"f.u.c.k you, ease off! What I would like to do to this miserable s.h.i.theel is shoot him with a .22 in both knees, and make him crawl to jail."

"I'm telling you to ease off, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!"

"With that d.a.m.ned Rolex watch shoved up his a.s.s!" Martinez went on, undaunted.

"Charley, unless I get to go to the toilet, I'm going to c.r.a.p in my pants!" Calhoun said plaintively.

"I don't give a s.h.i.t!"

Two minutes later, Martinez turned off 222 into a Cities Service complex, a large service station with two rows of pumps, a store offering tires and other automotive accessories, and a restaurant.

He pulled the unmarked Plymouth up in front of the restaurant and jumped out of the driver's seat. He took his identification folder from his pocket and opened it so the shield was visible, then pushed his jacket aside so that his holstered pistol was visible. He waved his badge around at shoulder height.

"Nothing to worry about, folks. We are police officers!"

That, of course, caught the attention of everyone within fifty feet, including several people seated at tables inside the restaurant.

"Let him out, McFadden!" Martinez ordered.

Charley reached over Calhoun and opened the door.

Calhoun made his way awkwardly out of the backseat.

Charley slid across the seat and got out after him.

"You go set things up in the restaurant," Martinez ordered.

"I'm not going to leave you alone with him," McFadden said.

"You don't think I'd shoot him right here, do you?"

"I'm not going to leave him alone with you, Martinez," Charley repeated.

"Suit yourself," Martinez said, and walked into the restaurant, where, from the door, he repeated the "Nothing to worry about folks, we're police officers" routine.

By the time Charley marched the handcuffed former police officer Timothy J. Calhoun through the door of the restaurant, the eyes of everyone in the restaurant were on them, and Calhoun was so humiliated Charley thought he might actually cry.

Charley marched Calhoun past the fascinated restaurant customers to the men's room. Martinez preceded them, and ran a frightened-looking civilian out of the place before he would permit Charley to lead Calhoun inside.

Charley marched him up to a stall and turned him around.

"Aren't you going to take the cuffs off?" Calhoun asked.

"Timmy, I just can't take the chance," Charley said, sounding genuinely sorry.

He unfastened Calhoun's belt, unb.u.t.toned the flap, pulled down his zipper, and pulled first his trousers and then his shorts down over his hips.

"Back in there," he ordered.

Calhoun, his trousers at his ankles, backed into the stall and finally managed to lower himself onto the toilet.

"How am I supposed to wipe myself?" Calhoun asked.

"When you're finished, I'll uncuff you to do that," Charley said.

It became evident to Officer Calhoun that Detective McFadden had no intention of closing the door, but instead was leaning on the frame, obviously intending to watch him.

"You're not even going to close the door?"

"Timmy, I just can't take the chance," Charley said. "If I was in your shoes, I think I'd eat my gun."

"Maybe that's what I should have done when I saw the cars outside."

"Too late for that, now, Timmy. You're going down."

"s.h.i.t!"

In Detective McFadden's professional judgment, Officer Calhoun was about to cry. Which meant that he had swallowed the good cop-bad cop routine hook, line, and sinker. He hadn't thought it would be this easy, but on the other hand, Calhoun had never had a reputation for being very smart, just a good guy.

"What are you going to do, Timmy?" Charley asked sympathetically.

Calhoun looked up at McFadden. There were tears in his eyes.

"What the h.e.l.l can I do?"

"Timmy, how the h.e.l.l did you ever get into this mess?" Charley asked. "Didn't you even think what would happen to Monica when you were caught?"

"We weren't supposed to get caught!" Calhoun said indignantly. "That f.u.c.king Phebus said there was no way in the f.u.c.king world we were going to get caught!"

Bingo! Former Sergeant Anton C. Phebus! I'll be d.a.m.ned!

"You're going to have to give them Phebus, Timmy. Before somebody else does. It's not like you'd be ratting on another cop. He's not a cop anymore, he's a lawyer, an a.s.sistant D.A., for Christ's sake! And he got you into this."

"We weren't supposed to get caught," Calhoun said. "s.h.i.t!"

"What we're going to do now, Timmy, is get on the phone to Sergeant Washington, who is my boss, and a good guy. You're going to tell him that as soon as we get to Philadelphia you're going to give him Phebus. He already knows about Phebus, of course, but with a little luck, you'll be giving him Phebus before anybody else on the Five Squad does. That should help you."

