Hmmm… back to bed?
But no fun there if she's ill.
Guess that glow was a fever.
Hope it's not me she's sick of.
Could be from sheer exhaustion.
Then he thumbed the reply: I'M REALLY SORRY, BABY. CAN I BRING YOU ANYTHING? ASPIRIN? CHICKEN SOUP? HOW ABOUT ETERNAL HAPPINESS? SEE YOU SOON…
He hit SEND. Then he put the phone back in his pants pocket. [TWO] A minute later, the main door to the ECC suddenly began to swing open. Payne, Harris, and Rapier could hear the soft humming sound of an electric motor on the other side. Then in the doorway appeared a black male in his late teens. He was in a wheelchair, but it was a highly maneuver-able power chair. He controlled its speed and direction with a joystick on the right armrest.
He fluidly rolled inside the ECC.
"Well, hell," Matt Payne said, "look who's still on the right side of the law. How are you, Andy?"
"Great, Marshal," Andy Radcliffe said with a smile.
Radcliffe, with gentle black eyes and a round, kind face, had a full head of dark hair trimmed to his scalp. His jeans and slightly oversize cotton dress shirt were neatly pressed. His navy blazer was somewhat worn.
Payne admired the intern, not only because he was a sophomore at La Salle doing a double major in computer science and criminal justice, and planning to get on with the department. He was also genuinely impressed with Andy's attitude after the teen had been robbed three years before in North Philly-then paralyzed when the robbers viciously stabbed him in the back.
Radcliffe looked at Rapier.
"Anything I can do to help?" he asked. He pointed at Payne's mug. "More java, Marshal?"
And there's that positive attitude, Payne thought. Willing to fetch coffee, anything.
"We're reviewing some cases," Payne said. "Never hurts to have a fresh set of eyes and ears. Make yourself comfortable. At the miserable rate we're going, we'll be here some time."
Radcliffe nodded. "Yessir."
"Okay, Kerry, let's move on to Reggie Jones-"
"Can I first read this one on Cheatham?" Radcliffe asked. "Wait. I'll pull it all up on the laptop. You guys go ahead."
Payne looked at him and thought, And he's got confidence. Just walks in as if he's been doing it for years.
The motor of Andy's power chair hummed as he went over to the end of the conference table, close to Rapier, and pulled out a laptop from a sleeve behind his chair. He plugged the box into the department's communications system and started pounding its keyboard.
Payne and Harris exchanged glances, then looked back to the main monitor. The fat baby face of Reginald Jones was looking down on them.
Radcliffe looked up from his laptop and saw Rapier's custom-made.45 pointer on-screen.
He snorted. "That's some sweet cursor, Kerry."
"Watch this," Rapier said. He typed a command on his keyboard, then put the cursor over REGINALD "REGGIE" JONES Case No.: 2010-81-039 613-Pop-n-Drop and clicked.
The overhead speakers then filled with the report of a gunshot, and a puff of smoke blew from the muzzle of the pistol pointer.
"Now, that," Radcliffe said, shaking his head, "might be a bit too much."
"Finally!" Payne said. "A clear voice of reason is heard on the task force."
Harris snorted.
Radcliffe looked at him as if wondering if he was being mocked, then judging by Payne's expression realized that wasn't the case. He returned his attention to his laptop, fingers tapping the keyboard as he stared thoughtfully at the screen.
Rapier did something at the control panel, and when he went to the Notes section of Reggie Jones's case file and clicked on FINGERPRINTS, the gunfire and smoke effects were gone.
He turned it off again, Payne thought. But he doesn't look like he's pissed or anything.
"Here's this new guy James, Matt," Rapier said as two boxes popped up with digitized images of fingerprints. One was headlined "Suspect Name Unknown #2010-56-9327." The second had the new live link: MARC JAMES Case No.: 2002-41-093631.
Harris said, "The prints on the still-unknown doer are being run again. Forensics got a hit with James's only because they reran his, too. They said they didn't find a match the first time because his prints on record from a previous arrest didn't have sufficient ridge detail for comparison. But the second go-round, they lit up just enough."
Payne looked at Rapier. "Punch up James, Kerry."
Reggie Jones's fat baby face was now replaced with that of a shiny-skinned black male with a round face and male-pattern baldness.
Toilet seat hair, Payne remembered hearing someone describe it. Its shape was similar to those seats found on public commodes.
And the upper part of his garment looks like a hospital gown-or Roman-like robe.
"Who does this Cicero guy think he is?" Payne said. "Looks like he's in a toga, too."
"All kinds of crackpots in this city try to stand out from the crowd," Andy Radcliffe said.
"There's that voice of reason again," Payne said.
This time Radcliffe didn't at all feel like he was bring mocked.
Payne read off the screen: "'Marc James aka Marcus Cicero, age twenty-eight. ' Looks like a nice guy, if you can just overlook all those unfortunate priors for running meth and roofies. And, for good measure, he racked up a conviction on involuntary deviant sexual intercourse. Guess he wanted to test his product."
Harris snorted. "Yeah. Really nice guy."
"Who's sitting on him now?"
"Charley Bell, in that old PECO van."
Payne nodded. The Philadelphia Electric Company van was always a good choice, its paint shot but the faded PECO logotype on it easily recognizable.
"Okay," Payne then said, "it's no doubt way too soon to have much on this new one that's got Hizzonor spitting mad. But punch up number twelve on the main bank, please."
Rapier worked the keyboard and the case sheet for Jossiah Miffin appeared. It showed both his mug shot, in which he had close-cropped hair, and his Medical Examiner's Office photo, where he had long black hair. Both showed the nasty J-shaped scar on his left cheek. Name: Jossiah A. MIFFIN Description: Black Male, age 30, 5'7", 180 lbs. L.K.A.: 1822 W. Ontario St, Phila. Prior Arrests: 8 total: possession of marijuana (6); possession of Methamphetamine (1); convicted of Indecent assault amp; corruption of a minor (1) and sentenced to probation of intense sex offender treatments amp; no unsupervised contact with minors. Call Received: 02 Nov, 0730 hours. Cause of Death: Gunshots (2) to head (99 percent probability). Case No.: 2010-81-039617-POP-N-DROP Notes: Fugitive. Warrants issued for multiple probation violations. Has prominent J-shape scar on left cheek. Takeeta Smith, 14-year-old female witness who claims to be niece of deceased, stated in interview that she saw him killed 01 Nov 2130 hrs by SNU in street at L.K.A. amp; described SNU as a skinny white male approximately 40 years of age wearing delivery uniform. Assailant left Wanted sheet at scene in FedEx envelope that was discarded. Body transported to Lex Talionis, Old City.
