His first thought: What a sweetheart.
Then: How the hell did she find out so fast?
After processing the body of Mrs. Joelle Bazelon into the system that was the Medical Examiner's Office-putting the body bag in one of the stainless-steel refrigerator compartments, then entering the report and photographs taken at the scene into the computer filing system-Javier had called his sister.
"Hey, I got your text. Thanks."
"You're welcome," she said, her usual bubbly tone gone. "It's… it's all just so awful…"
"Yeah. She was a terrific lady. How'd you find out so fast? And that it was me? I mean, I'd barely left the scene"-he paused and thought, Wrong word-"that is, Principal Bazelon's house, when you sent that."
"Some guys walking around the neighborhood saw the ME van and stopped to watch."
She knows those thugs watching from across the street?
Maybe Kim Soo was right. They were wannabe gangstas-from-the-'hood.
"You know those guys?"
"No, not really. They think they're bad news. Jorge's little brother, Paco, he hangs with them, which makes Jorge mad."
Then I was right and Soo was wrong.
I knew I had that gut feeling they were up to no good…
Yvette went on: "Anyway, Paco told Jorge he saw you at the Bazelons', and Jorge texted me about the ME van and Principal Bazelon dying and all."
Javier knew only vaguely of either Ramirez brother.
"And then Keesha called crying."
"Keesha?"
"Keesha Cook."
"Oh, that Keesha. How's she connected?"
"She and Sasha live on the same street. Longtime neighbors and friends. And you know Keesha used to come over and hang out."
"Yeah, I remember that. Okay, it all makes sense now."
"Word's gotten out fast, Javier. I mean there's already a big memorial at the middle school by the back door. People coming by and leaving flowers and stuffed animals. There's these big white bedsheets that they're drawing on and writing poems and memories and stuff about her. And there's already a memorial page dedicated to her on the Internet. People from around the world-and I mean around the world, Javier, like China and shit-are writing about what an influence she was to them. Someone's even made a page with a map of the world, and every time someone writes one of those notes or posts a photo of them, one of these red pushpins pops up on the map showing where these people are in the world-Africa, Europe, all over. Most of them are in Philly, though, real thick red here, then it gets thinner going out."
"That's amazing. All in-what?-just two hours? Amazing, is what that is."
"I just texted Keesha, and she's headed over to Sasha's. I'm going to go over, too. Talk her up, you know? I remember how terrible I felt when we lost our abuela, and even then we had each other to lean on. Sasha's so very alone now."
"Yvette, you know Sasha real good?"
"Sort of. Sure. Why?"
"Is she in any kind of trouble that you know of?"
"Sasha? No! Never. Why?"
"While I was there, I heard her answering questions from the police. What she told them wasn't much. Just that she came home late last night, saw her grandmother was asleep on the couch, then went to bed. When she came down next morning, her grandmother was dead."
"Yeah? And?"
"Look, I think there's more. I know there's more."
"Like what, Javier?"
"Somebody had tied Principal Bazelon's hands and wrists-"
He heard Yvette gasp.
He went on: "But when we got there, whatever they'd been tied with was gone. Just bruises left."
"You think Sasha did something to her? I can't imagine-"
"No. But I do think something happened that she won't tell anyone, especially the cops."
"Nobody talks to the man, Javier. Not if they're smart and don't want no trouble. No offense, big bro."
"I know that. Look, I'm not saying Sasha did anything wrong. But something is not right about those bruises on her grandmother, ones Dr. Mitchell is going to see and question. If he thinks the death wasn't as simple as just an old lady going to sleep and never waking up, he'll have to tell the police. And then Sasha might get in real trouble."
"Oh my God, Javier. That's terrible!"
"I'm not saying she did anything to hurt her. Just that she's not telling everything that happened to her grandmother. Sasha is deeply hurt. No question she's hurt. But there's more than just sadness in her eyes. There's… fear, is what there is."
"Fear of what?"
Javier sighed loudly, then said, "I don't know."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Maybe just keep your eyes and ears open when you go over?"
There was a long silence. Then she said: "Okay. Sure. Anything."
"I'd like to stop by, too. I didn't get a chance to tell her how sorry I was."
"Okay. I'm walking over now."
