretary in pants—to Inspector Peter Wohl. The idea was that in this manner, until I came to my senses, I would not get myself hurt.”
“But you didn’t resign. Why not? Why are you a cop in the first place?”
“Why are you a social worker? That doesn’t look like much fun to me, and I would be surprised if the pay’s any better.”