"Check out the Notes, Matt," Harris was saying, looking at the main monitor.
Payne looked up at the main monitor and read it.
"A FedEx delivery there at nine-thirty on a Sunday night?"
Then he turned to Rapier: "Punch up that interview with the girl, the animal's so-called niece."
The main bank of screens then showed Homicide Detective Jeff Kauffman-a tall, dark-haired thirty-four-year-old who had a quick laugh when he wasn't interviewing murder suspects-in Homicide Interview Room II with Takeeta Smith. She was sipping from a plastic bottle of grape-flavored soda. The empty wrapper of a Tastykake lay on the metal table.
They were almost exactly halfway through the interview when Takeeta's scratchy voice coming through the speakers in the ECC ceiling said:
"It be a FedEx envelope. And dude had a FedEx uniform."
"You're positive?"
She looked at Kauffman like he was from another planet, then said:
"Yeah, fool. I be positive. I mean, he be standing in the headlight, clear as damn day. Can't miss no FedEx sign. It be on every box my cousin's black tar shit come in from Texas."
Harris chuckled, then said, "Look at her Oh shit, what'd I just say? expression. Now who's the fool, Takeeta?"
"What a brain trust," Payne said. "They just don't know better. Reminds me of that arrogant Hank Whatshisname, the U.S. congressman from somewhere near Atlanta, who was grilling an admiral on Capitol Hill about the Navy's plans to station some eight thousand sailors and their families on Guam. He lectured the admiral that the island was only twenty-four miles long, seven 'at its least widest'-that's what he said, 'least widest, shore to shore'-and that he was afraid that with all those extra people, the island would tip over and capsize."
Harris laughed. "You're kidding."
Payne shook his head. "I shit you not, my friend. That's the kind of brilliant example of the 'geniuses' in our government that kids like her get to look up to as role models."
He looked over at Radcliffe. "Andy, who've been your role models in life?"
"Well, my momma, of course," he said immediately, clearly without thought. "She taught me hard work, discipline, never to give up. And there's Will Parkman, that really good cop who was a Marine and helps me go to school so I can eventually get a job here." He paused and thought, then added, "And you, Marshal."
Payne looked at Radcliffe, thinking that he now was being mocked. But when Matt saw Andy's face, he knew Andy was sincere.
Payne said, "I'd be damned careful about that last guy. He'll only lead you to trouble." He sighed. "And damn sure not to catch any bad guys."
"What's up with the bad-guy pop-and-drops having histories of sex crimes," Radcliffe said, "and STDs?"
"Where'd you get that?" Payne said, impressed.
He pointed at his laptop screen. "From the master file case notes."
"You've gone all the way back to the beginning?"
"Sure. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when trying to turn over a rock under a rock?"
Payne nodded. "Yes, indeed it is. And, to answer your question, there's not any single answer-with the exception of what Kerry recently suggested. None apparently knows what the hell a condom is."
Radcliffe said, "I've been feeding key data into my skunk-works search engine."
Radcliffe had managed to get his hands on an early version of a super-powerful software program developed at MIT, and Payne had seen him use it before.
"And?" Payne said.
"All the pop-and-drops who'd been shot had either been charged with or served time for a sex crime, all but the lawyer and his client."
"Right."
"Jay-Cee," Harris put in, "had charges against him of involuntary deviant sexual intercourse and rape of an unconscious or unaware person in one case that Gartner got tossed."
"Tossed on a technicality," Radcliffe said. "The chain of evidence of the rape kit was broken. It was deemed inadmissible in the trial. But the results still are on file. They state that the blood test from the girl he raped showed that she had really early stages of the bacterial disease gonorrhea."
"And?" Payne said.
Radcliffe shrugged. "Nguyen's master case file from those charges says that he was undergoing treatment for gonorrhea."
"So Nguyen gave the girl the clap," Payne said.
"Would appear that way."
"Nothing new. Kerry has a story about one where the rape victim got whatever disease in her throat," Payne said. He then appeared to be in deep thought. He said: "Which puts Nguyen in line with the other pop-and-drops, leaving only Gartner with no sex-crime link. He may just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time when Jay-Cee got popped." He paused, then added, "Lucky us."
"You didn't like Gartner?"
"Nobody liked that slimy sonofabitch."
Andy Radcliffe raised his eyebrows, nodded once, then looked back to the laptop screen. "Maybe I can find a link with Gartner and some sex crime…"
"Kerry, let's take another look at the interview I had with Shauna Mays."
Rapier worked his control panel, and the image of Matt with the malnourished and badly bruised woman in Homicide's Interview Room II came on the monitor. In the right-hand bottom corner was a small date stamp: 01 NOV, 13:20:01.
"Run it up to about 13:30," Payne said.
Rapier fast-forwarded to that point on the clock, hit play, and shortly thereafter the sound of Payne exhaling came through the speakers in the ceiling. Then his voice, slightly frustrated, said:
"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!"
In the ECC, there was a chorus of chuckles from Harris, Radcliffe, and Rapier.
As they watched Payne in the video nodding while writing in his notepad, Kerry said, "Gee, Marshal, I thought everyone knew crack houses didn't have clocks."
Payne gave him the finger as his voice came through the speakers:
"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."
"Okay, you can stop it, Kerry," Payne said. He looked at Harris. "So, a delivery guy. A FedEx delivery guy? And Mudd said the blue shirt had seen a FedEx minivan rolling through right before Cheatham took a bullet."
"But that kid, his nephew, told Mudd that he didn't see one. Which of course, as Mudd pointed out, could've been a straight-out lie."
They were quiet a long moment, each in deep thought.
Then Harris said: "You have any idea how many FedEx trucks there are in Philadelphia?"