"See you shortly." Yvette Iglesia ran to intercept her brother in front of the Bazelon row house. Javier glanced at the crowd of tough guys on the sidewalk and saw that they were following his every step. He recognized Paco Ramirez and thought he'd look like the nice kid next door if not for the wannabe gangsta clothing. Javier nodded at him, and Paco nodded back.
As Javier reached the sidewalk, Yvette met him. He saw that her eyes were tearing. As she hugged him, she softly said, "You were right, big bro."
"About what?"
She took a step back, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked up at Javier.
"She's only told Keesha," she said, "and Keesha's only told me."
"What?" he asked quietly.
She turned her back to the boys on the sidewalk, then, keeping her voice low, practically spat out: "That fucking shit Xpress-Xavier Smith?" She paused, and after Javier nodded that he knew him, went on. "He was here last night getting revenge on Sasha's grandmother for calling the cops on him. She saw him stealing a neighbor's TV. He hid on the porch last night, and when Sasha got home from Keesha's, he forced his way inside."
She sniffled, then wiped at her nose and cheek.
Javier said, "What happened then?"
"You were right about Principal Bazelon being tied up. He used the phone cord. Then he… then he put a gun to Sasha's head and made her-"
Javier saw the tears flowing faster.
She angrily wiped them away and finished: "That fucking shit make her blow him and made her abuela watch! That's what killed her!"
"Jesus Christ!" Javier said softly.
He looked over his baby sister's head to the porch. Keesha was stroking Sasha's hair.
Her abuela died of a real broken heart.
Dr. Mitchell told me about those, where stress damages the heart muscle, especially an old, weak one, to the point of triggering a deadly cardiac arrest.
Jesus!
Yvette added: "And he threatened Sasha, said not to tell nobody, that he could come back anytime, and that he could get her anywhere."
Javier shook his head and said, "No wonder she's terrified. Now she has no family and is constantly worried that Xpress will come back."
She nodded. "We're going to get her away from this. Walk over and see the memorial at the school, you know? Maybe that'll make her feel a little better."
They both glanced back at the porch. Sasha was moving down the steps with Keesha Cook at her side. Everyone along the way stepped back, making a path for her.
When Sasha and Keesha reached Yvette and Javier, Javier said, "I didn't get a chance to say earlier how much your grandmother meant to me, Sasha. I am terribly sorry for your loss, I really am."
Sasha looked him in the eyes and simply said, "Thanks."
Javier looked at Keesha and said, "Good to see you. Glad you can be here for Sasha."
Keesha nodded. Then she said, "You going over to the memorial at the school?"
"I wouldn't miss it for anything."
He gestured for them to lead the way. But when they turned to walk to Fifty-fifth Street, Sasha looked toward the intersection and froze, her wide eyes terrified.
And from deep inside her came a gut-wrenching moan that turned into a wail.
Coming toward them, having just turned the corner, was a medium-size black male in baggy jeans, his head covered by the hood of his black sweatshirt. When he looked up at the sound of the scream, the hard face of Xavier "Xpress" Smith was clearly visible-and, judging by its shocked expression, clearly caught off guard by the crowd at Sasha Bazelon's house.
Javier thought Smith's eyes-now huge-looked particularly bloodshot.
He's hopped up on something…
"He's come back!" Sasha then cried out, and she started bawling uncontrollably.
Keesha, holding her arm, struggled to keep her from collapsing to the ground.
Yvette, gesturing wildly at Xavier Smith, exploded: "That bastard stuck a fucking gun to Sasha's head last night! Made her go down on him in front of her grandmother!"
The eyes of the crowd were all on Yvette. Everyone was either not sure they'd heard what they thought they'd heard, or was processing the incredibly awful news.
"What?" Paco Ramirez asked.
"It's true!" Yvette said. "Almost killed Sasha, too!"
Then the eyes turned to Xavier Smith. He'd already started walking away from the group. Now, glancing over his shoulder-and looking guilty as hell-Xavier Smith bolted across Ridgewood.
"And that no-good nigger just tried to get Sasha again!" Keesha screamed.
Yvette started running. "Don't let him get way! C'mon!"
Oh, shit, Javier thought. "Yvette, wait!"
When she didn't, Javier took off after her.
