“Just tell me the first thing that pops into your mind, Jesus, please,” he said. “Do you think assigning police officers to protect Mr. Colt is a good investment of the time of yourself and other detectives like you?”
“Hell, yes. Christ, he comes to town to raise money for West Catholic. It wouldn’t be right if we let his fans get at him. They’re nutty. What they would like to do is tear his clothes off for souvenirs.”
“Thank you for calling, Phil,” the mayor of Philadelphia said. “It’s always a pleasure.”
“Thank you for taking my call, Mr. Mayor.”
The mayor put his phone in the cradle and signaled for Martinez to do the same thing.
“Gotcha, you bastard!” the mayor said, and extended his hand to Detective Martinez.
“Thank you very much, Detective. You did very well.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the studio, Mr. Donaldson turned off his microphone. “Shit,” he said aloud.
And then he had a second thought.
“Shit! I forgot to ask him about Wohl and Washington in D’Allesandro’s!”
A Pensacola, Florida, police officer watched the carousel delivering baggage and then stepped up to Matt when he saw him take the metal lock-boxes, which he recognized from previous use.
“That looks too small for a couple of shotguns,” he said, pleasantly. “If that’s handguns, why don’t you wait until you’re out of the airport before you open the box?”
“Sure,” Matt said. “You use the term ‘on the job’ down here?”
“Sure.”
“We’re on the job, from Philadelphia. Had to leave in a hurry. What we need is someplace where we can buy clothing for a couple of days, and some nice place for lunch.”
“Leave the airport, take a left at the second light. You’ll see a shopping mall on the left. Then, when you leave there, get back on the same street, go the same way as far as you can, then make another left. McGuire’s Irish Pub. Best place in town.”
“Thanks. And then we’re headed for Daphne, Alabama.”
“When you leave McGuire’s, you’ll have to turn right. Get on I-110 until you hit I-10. Turn west. It’s about forty miles.”
“You get the car, Matt,” Olivia said. “I have to-”
“Right the other side of the stairs,” the officer said, pointing.
When Olivia had walked away, the officer said, “Her, too?”
“Detective Olivia Lassiter.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah,” Matt agreed.
Hertz had a car waiting for them, a Ford Mustang convertible. And the clerk drew a Magic Marker route on a map showing how to reach the Marriott in Point Clear, Alabama. Matt saw that Point Clear was next to Fairhope, and Fairhope was next to Daphne, which was right on Interstate 10.
They found the shopping mall-a large one-without trouble, and went inside.
“Just what we’re looking for,” Matt said, happily, pointing to the entrance to Victoria’s Secret.
“I’m not going in there with you,” Olivia said. “I’m not going in there, period.”
“You told me on the plane you maxed out your credit card,” Matt said. “I have you in my power, Little Maiden.”
“You sonofabitch!”
“I’ll wait outside,” Matt said. “See what they have in translucent black.”
While he was waiting for Olivia, Matt found an ATM and withdrew a thousand dollars. When she appeared at the door to motion him in to sign the credit card charge, he handed her five hundred dollars.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll give you a check.”
“When we get back to Philly,” he said.
“It’ll take months for the city to write a check, you know that?”
“You have an honest face. I can wait.”
An hour later, having bought enough clothing and other necessities of life to last them four days, and suitcases to carry it in, they got back into the Mustang and went looking for McGuire’s Irish Pub.
“I can’t believe you ate the whole thing,” Olivia said to Matt, making reference to the assorted sausage plate he had ordered for lunch. It looked to her more than adequate for the both of them, but by the time she had seen it, the waitress had delivered her Irish stew, which looked like it, too, had been intended for at least two people.
“I have to keep up my strength,” he said, and looked around for the waitress to get the bill.
Then he looked at her.
“You know,” he said, seriously, “there’s only one person in the department who thinks this peeper may be our doer.”
Olivia shook her head, “no.”
“Two,” she said.
“Why?”
“I’ve got a gut feeling, Matt,” Olivia said. “You know?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Washington says you should listen to your gut.”
“What’s next?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “Before we go to the police station, or wherever they have this guy, I’d like to know more than we read in the paper.”
“How are you going to get that?”
“I think I’m going to start with the civilian-from the Citizens’ Watch, or whatever the hell it’s called-who saw him by the window.”
“How are you going to find him?”
“When we get to the hotel, the first thing I’m going to do is plug in my brandnew cellular battery charger, then I’ll ask, look in the phone book, whatever.”
She nodded.
The waitress delivered the bill. Matt handed his credit card to the waitress and said, “Please add fifteen percent for yourself. Great meal.”
Olivia shook her head as the waitress walked away.
“What?”
“You didn’t even look at that check,” she said. “And God knows how much we spent in the shopping center. And you got a lot of money from the ATM. Don’t you worry about maxing out your card?”
“No, I don’t,” Matt said. “And I took the money from my bank. If you get money on a credit card, they charge you some outrageous interest.”
“So you are rich? I heard something-”
“I’m comfortable, Olivia. So what?”
“It must be nice.”
“It is.”
It took them a little over an hour to drive from McGuire’s Irish Pub to the Marriott in Point Clear, Alabama. Their route took them first through Daphne. There Olivia touched his arm and pointed out a sign identifying the entrance to the Lake Forest Yacht Club amp; Condominiums.
A mile or so away they saw the Joseph Hall Criminal Justice Center, which was obviously the police station, an attractive brick building that looked as if it had been built last year. As they went through Fairhope, they saw the Fairhope Police Station, another clean, attractive building that looked even newer.
The hotel was several miles the other side of Fairhope, down a tree-lined road along the shore of Mobile Bay. There were half a dozen fair-sized sailboats bobbing along in the bay.
“I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this,” Matt said.
Neither was the hotel what Matt had expected to find after Mrs. Craig had told him she’d reserved two rooms in his name at the Marriott.
It turned out to be more of a luxury resort than a hotel. Ancient oaks lined the drive to the entrance. There were signs indicating the direction of a golf course, and he could see both an enormous swimming pool and the masts of a fleet of sailboats.