"But it was on a Sunday, not a normal day for deliveries."
"I'll say it again, Matt. You have any idea how many FedEx trucks there are in Philadelphia? And just because they may not be delivering, they're still moving around the city for logistical and other reasons, like maintenance. And, then again, for all we know, this one was stolen."
Matt nodded. "Agreed. But it's a rock to look under. Maybe we'll find another under it."
Looking at the image of Marc James, Payne said, "Whoever he is, our mystery shooter's bright. He's doing the reverse of a sweepstakes sting."
"A sweepstakes sting?" Radcliffe repeated.
Payne explained: "You mail out, say, a thousand letters to the LKA of people wanted on outstanding warrants. The letter says the recipient is guaranteed a prize worth up to a couple hundred bucks, and the first fifty people who show up have a chance to win a car. The official-looking but bogus letterhead has the address of some empty store in a strip center you get a civic-minded owner to let you borrow. The day of the 'event,' you furnish it with a couple desks and some chairs, then put signs in the window that say 'Keystone State Sweepstakes Headquarters.' And you borrow a nice new luxury sports car or SUV to park in front with a sign saying 'Win This!' Then, when the wanted ones show up, an undercover posing as a secretary matches the letter to the warrant list to make sure it's still outstanding, then sends the idiot back to another room for his photograph and prize-a nice shiny pair of handcuffs."
Radcliffe grinned. "Sounds like it works."
"Not as good as it used to, but yeah, there's still plenty of stupid critters out there. One really bright one even brought his court papers as his proof of ID."
"So," Radcliffe said, "instead of the guy sending out letters to the LKAs, he went to them individually, saying he was delivering FedEx envelopes containing checks?"
"That appears to be it," Payne said.
Everyone was silent a moment.
Then Radcliffe went back to his keyboard and stared at the screen, then quickly typed something and smacked the enter key.
"There," he said, pointing at the screen. "I don't know if it means anything, but in Nguyen's file?"
"Yeah?" Payne said.
"The district attorney's case notes say that William Curtis is employed by FedEx here. Says he lives on Mount Pleasant."
Payne casually sipped from his Homicide coffee mug, then said, "Who the hell is William Curtis?"
Twenty minutes later, Harris returned the receiver to the cradle of the multiline phone on the conference desk. He looked at Payne.
"This Will Curtis called in sick today. His supervisor"-he looked at his notes-"a guy named Jeff Allan, said he's in a bad way. Curtis has been out sick most of the month. And he said that, judging by the look of him, it's the real deal. He guessed it's something terminal. He asked, but Curtis wouldn't own up to it."
Payne and Harris looked at each other.
"And there's no answer at his house on Mount Pleasant," Payne said.
Harris's cell phone started ringing.
He checked the caller ID, then answered the phone with: "Whatcha got, Charley?"
Payne looked at Harris and saw his expression brighten.
"How many?" Harris said. Then: "Okay, got it. Let me know if anything changes. We're on our way."
He looked at Matt as he broke off the call.
"Bell says two black males just entered the James place on Richmond carrying a black duffel bag."
Payne quickly stood up. "Kerry, you and Andy run things here and call me the minute you find anything else on this Curtis guy."
As Payne pulled on his blazer and dug in his pocket for the Crown Vic keys, he said to Harris, "Let's roll." [THREE] 3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:45 A.M. Allante Williams saw an open parking spot one block south of 3118. He liked it for two good reasons: It was close enough to reach if the deal went sour and he had to run, and his black Dodge Charger would be well hidden by the old PECO truck right in front of it.
He shut off the car, looked at Kenny Jones sitting in the passenger seat, then reached back and pulled the black duffel from the backseat. He unzipped it and took out a monster of a stainless-steel pistol. Even Kenny appeared impressed at the sight of the Ruger Redhawk, a double-action revolver chambered for.44 Magnum.
"You ever shoot a wheel gun?" Allante asked. "Any gun?"
"Damn right, Big Al!"
Allante wasn't sure if he believed him.
"This Redhawk is a cannon," Allante said, handing it to him. "It's mine, dude, and I want it back, so don't get any goddamn ideas."
"Yeah, sure, man," Kenny said, wrapping his hand around its big black grip and aiming it out the windshield.
"Keep it down, dammit!"
"Okay," Kenny said, putting it on his lap and swinging out the cylinder to check if all the bullets were live rounds.
"There ain't no damn bullets in this gun!" Kenny blurted. "What the hell's it good for if it ain't got no bullets?"
"Calm down, dude. You saw how it looked when you first saw it. That's all you need to do with Cicero. Door opens, you move inside with the bag of money first, then hold the tip of this badass barrel in his face."
And with no bullets you won't be able to shoot me later.
"Besides, I'll be backing you up with this going in," Allante said, pulling back his jacket to reveal the Ruger 9-millimeter semiautomatic in a holster on his belt.
Kenny clearly looked as if he didn't like the idea, but then shrugged. He reached in his pocket and pulled out five or six foot-long white zip ties.
"Not gonna shoot the bastard, anyway," Kenny said, pointing to the zip ties. "Gonna do to him what he did to Reggie." With Allante Williams just to the right of the door at 3118 Richmond Street, Kenny Jones banged on the door.
What are the fucking odds that some hothead inside is going to look out the peephole, see this dumbass holding the sack of cash, then drill the door-and him-with lead?
Damn good, that's what the odds are.
This better be worth forty Gs…
The door opened a crack, and Kenny said, "Cicero, I got it like I said, man."
He held up the bag with his left hand. The hand cannon was in his right, hidden by the bag.
The door closed, and there was the clanking sound of its two chains being removed, then the door swung open.
And Kenny, surprising the hell out of Allante, did exactly as he'd been told.
Allente went in behind him.
"What're you doing, Kenny?" Cicero said, staring at the business end of the barrel.
Then Kenny swung the heavy stainless-steel Ruger, fiercely pistol-whipping Cicero's mostly bald head.
Cicero quickly backed up, shielding his head from the blows with his arms.
"Kenny! Wait!" Allante yelled. "Stop!"
Cicero then turned and tried to run down the basement steps-but Kenny got one last hard swing in.