Two male teenagers ran to a small red Ford pickup truck. They got in and, tires squealing, roared up the street.
Almost everyone else took off to follow Yvette, who was furiously sprinting.
Everyone but Keesha, who now sat on the sidewalk consoling a sobbing Sasha.
"See?" Sasha said. "He said he would. Anytime…" A crowd at least twenty strong closed in on Smith, who now ran down the middle of Fifty-fifth Street. Barely dodging a Chevy sedan, its horn blaring and tires squealing, he then bolted across Beaumont Avenue, looking as if he were going to take a shortcut through the asphalt parking lot of Shaw Middle School.
There was a small group by the door to the school, looking at and adding to the makeshift memorial for Principal Joelle Bazelon. They turned and watched Smith approaching, then saw the angry mob that was chasing him-and fled the school grounds.
Xavier Smith turned to look over his shoulder, and as he glanced back he tripped on the uneven surface of the parking lot. He went down fast and hard, hitting the asphalt face-first. It dazed him.
The crowd, still led by Yvette Iglesia, caught up in no time.
They circled Xavier Smith. He remained motionless.
"Not much of a bad ass now, are you?" Yvette yelled between gasps for breath.
"We're sick of your shit, pendejo!" Paco Ramirez said-and suddenly, angrily, began kicking him.
Others immediately joined in, shoes and boots striking him on his back and legs. Some of the girls were throwing their weight into their kicks, their arms swinging with the exertion.
Smith recoiled. He pulled into the fetal position, protecting his face with his arms.
Oh, shit! Street justice! Javier thought.
The punk's getting what he deserves. But…
The rest of the crowd joined in, and Javier could see that the frenzy was building on itself.
They're going to kill him!
And then their lives are really ruined…
Smith managed to roll over and reach underneath his sweatshirt. He pulled out a chrome-plated, snub-nosed.32-caliber revolver.
He waved it up at the crowd. "Back off! Now!"
The circle of angry teens instinctively took a couple steps backward.
Two of the older males pulled out knives. And another-Javier recognized him as the driver of the pickup, which he now saw was parked close by-came up to the circle carrying a baseball bat.
Xavier Smith jumped to his feet, but stayed in a crouch as he cradled his torso with his left hand.
They must have fractured or broke some ribs, Javier thought.
Smith waved the pistol at the crowd.
Then one teenage boy in the crowd laughed. He taunted him: "Woohoo! You crazy, Xpress!"
Smith aimed the pistol at him as the boy went on: "You got only five, maybe six bullets in that gun. There's a whole lot more of us than that!"
"And you ain't getting no chance to reload," said another teenage boy.
Smith jerked the pistol to aim it at him.
Then a teenage girl added, "Yeah, you can't shoot us all!"
He aimed the gun at her.
Then another laughed and said: "You must be snorting too much of your own shit!"
Suddenly, someone in the crowd behind Xavier Smith threw a broken red clay brick, one that had once been part of the old school building's wall. It struck Smith square in the back of the skull, causing him to crumble to the cracked black asphalt. He dropped the pistol as he went down. The gun bounced twice but did not go off.
As the circle again closed in on Smith, a lone hand reached down and grabbed the gun. The pistol disappeared into the mass of teenagers.
Now they are going in for the kill! Javier Iglesia thought.
"That's enough!" Javier shouted. "Stop, or you'll kill him!"
"So?" one teenage male in the crowd shouted in reply.
"Yeah, after all the things this shit has done to people?" another voice added.
The beefy Javier started muscling his way into the circle, grabbing elbows and pulling shoulders. He forced open a path to the center. Just as he reached the limp and bloodied body, Javier saw an elbow swinging toward him. He failed to duck in time, and the elbow caught him in the corner of his right eye.
"Shit!" Javier screamed out in pain, instantly covering his injured eye with his right hand. He swung his left hand over his head. "Goddamn it, everybody just fucking stop! Yvette, get them to stop!"
Paco Ramirez stepped next to Yvette Iglesia and waved his arms at the crowd. "Hey, everybody stop! Who hit Javier?"
It took a moment for the momentum to slow-there were a couple last kicks at Xavier Smith-but finally the crowd stood still. And stared down Javier.