Calhoun nodded.

"I'll be right back, Timmy," Charley said.

"Where are you going?"

Charley didn't reply.

Detective Martinez was leaning on the wall just outside the men's room.

"Anything?"

"You remember good old Sergeant Anton C. Phebus?"

"Yeah. What about him?"

"He's the brains behind the whole thing."

"No s.h.i.t?"

"No s.h.i.t," Charley said. "See if you can borrow an office with a phone. I want to get Calhoun on the phone, talking to Washington, before he changes his mind."

Although he scanned the lobby for her carefully, Matt Payne did not see Susan Reynolds when he returned to the Penn-Harris Hotel a few minutes after twelve.

As he got on the elevator, he decided he would call her at the Department of Social Services. Even with her line tapped, it would raise no suspicions on the FBI's part if he telephoned and asked her if she was free for lunch.

As he put the key in the door of Suite 612, he sensed movement, and glanced down the corridor. Susan was trotting toward him, obviously distraught.

"Hi!" he said. "I was just about to call you."

"Where have you been?" she asked.

"Calm down," he said, opened the door, and waved her inside ahead of him.

He closed the door and put his arms around her.

"Where the h.e.l.l were you?" she asked, her voice m.u.f.fled against her chest.

"I was out arresting a dirty cop," he said. "My boss just told me I was at the head of his good-guy list."

She pushed away from him and looked up into his face.

"Say what you're thinking," she said.

"I'm not thinking anything," he said.

"Yes, you are."

"There was a certain irony in that, wouldn't you think?"

"In other words, what you're going to do for Jennie makes you feel dirty?"

"Whatever I wind up doing, honey, it's not going to be for your pal Jennie."

"I could meet her by myself, Matt, and try to reason with her. I really hate what this is going to do to you."

"That's very tempting, but for several reasons, it wouldn't work," Matt said. "And I'm a big boy. I know what I'm doing."

"Why wouldn't it work?"

"Well, I think it's entirely possible that the FBI has got somebody on you-besides that woman in your office, I mean. If they see you leaving town, they'll follow you-keeping track of a Porsche isn't hard. And the minute you meet poor Jennie, surprise, surprise! Go directly to jail, do not pa.s.s Go, do not collect two hundred bucks. I don't want you to go to jail, honey."

"You don't know know the FBI is watching me. Watching me that close, I mean." the FBI is watching me. Watching me that close, I mean."

"They're tapping your phones twenty-four hours a day. Your pal keeps calling-it doesn't matter what name she gives, I told you that, they know who it is. They're under pressure to put the arm on Chenowith and Company. They may not have the manpower to do it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, but whenever they can find the people, they're on you, Susan. Believe me."

"Jennie called," Susan said. "This morning."

"And?"

"I told her I would meet her."

"She called you at your office?" Matt asked. Susan nodded. "And you went to some pay phone and called her back? Or she called you at a pay-phone number you gave her?"

"At a number I gave her."

"Okay. So the minute you left your office, we can count on your friendly coworker listening to what you and Jennie had to say to each other. We can also count on her reporting that, right then, to the Terrorist Unit. If they had somebody available, you might have been followed to the phone booth. h.e.l.l, they might have followed you here."

"And there's a microphone in the light fixture?" Susan said, pointing at the ceiling. "And they are listening to everything we're saying now?"

"I don't think so. They think I'm on their side. But there's no telling, really. I should have thought of that. I'm used to planting mikes, not having them planted on me."

"I was kidding," Susan said. "You really think they could have a microphone in here?"

"Well, if they do, we're all going to jail," Matt said.

"I never know when you're serious," Susan said.

"Tell me about poor Jennie," Matt said. "Softly. The FBI may be listening."

"She really wants to give me whatever it is she wants me to keep for her."

"The translation of that is that, to cover his a.s.s, Chenowith wants to get rid of the bank loot," Matt said. "And what did you tell her?"

"That I would meet her the same place I met her last time," Susan said.

"The restaurant in Doylestown?" Matt asked. Susan nodded. "When?"

"I told her I couldn't take off from work without questions being asked," Susan said. "I told her I'd try to get there by seven."

"Speaking of work, you're on your lunch hour, right?"

She shook her head, "no."

"After I talked to Jennie, I didn't go back to work."

"Why not?"