And Cicero went tumbling down the steps. In the basement were two small dirty rooms, one with a twin-size bed and a wooden table. There were bags of pills stacked two feet high.
Kenny dragged the limp but breathing body to the bed, then pulled the zip ties from his pocket and cinched them tightly around Cicero's neck. Cicero's body began to convulse. But within a minute, it went slack.
Damn, that was fast, Allante thought.
Kenny turned and said, "I'm gonna look for some acid. Be right back."
And he ran back up the stairs.
After Allante was sure Kenny was out of earshot, he called Rapp Badde.
"Hey, man, I know you were worried. Everything's under control. The Cicero guy is gone and-"
"Look," Badde interrupted, "you don't have to do Kenny, too. We got back everything that he stole. All's good. Just turn him in for the reward, too."
"Okay, man. You're the boss," he said, but realized that he was talking to a broken connection.
Badde had already hung up.
Then Allante, starting to paw the bags of pills, wondering what they might be, heard banging on the front door upstairs.
What the-?
He threw all the bags of pills he could fit in the duffel, then headed for the stairs. Will Curtis, curiosity getting the best of him on his way to Port Richmond, drove to where LeRoi Cheatham had had his Lex Talionis moment. Because of the various one-way streets, he had to make a huge circle around the block.
Then, there on Hancock, was a shred of yellow POLICE LINE tape flapping in the breeze.
And that's all.
Then he thought he saw a bloodstain on the alleyway. But it was in shadow and he couldn't be sure.
A block later, he did a double take at the cleared city block.
Down there's where all those cops were.
But I thought there were some houses on that corner.
Now it's all smelly raw dirt.
He drove on, and ten minutes later, just before eleven o'clock, he turned the white Ford minivan onto Richmond Street, then rolled up the street, looking for 3118.
During the drive, Will Curtis had decided he wasn't going to handle this delivery like the others. He didn't think he could go through the whole charade, then maybe have to wait if the bastard wasn't here.
He felt so ill, in fact, that he almost had not come at all. Even after a night's sleep he had not felt significantly better. He'd regained a little energy from forcing himself to eat a banana and half a turkey sandwich on the drive over. But he was still weak, far more so than usual.
The only good thing, he decided, was that he hadn't had another unfortunate accident. The lump on his forehead hurt enough.
But I really want this evildoer to pay.
The sonofabitch not only sold those damn date-rape pills, but he'd been convicted of using them, too.
So, the minute the door opens, I'm just going to go in. I know what the bastard looks like.
Then it's Wham Bam Thank You Ma'am, and I'm done. [FOUR] 3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:59 A.M. Flying up the Delaware Expressway in the gray unmarked Crown Victoria, Matt Payne killed the siren over Ann Street-where this part of I-95 went from being elevated to ground level-then caught the next exit. The off-ramp actually went over Allegheny, and he had to go up a block to Westmoreland, then double back around a park.
As he did so, he listened to Tony Harris talking on his cell phone with Charley Bell, the hefty thirty-year-old detective who was sitting undercover in the old Philadelphia Electric Company van.
"Okay, got it," Harris said into the phone. He broke the connection and looked at Payne. "He said nobody's come or gone since the last two went in. And that it'd be a good idea to go around the back and check that first. Said it's the house with the black Cadillac Escalade in the drive."
Payne nodded.
Harris then said, "Give me your phone."
Payne did, and he saw Harris key in a number, then call it.
"It's Harris," Tony said. "Just making sure you have Matt Payne's number. Now you both have each other's number ready to speed-dial in your LAST CALL list."
He ended the call without another word, then handed the phone back to Payne.
Because the Crown Vics had been on loan from Homeland Security and no one knew for sure how long the loan program would last-What the Fed Giveth, the Fed Can Taketh Away at Any Damn Time-the police department had had no intention of spending the money to buy more of its police radios and installing them in the cars when they'd have to uninstall them at the end of the loan. It had been decided that the portable handheld police radio units could be used. And, failing that, a cell phone.
As Matt made the right turn onto westbound Allegheny, he reached down and tugged the plug for the light bar out of the cigarette lighter receptacle. Harris then flipped the two sun visors up, concealing the light bar and the POLICE sticker.
Payne turned left onto Richmond, then left again at the next street, which provided access to the rear of the properties. It was next to the interstate highway, and there was plenty of traffic noise along the back side of the buildings.
Some of the row house backyards still had grass, but it wasn't well kept. Others were cluttered with anything from storage buildings to busted aboveground swimming pools to junk cars.
And one had a shiny black luxury SUV.
"There's the ride," Payne said as he pulled out his Colt Officer's Model.45 from inside his waistband. With the muzzle pointed at the floorboard, he thumbed back the hammer to cock it, then thumbed up the lever at the back of the slide to lock it. Then, as he continued to scan the area, he held it on his right thigh. "But I don't see anything happening at the house-or any of the others, for that matter."
"Me neither. Go up a couple more drives past it, and I'll get out and cover this back here while you and Charley take the front." Just before making the right turn to get back to Richmond, Matt saw in his rearview mirror that Tony was rolling two rusty drums from the yard next door and putting them behind the Escalade.
That probably won't stop someone trying to get away, but it ought to slow them.
Then Matt saw ahead of him, at the corner of Richmond, the nose of Charley Bell's PECO van. It was parked against the right curb.
The row houses here were mostly identical, all three-story and faced with red brick, the front door right at the sidewalk. And many of them had plastic garbage bags stacked at the curb.
As Matt rolled toward Richmond, he saw a late-model plain white Ford minivan going up Richmond. Its brake lights were lit. In the split second when it passed, Payne saw a white male at the wheel, and he thought that the driver wore some kind of uniform shirt.
He stopped the Crown Vic just shy of Richmond, nosing it up on the sidewalk. He shut off the car. Then he put in his left ear a wireless speaker-microphone device for his phone, speed-dialed Charley Bell, and slipped the live phone into his pocket.
Matt heard Bell's voice in the earbud: "Hey, Matt, that white minivan that just went by has pulled up to our house."
"No shit?" Payne said, opening his door. "Can you make out the driver?"
"Just that he's a white male, older. He's getting out now. Moving slowly."