Javier said, "Listen to me! You kill him, you're going to run from that the rest of your lives-"
"It'd be worth it!" a male teen in the crowd shouted.
Javier went on: "It's not worth it, is what I'm telling you. You need to let him get arrested, get charged with murdering Principal Bazelon."
"No cops," Paco said. "No way."
The reward! Javier suddenly remembered.
Let that rich guy Fuller turn him in…
He said: "Take Xpress in and get that ten-thousand-dollar reward!"
Yvette looked at her brother, and her face lit up as she said, "That's right!"
Then she looked at the crowd and said, "Javier's right! This piece of shit actually is worth something. And we can share the reward with Sasha."
She looked again at Javier. "Where's the place?"
He thought back to the Medical Examiner's Office unit that had picked up the three bodies the previous night. "In Old City, Arch and Third. Place is called… what the hell was it?… Lex Talionis."
Yvette nodded.
She then turned to the male with the baseball bat and said, "Go get your truck!"
He ran to the red Ford pickup, got in, and sped back.
Two teenage males were already waiting with the unconscious Xavier Smith in their hands. Everyone watched as the pair threw his limp body into the back of the truck like some sack of trash, then climbed in after him. Five others followed, filling the small truck until its rear seat sat low with their weight.
Then the truck roared away.
Yvette turned to Javier. She reached up and gingerly pulled back his right hand, inspecting the injury.
"Oh, wow," she said, wincing. "That's going to be a nice shiner." Then she smiled and added, "Big bruise for big bro."
"Great. Just what I need," he said. He pulled out his cell phone, scrolled the list of stored numbers, and called the one he'd entered as SGT PAYNE.
Wonder what the odds are of Xpress being alive when they get there? [TWO] Homicide Unit Interview Room II The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 1:11 P.M. "I want my reward," Shauna Mays repeated to Sergeant M. M. Payne.
"Yes, you've said that. And I've told you we need some questions answered about Kendrik's death."
Payne felt his cell phone vibrating. He carefully pulled it from his pants pocket. He glanced at its screen but did not recognize the caller ID number, so he let the caller get routed into voice mail.
"And I want these damn handcuffs off," she said. "I ain't done nothing wrong."
Interview Room II was small, ten by twelve feet, and held only a single bare metal table and two metal chairs, all pushed up against one wall. The chair that Shauna Mays sat in was bolted to the floor. One end of a pair of handcuffs was clipped around a bar on the seatback, the other cuff around her left wrist. On the opposite wall was a four-foot-square one-way mirror.
The room was harshly lit, and it was cold. Shauna Mays, her arms and legs crossed, shivered in her dirty, loose-hanging T-shirt and torn black jeans. Payne was not sure if the cause was the clothing or her obvious lack of a recent bath, but she gave off a musty odor that reeked of filth. He tried not to come too close to her.
There was a handheld digital audio recorder on the table between them. But the real recording equipment, audio and video, was behind the one-way mirror, in the small viewing room. Tony Harris, watching the interview with Jason Washington, was running the camera.
It had taken no time at all to bring in Shauna Mays-Third and Arch was only four blocks from the Roundhouse-particularly after Mayor Jerry Carlucci let loose with his famous temper when he saw her and her dead son on the bank of TV monitors in the Executive Command Center.
After saying "Oh, shit!" his very next breath had been: "Get that damn uniform to arrest her right damn now on suspicion of murder and bring her here for questioning! I damn well just said that those responsible for any death will be prosecuted to the fullest-and goddamn it, that's what's going to happen!"
Matt Payne now looked down at the gaunt and badly bruised woman, and took pity.
Someone's really slapped her around, especially in the face. And her hand, which she must have tried to use for protection.
She could barely stand on her own two feet while they were rolling her fingers for prints and checking her hands for gunpowder residue.
The only person she's a danger to is herself…
He said, "I'll remove the cuff, but one thing goes wrong and it goes back on."
She nodded.
Taking out his handcuff key, Payne asked, "Who hit you?"
"Who you think? Kendrik."
He nodded.
"Can I get you something to eat or drink?" he asked as he removed the cuff.
"Maybe a soda?"
