“I wasn’t aware that our going to a hotel-in which, by the way, we have separate rooms-was going to see you branded forever with a scarlet A on your forehead.”
“It would damned sure keep me from staying in Homicide, ” Olivia said.
“Look, you better be prepared, Olivia-Christ, you’re naive-for all sorts of clever remarks from the guys in Homicide about our ‘vacation’ in Alabama. Whether we move into some dump of a motel or not, there are going to be suggestions that we fooled around.”
“What they’re going to think, is (a) I walked into Homicide, and (b) took one look at the hotshot sergeant, who calls the first deputy commissioner ‘Uncle Denny,’ and (c) jumped into his bed. And you know it, and you know that’ll keep me from staying in Homicide. And you don’t care.”
“As much as I would like it to be otherwise, I think you have absolutely no chance of staying in Homicide.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s so. The only reason I’m in Homicide is because Mariani had that brainstorm about giving the top-five guys on the sergeant’s exam their choice of assignment.”
“It had nothing to do, right, with your ‘Uncle Denny’ Coughlin?”
“No, goddamn it, it didn’t. He tried to talk me out of it, as a matter of fact.”
She snorted again.
“And he was probably right. There is no one more aware of my limitations as a Homicide investigator than I am.”
“Amazing! That’s the first modest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“Oh, screw you!”
“Fat chance!”
The doorman of the Grand Hotel opened the door for Olivia.
“Olivia, would you like to have dinner with me?”
“I think I’ll have a sandwich in my room. But thank you just the same.”
She smiled at the doorman and walked into the hotel.
Matt drove back into Fairhope and had linguini with Italian sausage and a bottle of Merlot-all of a bottle of Merlot-in La Trattoria, while considering the differences of the mental processes of the opposite sexes.
And then he drove very carefully back to the Grand Hotel, asked for any messages-there were none-and then went into the hotel’s Bird Cage Lounge, where he sat all by himself in an upholstered chair at a table and had the first of five drinks of Famous Grouse on the rocks. The prospect of a scotch-or even an Irish-martini did not have much appeal.
Between drinks three and four, he used the house phone on the bar to call Miss Olivia Lassiter. The hotel operator said she was sorry, but Miss Lassiter had left word that she didn’t wish to take any more calls tonight.
Between drinks four and five, his cellular buzzed.
It was Detective Joe D’Amata.
“The Black Buddha said to call, Matt. Meet Delta 311 at the Mobile airport-”
“Mobile?”
“That’s what he said. Mobile. Arriving at twelve-thirty-five. ”
“They pronounced that ‘Mow-beel,’ not ‘Mow-bile,’ by the way.”
“No shit?”
“Tell him I’ll be at the ‘Mow-Beel’ airport. Who’s Mrs. Solomon sending down? Did she make up her mind?”
“I dunno,” Joe said. “This is the doer, huh?”
“It sure looks like it, Joe.”
“Good for you, Matt. Having a good time?”
“Absolutely, Joe.”
“Yeah, I bet you are,” D’Amata said, chuckled, and hung up.
After drink five, Matt signaled for the waitress and signed the bill.
“I’ve had all the fun I can stand for one night,” he said to her.
He left a call for half past seven and went to bed.
He woke with a hangover and a clammy undershirt.
He wondered about that and sniffed, and when he first encountered a really foul odor, remembered he had had a nightmare.
I always smell like death warmed over when I have one. And this was one of the better ones:
A Ford van driven by Warren K. Fletcher, white male, five feet ten, thirty-one, of Germantown was backing up toward him with the obvious intention of squashing him between the van and the Porsche. First he couldn’t get the. 38 snub-nose out of its holster no matter how hard he tried, and then when he finally got it out he couldn’t make it fire no matter how hard he pulled on the trigger, and then when he finally got it to fire, he fired five times and missed all five times…
He’d seen the movie before, and when he missed with the last shot, and the van was about to squash him, he usually woke up.
But I don’t remember waking up last night.
Probably the booze.
And Fletcher as the star of my nightmare? Usually it’s Susan.
Is there some significance in Fletcher showing up again?
The sweat soaked T-shirt smelled so foul that he didn’t want to pack it with the rest of his clothing. He took it instead into the shower with him and started to wash it.
To hell with this! I’ll just buy another T-shirt!
He tossed the T-shirt into a trash can and then took a long shower, considered again the gross injustices of the world as he found it, then had an inspiration.
“Screw her!” he said aloud, and when he got out of the shower, he walked still naked and dripping to the bedside telephone and called the concierge.
The concierge said the pro shop of the Lakewood Country Club would have clubs to rent and golf shoes for sale.
“And how about a tee time? As early as possible?”
“Well, perhaps tomorrow, sir. The rain’ll probably stop in time for the course to be playable tomorrow. Shall I reserve a tee time for you then?”
“I’ll be gone, I’m sorry. Thank you very much.”
Having the telephone in his hand reminded him of two calls he had to make, and he made them.
First he called Colonel Richards and told him he thought the peeper was the man they were looking for, and that an assistant district attorney was en route from Philadelphia. And then he called Sergeant Kenny and told him that he would be meeting whoever was coming from Philadelphia at the Mobile airport a little after noon.
“I think whoever’s coming will want to see the chief right away. Is he going to be available then? As soon as I can get from the airport to the station?”
“He’ll be here then, I’m sure.”
“If he needs to talk to me, you’ve got my cellular number.”
“Right,” Kenny said. “Mind telling me what you’ll be doing?”
Until that moment, Matt had no idea-since golf was out and it was raining-how he was going to spend the morning. But it came to him.
“I’m going to take statements from the colonel, the old guy…”
“Mr. Chambers Galloway,” Kenny furnished. “I’ll give you his number.”
“And anybody else… maybe Fats Gambino, if I have time on the way to the airport.”
Kenny chuckled, deep in his throat, reminding Matt of Jason Washington.
“That’ll make Ol’ Fats’s day. His place is right on Airport Boulevard, a couple of miles short of the airport. You can’t miss it. I wouldn’t suggest you tell him you’re coming.”
“And anybody else you think would be a good idea.”
“I’ll think on it, and tell you when you come in.”
