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He looked at Payne and saw suspicion in his eyes.

“Why don’t we all go to my place for ribs?” Payne said, finally.

“Where’s your car?” Malone asked.

“We’re parked over there,” McFadden said, and pointed to where Malone had parked behind the Volkswagen.

“I want to find a phone,” Malone said. “And call that Porsche in.”

“Why?” Payne asked, obviously surprised.

“I have a gut feeling it’s wrong,” Malone said. “A Porsche like that shouldn’t be parked in this neighborhood.”

“That’s Payne’s car, Lieutenant,” McFadden said. “Nice, huh?”

Malone thought he saw amusement in McFadden’s eyes.

“Very nice,” Malone said.

“Lieutenant,” Payne said. “You’re sure welcome to come with us. I appreciate your coming out here.”

“I haven’t had my dinner.”

“You’d better follow me, otherwise there will be a hassle getting you into the garage,” Payne said.

“I’m sorry?” Malone asked.

“The parking lot in my building,” Payne s

aid. “There’s a rent-a-cop—it would be easier if we stuck together.”

“Okay. Sure,” Malone said.

The little convoy stopped twice on the way to Payne’s apartment, first in a gas station on Frankford Avenue, where Payne made a telephone call from a pay booth, and then on Chestnut Street in downtown Philadelphia. There Payne walked quickly around the nose of his Porsche and into Ribs Unlimited, an eatery Jack Malone remembered from happier days as a place to which husbands took wives on their birthdays for arguably the best ribs in Philadelphia, and which were priced accordingly.

In a moment Payne came back out, trailed by the manager and two costumed rib-cookers in red chef’s hats and white jackets and aprons, bearing large foil-wrapped packages and what looked like a half case of beer.

Payne opened the nose of his Porsche, and everything was loaded inside. Payne reached in his pocket and handed bills to the manager and the two guys in cook’s suits. They beamed at him.

Payne closed the nose of his Porsche, got behind the wheel, and the three-car convoy rolled off again.

I didn’t know Ribs Unlimited offered takeouts, Malone thought, and then, Jesus Christ, me and my big mouth: When I offer to pay for the ribs, as I have to, I will have to give him a check, because I have maybe nineteen dollars in my pocket. A check that will be drawn against insufficient funds and will bounce, unless I can get to the bank and beg that four-eyed asshole of an assistant manager to hold it until payday.

Five minutes later they were unloading the nose of the Porsche in a basement garage.

Payne’s apartment, which they reached after riding an elevator and then walking up a narrow flight of stairs, was something of a disappointment.

It was nicely furnished, but it was very small. Somehow, after the Porsche, and because it was on Rittenhouse Square, he had expected something far more luxurious.

McFadden carried the case of beer into the kitchen, and Malone heard bottles being opened.

“Here you are, Lieutenant,” he said. “You ever had any of this? Tuborg. Comes from Holland.”

“Denmark,” Payne corrected him, tolerantly.

Malone took out his wallet.

“This is my treat, you will recall,” he said. “What’s the tab?”