Payne looked to the one-way mirror. He couldn't see anyone-except, of course, the reflections of himself and Shauna Mays-but he knew that on the other side of the glass they'd see him looking, and that they'd bring the drink from the small refrigerator that was kept stocked in the unit.
A moment later there was a knock on the door, and when Payne unlocked and opened it a crack, a massive black paw of a hand reached in with a screw-top plastic bottle of grape-flavored soda and a snack-size bag of Tastykake.
"Thanks, Jason," he said, taking them, and then closing and locking the door.
Payne placed both on the table before Shauna Mays. As she reached for them, her bruised hand trembled.
He said, "Would you like me to open them?"
She nodded.
She ate the whole bag of Tastykake in about three mouthfuls, washing it down with half the soda in two swallows. Then she loudly belched.
She looked at Payne but said nothing.
Payne pulled from his pocket a small notepad and pen, then reached over to the recorder and pushed its red button to begin recording.
He glanced at his wristwatch and said, "Today is Sunday, November first. Time is one-twenty P.M. This interview is being held in the Philadelphia Police Department Homicide Unit, and conducted by me, Sergeant M. M. Payne, badge number 471."
He looked at Shauna Mays, who seemed to be mesmerized by what Payne had just said.
Either that, or all of a sudden the sugar and salt in her system is throwing off her blood sugar balance.
He said, "Would you please state your name?"
"Shauna. Shauna Mays."
"And where do you live, Ms. Mays?"
"In Philadelphia."
"Okay. And your address is?"
"Uh, over on Wilder."
"That would be 2620 Wilder Street, Philadelphia 19147."
She nodded. "Uh-huh. That right."
"Have you been read your Miranda rights, Ms. Mays?"
"My what?"
"You have the right to remain silent, the right to have an attorney-"
"Oh, yeah," she interrupted. "That first cop did that."
"And you're freely willing to now answer any questions?"
"Yeah. Sure. Just so I gets my reward."
"Right. We'll get to that, Ms. Mays. First, Kendrik Mays is your son, correct?"
"Yeah. He my boy."
"Can you tell me what happened to Kendrik?"
"He got hisself killed."
"Yes, ma'am. I'm aware of that. How did it happen?"
"He was doing bad. Long time. He had it coming."
"Because he beat you? You did say he's responsible for the bruises on your body."
She looked at him oddly. "I don't understand."
"Did you kill him?"
"No! I told that first cop that!"
"Okay, then how did it happen, Ms. Mays?"
"I guess that bullet killed him."
Payne exhaled audibly. "Okay, let's start from the beginning. Who had the gun?"
"A delivery guy. He come in with Kendrik's paper. That paper I had that the cop took?"
"The Wanted sheet?"
"Yeah, that's it. He come in and-No, wait. First he say he got a check for Kendrik. And when I let him in, he give me the paper. The sheet. Said there was no check."
"This began at what time?"
She cocked her head. "Time? This morning, all I know. Ain't no clocks in a crack house!"
Payne nodded as he wrote that on his notepad and thought, Right.
If something's not nailed down, it's sold for drugs.
My God, what a way to live.
"What did this guy look like? And was he alone, anyone else in the house?"
"Just him. Old white guy, maybe my age. Tall. Kinda skinny."
Payne wrote that down and asked, "He give you a name? You ever see him before?"
"Nope," she said, shaking her head. "I think Kendrik did something bad to this guy. Or maybe to his family. Robbery, rape, something. Once my boy got in the drugs, he was no good."
Payne noted that on his pad, then said, "This old white guy your age-anything unusual about him? Anything at all special or different you remember about him?"
She thought about that for a moment. Then she grinned.
"He give me money. A hundred dollars, he did! How many times that going to happen? Some white guy come in your house and give you a hundred dollars, then tell you how to get ten thousand more!"
She's almost giddy.
The sugar must really be kicking in.
She squinted her eyes at Payne and wagged her right index finger at him. "And I want my reward!"
"This man had a gun?"
She looked at Payne with an expression that suggested he was nuts. "How else Kendrik get shot? Had to! I never saw it. But it made a loud noise. Sounded like a cannon boom in the basement."
"That's where Kendrik was shot, in the basement? Do we have your permission to go through it and search your whole house?"
She nodded, then snickered. "If you want. Sure. Just try not to make a mess." She looked at Payne and said, her tone flat, "That was a joke."