Payne closed the door of the Crown Vic. He quickly went to the corner, near the front door of an abandoned storefront. He held his Colt along his right leg as he peered around the brick edge of the wall and up the street. He thumbed down the pistol's lock lever. Now when he went to squeeze the trigger, the hammer could freely fall to fire the round in the chamber.
Matt could clearly see the man.
That is a FedEx uniform, and he's carrying an envelope.
But he is moving really slow. Almost like he's not going to make it to the door.
No doubt whatsoever that's Will Curtis…
Bell said: "What do you want to do, Matt?"
"Let's hold and see what happens. Be ready to move. Tony's covering the back door."
They watched as the man banged on the faded maroon metal door, then waited for an answer.
Then he banged again, and after a moment the door opened.
"Charley, I can't see who opened the door."
"Shit, Matt. Me neither."
They watched as Will Curtis held up the envelope in his left hand. Curtis said something, but he was too far away for them to hear it.
Then suddenly they watched as he surged at the open door-and disappeared inside.
"Oh, shit! Let's go!" Payne said. He started up the sidewalk in a crouch.
After a few strides, Payne glanced over his left shoulder and saw the hefty Bell lumbering after him. Like Matt, Charley had his police badge clearly visible, its leather holder hanging from a chain around his neck. Charley had his service Glock out of the belt holster on his right hip.
"I think I saw him pull something from his waist, Matt. Maybe a pistol."
Before they reached the front door, which was still open, Matt could hear angry voices inside.
"I told you I ain't him, old man!" a male voice said. "Put down the fucking gun!"
Curtis, in a weak voice, said, "Then where's this James?"
"Put down the gun, old man!" the other male repeated.
Matt got to the edge of the doorway and carefully looked inside.
There were only the two males visible, Will Curtis in the FedEx uniform and a black-skinned man with scraggly long hair and a full beard. They were in the large front room of the row house. Curtis was to the left and had a Glock aimed at the chest of the black male, who held up his hands shoulder high, the FedEx envelope in his right one.
Payne saw that a wood-floored hallway led to the back of the house and to the flight of stairs leading to the second floor. Under that flight, just barely visible, was the entrance for the flight that went downstairs to the basement.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see that Charley Bell was now right behind him. Payne reached into his pocket and broke the connection for their call, then speed-dialed Harris. Charley listened in as Matt told Tony what he'd seen inside, ending with, "Going to take it now."
Payne then yelled around the corner of the doorway: "Police! Put down your weapons!"
When he peered around the corner, he was amazed that Will Curtis had actually complied with the order on the first shout. He was looking with tired eyes toward the front door.
Sergeant Matt Payne, with his Colt.45 raised in both hands close to his chest, smoothly rushed through the doorway, Detective Charley Bell lumbering on his heels.
Payne was shouting, "Police! Nobody move! Hands on your head!"
The black male still had his hands raised and now moved them to his head.
Will Curtis, as quickly as he could, complied, too.
They could hear Detective Tony Harris kicking in the back door.
Matt motioned for Charley to go let Tony in, and he hustled down the hall.
Just as Payne said to the black male, "Where's the other guy?" the old man pointed under the stairs and yelled, "Coming out of the basement!"
Payne looked toward the basement entrance in time to see the head of a black male-whose hand was bringing up a black semiautomatic pistol.
The shooter swung the pistol at Payne. But before Matt could squeeze off a shot, Will Curtis stepped between them-and then came three shots from the black male.
Two of the bullets hit Curtis in the left shoulder, the third in his left chest.
As Matt dove for cover at the foot of the steps leading upstairs, he thought, Did he step in the way on purpose?
He did! He took those damn bullets for me!
Matt saw Charley Bell peering around a corner at the back end of the hall. The shooter did, too, and fired three shots at him. Two struck the wall at the corner, sending Sheetrock flying. The third found Bell's forearm.
"Fuck! I'm hit!" he shouted.
Curtis fell forward and grabbed the Glock he'd been told to drop, then remarkably squeezed off five shots in the direction of the shooter.
Then Will Curtis finally collapsed, blood from his wounds beginning to pool around him.
The long-haired black male was now cowering behind Payne, lying flat on the floor against the wall.
Payne carefully looked past the edge of the stairs toward the basement entrance, trying to get a clear line of fire on the shooter.
He saw the entrance but not the shooter.
Sonofabitch!
Keeping low, he stepped into the hallway and moved toward the basement entrance. The worn wooden flooring squeaked under his weight.
"You okay, Charley?" Payne called out.
"Get that sonofabitch, Matt!"
Payne looked back at the black male. He was still cowering against the wall, but now he stared wide-eyed at the old man lying in the pool of blood.
As Payne moved closer to the basement entrance, Tony Harris appeared from around the bullet-pocked corner. He motioned toward the basement, then motioned that he'd cover Matt. Matt nodded.
When Payne got to the top of the stairs, he saw a heavy blood trail leading down the wooden treads.
Will Curtis hit the bastard.
"Police!" Matt yelled down the steps. "Drop your weapons!"
Payne and Harris slowly descended the stairs.
When they reached the bottom, there were two rooms. They cleared the first, then followed the blood trail to the door of the second. A light was on inside it, and when Payne looked around the edge of the door frame, he saw two black males-both dead.
One was on the floor at the end of the heavy blood trail. The shooter had at least one enormous hole through his neck. The semiautomatic 9-millimeter Baretta was still in his right hand. The other dead male was lying on an old twin bed. He had been strangled. Two foot-long plastic zip ties strung end-to-end cut deeply into his bruised neck.
A black duffel bag with stacks of banded cash and clear plastic bags full of pills was on the floor.
Matt and Tony then heard fast footfalls on the wooden flooring above their heads.
Then they heard Charley Bell yell, "Stop! Police!"
Payne exchanged a fast glance with Harris, then bolted up the steps.
At the top, Payne turned toward the open front door as he heard the minivan starting and then its tires spinning as it squealed away.
He looked toward the back of the house and saw Bell standing with what looked like a dirty dish towel wrapped around his left forearm. It was blood-soaked.
"The sonofabitch grabbed the old man's keys," Bell said. "And got his Glock, too!"
Matt looked at the towel.
"I'm okay," Bell said. "Go! Go! Go!"
Matt pointed down the basement stairs.
"Clear the house with Tony," he said.
Then, stepping around the dead body of the old man who'd sacrificed his life for Matt's, Payne was out the door. [FIVE] The first thing Matt Payne saw when he came running out of the row house was a huge, nasty-looking garbage truck. It was stopped right beside the PECO van, and Payne realized that if he didn't run faster to reach the Crown Vic, the truck was going to move up and block him.
As he ran, he yelled "Stop! Police!" to the driver, holding his left-hand palm out, anxiously signaling him to stay put. But after he got in the car and finally had it moving off the sidewalk, he saw the last plastic garbage bag from the corner being tossed into the back of the garbage truck as the truck moved forward.
Matt hammered the heel of his right hand on the horn as he floored the accelerator. Yanking the steering wheel to the right, he had to hop the curb to narrowly miss both the front of the garbage truck and the rear of a parked car.
Payne pursued the Ford minivan as it raced up Richmond Street.
He thought about calling in for backup, but dismissed that immediately.
No police radio. And I'm not about to try juggling my cell right now.
He flipped down the sun visors, then reached down and plugged in the emergency lights and threw the switch for the siren.
Two cars were stopped up ahead, waiting for the traffic light at Allegheny Avenue. He watched as the minivan's brake lights came on for a second, then went off. The van then swung into the oncoming traffic lane to get around the two cars. Then it blew through the red light, cutting a hard right and going down Allegheny Avenue.
Matt came up on the two cars but could not pass because a pickup truck had just turned down Richmond, blocking his way. He could see the red-and-blue strobes reflecting off the back glass of the vehicle ahead of him. He hammered the horn out of habit, but its sound was mostly lost in the loud whoop-whoop of the siren.
The traffic light cycled to green, the first car started to roll, then both finally moved quickly out of the way.
Matt made the corner just in time to see the tail of the minivan going up an on-ramp, headed southbound on the Delaware Expressway.
He pulled on the gear-selector stalk on the steering column, dumping the transmission into second gear, then floored the accelerator.
Just before the ramp at the next block, with the high-revving engine roaring, Matt tapped the brakes once before turning, then put the Police Interceptor into a squealing right turn. He corrected the skid, then floored the accelerator again and bumped the transmission into high gear.
This section of Interstate 95 was four lanes in each direction, and Matt saw that the minivan was weaving through the heavy traffic.
Sonofabitch is using all the lanes!
The other vehicles were quickly becoming aware of the reckless minivan. Just past the point where the expressway became elevated, some began moving out of the wild driver's way. Matt figured that the driver of a full-size Dodge SUV must have seen the Ford minivan flying up on its tail. It tried to move quickly into the lane to its left-and immediately sideswiped the Honda Accord that was traveling in that lane.
Oh, shit!
The impact from the heavier truck forced the lighter compact car into the far inside lane, which fortunately was unoccupied.
That Honda was damn lucky it didn't slam into the concrete divider.
Or completely lose control.
The Ford minivan, apparently anticipating the Dodge SUV swerving back into its lane, then darted through a gap in the right lane. It flew past a half-dozen vehicles before again having to brake heavily, this time almost at the Vine Street Expressway.
After checking the nearby lanes for traffic, Matt calmly steered to follow it.
I wonder how many violations I've made so far of our department's pursuit policies.
Plenty, I'm sure.
And I'm also sure someone will be more than happy to point them out as we review the video of it in the ECC.
His cell phone began ringing, and he dug it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Payne was amazed the earbud was still in his ear. When he answered the call, he wondered if all Harris would hear would be his siren wails and horn honks.
"Tony, how's Charley? All okay?"
"He's fine. We've got the scene under control. Where the hell are you?"
"Southbound Delaware Expressway, about to Vine. Hot on the tail of the white minivan. You want to call in for units to try to head off this guy? He's running hard, and about to make a big mess out here."
Payne, closing the distance between them, watched the Ford minivan make jerky movements as the driver tried getting around four vehicles that were driving abreast and effectively forming a wall across the expressway. They did try to get out of the way, but every time a driver anticipated the minivan's next move, another driver wound up blocking him again.
The minivan was in the far right lane, and when it came up to the two-lane split leading to the exit for the Vine Street Expressway, it shot the gap and accelerated.
"Tony, he just took the Vine exit. Hell, we're almost to the Roundhouse, about a quarter-mile out. Maybe he's going there to give himself up."
He heard Harris snort, then start relaying that updated information.
Payne made the exit for the Vine Street Expressway, and as the two lanes of the elevated concrete thoroughfare widened to four, Matt looked in the distance and saw the minivan heading toward the Center City skyline.
Also ahead, at the point where the expressway crossed over Fourth Street, there was a series of flashing caution lights and signage that read: CAUTION! ROAD REPAIR AHEAD! YO, GIVE US A BRAKE!
The minivan was now just passing the first of the flashing lights.
The lights and signs became thicker as the expressway approached the Fifth Street overpass, and Payne remembered that that was where two eighteen-wheelers had collided a few weeks earlier. The mass of them together had taken out five sections of the three-foot-tall concrete divider that separated the eastbound and westbound lanes.
As a temporary patch, a double line of fifty-five-gallon drums, orange with reflective tape, had been put in place with more caution signage. And a temporary speed-limit sign had been posted.
Matt saw ahead of the Ford minivan that traffic in all the westbound lanes was slowing to a stop just past the construction crew.
"Looks like the Vine Expressway is shut down, Tony."
The minivan was beginning to make jerky moves from lane to lane, looking for a route around the slow traffic.
Matt moved into the far outside lane behind the minivan and eased up on the accelerator as he closed the distance between them.
No exit here. Nowhere to run.
Looks like the end of the road.
But then he saw that not only was the minivan not slowing to the posted twenty-five miles an hour, it was accelerating.
And then it suddenly shot from the right lane and across the other three-then went right through the orange barrels, scattering them and causing the construction workers to dive for cover.
"Jesus H. Christ!"
"What, Matt?"
"He just crossed into the oncoming lanes."
"How the hell did he do that?"
"He blew through a hole in the construction zone."
More important, how the hell did he miss those oncoming cars?
At least they're driving slow because of the roadwork.
The minivan then drove to the far left of the expressway and turned left onto a lane that was carrying oncoming traffic coming off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. The vehicles swerved to miss hitting the minivan head-on.
"Jesus! And now he's headed the wrong way toward the Ben Franklin Bridge!"
Payne, with his hands on the steering wheel at three and nine o'clock, looked over his left shoulder, then cut across the westbound lanes of the expressway, stopping in the hole that the minivan had plowed through the rows of orange drums. Then he checked for a gap in the eastbound traffic. There wasn't one immediately, but as he waited, one driver, then two and three and more, began to heed the siren and red-and-blue strobes, either slowing to a crawl or coming to a complete stop.
Jesus! Here we go!
Payne put his right foot to the floor, and the Crown Vic burned rubber as it shot forward.
The minivan had momentarily disappeared around the curves of the turns leading up to the bridge. But its tail came back into view as soon as Payne reached the first overhead gantry.
The five vehicles that had just crashed also came into view.
Payne steered around them and headed for the bridge.
The eighty-year-old steel suspension bridge spanned the Delaware River, connecting Center City to Camden, New Jersey. It had a total of seven lanes for automotive traffic. Separating the east- and westbound lanes was an articulated concrete wall called a "zipper" barrier. Depending on traffic demand, the three-foot-tall zipper could be moved to create more or fewer lanes in either direction.
Payne saw that the zipper had been positioned so that there were four lanes westbound.
Which gives me more room.
The minivan was going right down the center white-dotted lines, the oncoming cars parting to either side. That created a path for Payne, and he gunned the Crown Vic, closing more quickly than before.
Need to do this PIT fast.
He pulled up almost to the minivan, setting up with his reinforced front bumper to the left rear of the minivan, just forward of its rear bumper. Then he quickly turned the steering wheel to the right, causing his front bumper to smack the minivan's rear-and the minivan to suddenly break loose and skid sideways.
Matt slammed both of his feet on the brake pedal, which triggered the chattering kickback of the antilock-brake system.
He watched the minivan slide sideways toward the concrete zipper barrier, then go into a counterclockwise spin. On its second almost complete revolution, the right front bumper impacted the zipper barrier, then the whole right side of the vehicle slammed into it, forcing the van to almost flip over into the eastbound lanes. The impact moved the zipper barrier into them, causing two cars to collide on that side.
Payne let off the brakes and, dodging an oncoming Volvo, its woman driver looking terrified, drove beyond the minivan. He nosed the Crown Vic against the barrier at an angle so that it would serve as a buffer. As he got out, he saw that the minivan driver had already fled the vehicle and now was running with the pistol in his right hand. He also saw that blood flowed from a gash on his forehead.
It was a feeble escape attempt. He almost immediately tripped in a crack just before an expansion joint in the suspension bridge, and bounced as he landed on top of the joint. When he hit, he loosened his grip on the pistol-and it slid toward the gap in the expansion joint.
That Glock's going to fall into the Delaware!
But then it kept sliding and stopped in the middle of the westbound lanes.
Payne then suddenly heard the horrible roar of screaming tires behind him, and he immediately ran to the pocket that the minivan had made by moving the zipper barrier. When he turned, it was just in time to see a woman in a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser slam into the side of the Crown Vic, the SUV's windshield instantly filling with multiple inflated air bags.
Jesus!
Guess the car can go back to the feds now…
Payne looked back at the black male. He was still trying to get up.
Payne ran toward him, his pistol aimed at his back.
He shouted, "Police! Don't move!"
But then the black male did move, bolting toward the zipper barrier.
Now Payne no longer had a clear field of fire; there were countless vehicles zipping by in the three eastbound lanes just beyond the man.
"Stop!" Payne yelled again as the man went over the low barrier.
The man paused there on the other side, waiting for a gap in traffic- and causing a six-wheeled big box delivery truck in the inside lane to lock up its brakes trying to avoid hitting him.
That suddenly slowed traffic, and there was a gap, and the black male decided to make his dash across. But as he bolted into the next lane, the large profile of the delivery truck obstructed his view-and he ran right into the path of a fast-moving, low-profile sports car.
Payne watched as the car hit him in the lower legs. The impact caused him to tumble like a rag doll over the top of the sports car. He flipped through the air twice before hitting the bridge decking and then being run over by three other vehicles, including a bus.
Traffic came to a stop.
Matt Payne shook his head. He decocked his Colt, then slipped it back under his blazer and beneath the waistband of his woolen slacks. He could hear the sirens of the squad cars that Harris had called in screaming toward him and what sounded like the heavy horns of the fire department's rapid-intervention and major crash-rescue vehicles.
Then he saw one of the Aviation Unit's Bell 206 L-4 helicopters approaching from the north.
Glancing at the overhead traffic cameras, he thought, Kerry probably called in every last one of the cavalry, too.
Standing there in his navy blazer, his gray woolen cuffed trousers, a once crisply starched light-blue shirt with a red-striped tie, and his highly polished black shoes all scuffed, he forced a smile and waved at the cameras.
And Rapier and Ratcliff and whoever the hell else is in the ECC.
The eastbound traffic slowly parted, and two Philadelphia Police Department Chevy Impalas rolled up to the dead black male. The blue shirts began routing traffic around the scene. Another Impala arrived and went to the cars that had stopped after hitting the man. And there were paramedics talking with the woman sitting behind the wheel of the SUV that had hit the Crown Vic.
Payne turned and walked back to the minivan.
The window on the sliding center door had popped out on impact. Payne looked in through the hole. The first thing he saw was a plastic sign with the FedEx HOME DELIVERY logo. And then he noticed on the floorboard several scattered rounds of.45-caliber GAP hollow-points.
There's the rest of Will Curtis's story.
So the pop-and-drops are over… [SIX] Hops Haus Brewery 1101 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 12:44 P.M. H. Rapp Badde, Jr., was sitting at the massive rectangular stainless-steel-topped bar. He chewed on his lunch of a steak sandwich while watching with fascination the police chase playing out live on the two giant flat-screen televisions behind the bar.
What the hell drives, so to speak, people to act that way? he thought. That's just insane to run from the cops, then go the wrong way on the freeway.
Who plays with fire like that?
He reached for his pint glass of lager, which was almost empty. He drained it, then tried to get the barmaid's attention. It took a minute, because everyone was glued to the image of the white minivan racing the wrong way into westbound traffic on the Ben Franklin Bridge. Even some of the chefs had come out of the kitchen to watch. After Badde waved his hand for help for a bit longer, one of the busboys saw him and flagged the barmaid, and she got the signal to bring him a fresh pint.
Who the hell am I kidding?
All I've been doing is playing with fire lately-and coming damn close to being incinerated.
But what's the saying?
"Close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades"?
Badde was more or less hiding under a plain cloth cap and blending in with the crowd. He wore an Eagles sweatshirt, faded blue jeans, and athletic shoes, trying to keep a low profile until the thing with Allante Williams, Kenny Jones, and that drug dealer was finally finished.
And I get back my ten grand from Allante.
I wonder how much I can really trust him. I did just feed him a job that made him forty grand richer.
Badde had come to the brewery after visiting the demolition site and checking on the progress there. It had been damned lucky that the cops had not released the scene until late the night before. Lucky because by then it had been too late and dark to move the heavy demolition equipment. They'd been able to get the crews there at the crack of dawn for an early start.
By the time Badde had arrived, the crews were mostly done. And he'd taken a picture with his cell phone camera of that almost perfectly flat property, then sent it to Janelle Harper with explicit instructions for her to e-mail it immediately to the Russian.
I don't know for sure if what he said about those holdouts being killed with a muscle relaxer is true or not.
But I do know that it's smart to proceed with caution.
I don't want to get on his bad side, and there's no question that that was a threat last night.
Which is why I had Janelle send those photos to him. And why he'll get more photos the minute the damn construction crews arrive.
There was a huge gasp from the crowd as the televisions showed the gray police sedan racing up behind the minivan-then ramming it.
The minivan slid sideways, then spun twice before smacking the divider wall.
Jesus! It hit so hard it moved the wall!
He'd already heard from Roger Wynne that the last of the recovered absentee ballots had been shredded into a fine confetti, so that was not going to come back to haunt him.
Unless Wynne gets wise and thinks he can use that against me.
I'm going to have to keep an eye on him.
As he picked up his new pint of lager and downed a third of it in one swallow, his Go To Hell cell phone rang. He put down the glass and looked at the caller ID.
What? It's gobbledlygook. Nothing but "010101010."
"Yes?" he said, answering it.
"I got your photograph. The site is looking better."
The Russian? How the hell did he get this number?
"Yuri?" Badde said.
"I think we now better understand each other."
Badde began, "I'm glad…" But then he realized that the line was dead.
He anxiously sipped at his beer as he tried to figure out just what the hell had happened.
There was another gasp from the crowd, and he looked again to the televisions.
The camera showed a remarkably clear shot of a man running from the minivan, being chased by a man in a coat and tie from the gray sedan.
That first one looks like it could be Kenny!
Being chased by a plainclothes cop?
And then the camera caught a clear shot of the man in the coat and tie.
Someone said, "Look! It's the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line!"
Then Badde saw the man who was being chased trip, get up, and go over the concrete divider. What happened next was obstructed by the big box of a delivery truck. But the crowd's gasp made it obvious what had happened.
Damn! Talk about being thrown under a bus.
He took another sip of beer and thought a long moment.
Bottom line: I'm going to have to watch my back a helluva lot more closely.
"Waitress!" he called out to the barmaid, and when she stepped over, he said, "I'll take a double Jameson's rocks. No, make it a triple." [SEVEN] Ben Franklin Bridge, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 1:05 P.M. Matt stood next to the zipper wall, watching the Tow Squad wrecker-its flatbed tilted down and touching the deck of the bridge-winch up the demolished gray Crown Victoria Police Interceptor.
Every lane of traffic was backed up in both directions on the bridge, and there was a cacophony of horns honking.
As Matt scanned the maddening scene, he thought about all the craziness that had led up to this very moment-all the crimes that had been committed against the innocent, which had led to all the shootings and brutal beatings of the career criminals.
And there are all the others still out there.
More crimes, more killings-it's not going to stop.
I just slowed it. But I'm never going to be able to stop it.
He suddenly felt very small and alone.
Is there any sanity left in this world?
As he ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head, his cell phone began ringing in his pocket.
He pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID-then smiled as he closed his eyes and visualized the last time he'd seen Amanda Law.
The angel goddess peacefully asleep-there is sanity.
"Hey, baby," he said, answering it. "Feeling any better?"
"Yeah, thanks. I am. Are you too busy to talk?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Say, I'm on the balcony looking at the Ben Franklin Bridge. It's shut down in both directions. Any idea what that's about?"
"A little. I'll tell you in a bit. What's on your mind?"
"I really don't want to tell you this on the phone. How long do you think-?"
Oh, shit! What the hell else can go wrong today?
"What? Everything okay?"
"Yeah, it is."
Now he could hear the excitement in her voice.
"What is it, Amanda?"
There was a long pause, then she said: "Okay, okay. Matt, I'm… I'm pregnant! We're pregnant!"
What? A baby?
Then he realized: No wonder the goddess was glowing.
She was saying: "I knew I was a little late with my cycle, Matt, but when I went and got out the calendar, I saw that I was very late. And then I thought the nausea might be, well, from being late, so in the drugstore I got one of those self-tests. It came up positive, and I thought, 'How could that be?' We're always careful, you know? But then I remembered that first night we were just so… well, you remember, in a hurry and not careful. And then I counted the days and went back and got another brand to test with. And then it showed positive. Soooo…"
Matt was quiet a long time as he absorbed the news.
He looked past the cables of the suspension bridge in the direction of the Hops Haus Tower, then up to where Amanda would be standing on the balcony and looking toward him.
"Matt…?" she said very softly. "What are you thinking?"
Matt Payne then smiled broadly and said, "I'm thinking that's wonderful, Amanda. Absolutely wonderful, my angel goddess."