Now she's feeling so good she's a damn comedienne.
Payne nodded, then said, "You do know it's against the law to tamper with the scene of a crime, remove or otherwise alter evidence?"
She shrugged.
Payne raised an eyebrow, then went on: "Okay, do you know the cabbie who helped you?"
She shook her head. "No. He just the first one who'd help me. Had to walk four blocks till I found him on Reed Street. Only charged me twenty bucks. Said he was sorry for me but glad to see Kendrik got what he deserved. Nobody liked that boy."
Payne wrote that as he asked, "And this cabbie helped you do what?"
"He's a really big guy. He took that rug and rolled Kendrik up in it, then carried him to the car."
"Ms. Mays, that's the tampering with evidence I'm referring to. You should've called 911 and-"
She laughed. "Call 911? What? I ain't got no phone. And I sure as hell wouldn't call no police if I did."
Payne stared at her.
Amazing. You get beat to hell and back, someone blows away your son in your basement, but whatever you do, don't call the good guys…
He went on: "Are you also aware it's against the law to harbor a fugitive?"
"Harbor?"
"Let him live with you."
She sat up in the chair, puffed up her chest, and in as loud and angry a voice as she could muster said, "I didn't let him live with me! I throwed him out over and over. But he come back. And when I try throwing him out again, after he been in jail, that's when he beat me really bad. What can I do? I got no money to move out, so I just deal with it all…" Her voice trailed off. She reached for the soda bottle and drained it.
Then she crossed her arms and glared at Payne. "I want my reward!"
Payne looked back at her, then glanced at his watch and said to the recorder, "Interview paused at one-forty P.M."
He stood, stuck his notepad in his pocket, and said, "I'll be right back."
He left the handcuff off her but, using the sliding bolt, locked the interview room door from the outside. Only Jason Washington was in the small observation room when Payne entered.
"The minute you got her permission," Washington said, his deep, sonorous voice answering the unasked question, "Tony went to get a Search and Seizure warrant signed by the judge and sent the Crime Lab to her house."
"If that house is anything like its resident, I doubt we're going to get anything of real use. Other than maybe a bullet fragment. The shooter probably collected his shell casings."
Washington nodded and said, "You're probably correct, Matthew. But you know to 'never say never.'"
"And 'always check the rock under the rock,'" Payne said with a smile, citing Washington's well-known rule of thumb for conducting thorough investigations.
"I learned you well, Young Matthew," Washington said mock-seriously.
Payne looked at Shauna Mays through the window and parroted her: "'I want my reward.'"
Washington chuckled, but then in a serious tone said, "And she should get it, considering the hell she went through."
Payne looked at him, then back at her.
After a long moment he said, "Jason, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"She didn't do it," Washington immediately answered. "She's arguably guilty of a whole host of other mistakes in life. But murder isn't one of them. And after one look at her physical condition, the DA isn't going to go after her for harboring a fugitive."
Payne nodded. "We could throw tampering with evidence charges at her, or even accessory to murder. But why?"
"I doubt the DA would press charges if they caught her jaywalking," Washington said. "We'll hold her till we see what, if anything, they find at the scene. Then let her loose to collect her reward."
They looked at her again.
After a moment Payne said coldly, "I'm betting this won't be the last we hear of Shauna Mays. And not alive."
"Great minds follow similar paths, Matthew. I agree. There're ten thousand reasons why."
"The whole 'hood will be after her money."
Matt Payne then felt his phone vibrating again. When he pulled it out, he saw the call was from the same number as the call he'd ignored earlier.
He looked at Washington, shrugged, and said, "Excuse me." He answered it: "Payne."
After a moment he said, "Hold on," then hit the SPEAKERPHONE key.
"You still there, Sergeant Payne?" Javier Iglesia's voice came over the speaker.
"Yeah, Javier," Payne said. "I'm here with Lieutenant Jason Washington-"
"Hey, Lieutenant," Javier interrupted. "Haven't seen you in quite a while."
"How are you, Javier?" Washington asked.
"Not real good. I was just telling Sergeant Payne that I'm near my home in Kingsessing-southwest Philadelphia?"
"We know it," Payne said. "What's this you just said about a Principal Bazelon being murdered?"
"We got the call from Twelfth District this morning that she'd died in her sleep," Iglesia began. "But I just found out she really died during a home invasion by a really bad dude named Xpress Jones…" "… and now part of that crowd is taking Xpress down to collect that ten-grand reward," Iglesia finished some five minutes later. "It being a homicide and all, I thought you'd want to be the ones who grabbed him."
"Give me this animal's name again, Javier," Payne said, pulling out his notepad and flipping to a clean page.
"Xpress Smith. Xavier Smith, aka Xpress. Black male, twenty-four."
Payne wrote it down. "Okay. Got it. Any unusual features to look for to ID him?"
Javier snorted. "Other than being attached to an angry mob of wannabe gangbangers? And the ten-g price tag on his head? Don't worry, Sergeant. You can't miss him. Xpress is pretty messed up."
"Thanks, Javier. We've already got someone down there. I'll give him a heads-up."
"Later," Javier said.
Payne broke the connection, then slipped the cell phone back in the left front pocket of his pants.
Matt Payne looked at Jason Washington and said, "So we have a mother bringing in her dead son, and now we have street-justice punks cashing in a really bad guy? And those first eight pop-and-drops. Killadelphia, indeed. The vigilantes-and now we know there's at least one-are everywhere. Worse, I'm beginning to think Operation Clean Sweep has been commandeered by Five-Eff."
"Well, Francis Fuller's reward system is certainly superior to ours in attracting attention," Washington said. "To start with, he's not a cop. And, as we well know, nobody on the street wants to talk to cops."
Payne grunted.
He said, "Carlucci is really going to blow his cork when he hears about the street vigilantes turning in this thug and that Kendrik's doer is still loose and, we can presume, still active. Next time you see my head, it'll probably be on a platter."
Payne looked at Washington a long moment, then sighed. He said, "You're smarter than I am, Jason. What the hell do I do next?"
"Applying for the monastery ever cross your mind?" [THREE] Jefferson and Mascher Streets, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 1:55 P.M. "Bobby, what the hell does five fucking minutes matter?" Thomas "Little Tommie" Turco glanced at his wristwatch and anxiously tapped his steel-toed work boot. "The permit says two o'clock start time. We're wasting daylight, not to mention burning rental money. Go on and swing it."
Puffing on a stub of a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, the bulky, thirty-eight-year-old Turco-who was anything but little-stood on the step outside the cab of a red-and-white Link-Belt crane he'd rented two hours earlier. A weathered cardboard sign, cut somewhat square, was taped to the door of the cab. It was poorly hand-lettered with a black permanent-ink marker: TURCO DEMOLITION amp; EXCAVATION. NOT FOR HIRE. UNDER CONTRACT WITH CITY OF PHILA HUD.
"You got it, boss," said Bobby "the Ballbuster" Bucco, who was sitting at the controls. He fired up the Link-Belt's diesel engine.
Little Tommie then gave a thumbs-up to Jimmy "Dirtball" Turco. His cousin was at the controls of a massive Caterpillar D3K bulldozer that sat next to a pair of Bobcats with front-end loading buckets and a line of five heavy-duty dump trucks waiting to haul away debris. The bright yellow, nine-ton dozer roared to life. Then its twin tracks and giant front blade began kicking up clouds of dust as the dozer started pushing into piles the scattered, busted debris of the onetime residential neighborhood.
This was the second time in the last ten days that Turco's beefy crew-not one of the men weighed an ounce under two-fifty-had worked this Northern Liberties job site.
The first time, during a solid week of working dawn to dusk every day but Sunday, they had taken almost the entire block down to bare earth. Little Tommie himself would have admitted that it wasn't really all that impressive an accomplishment, if only because over the years almost half of the row houses had burned and their shells had been removed by crews from the City of Philadelphia. Turco's equipment only had to scrape up and truck off the concrete footings, and sometimes not even those were left, just weed-choked dirt.
The reason Turco's crew had not been able to finish the job all at once-and had to return today-could be explained in part by the signs recently posted on the property.
There were four shiny new large ones, four-by-eight-foot sheets of plywood painted bright white and nailed to four-by-four-inch posts, each erected on a corner of the block. Lettered in black was: