[ONE] Standing at the bar at Liberties, Harris looked from Mickey to Matt, took a sip of beer, then said, "You remember Danny Gartner, Matt?"
Payne, his glass to his lips, raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Really? 'The shittiest lawyer in all the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, ' as they call him in the DA's office? Never could forget a prick like that. Can't count the times in court during questioning that he tried to make me look stupid or crooked. So he's the one who got dumped at Francis Fuller's door?"
Harris nodded and said, "Gartner and one of his loser clients, a cocky little shit by the name of John Nguyen, aka 'Jay-Cee,' 'Johnny Cannabis,' age twenty-five. And mean as hell."
Then he mimed that his right hand was a pistol. He put the tip of the index finger in the base of his skull and, moving his thumb forward, dropped the "hammer" and mouthed Bang!
He said: "Apparently, a fairly big-bore weapon. Really made a mess of their skulls."
"I think I'm about to cry," Payne said, more than a little sarcastically, then sipped at his single-malt. He feigned wiping at a tear under his eye and went on: "Nope, guess I was wrong."
O'Hara chuckled.
Payne smiled. He said to Harris, "Should I know the punk client, too?"
"Only if you were in on any of his dozen drug busts for possession with intent to distribute. Just two of which ever went to trial-both for running roofies and other date-rape drugs-because Gartner kept playing the three-strikes game. There was also a sexual assault charge that got tossed because of a broken chain of evidence."
"Three strikes, eh?" O'Hara said. "That has to be one of the worst rules ever. Whatever happened to the notion of a speedy trial, as opposed to a speedy dismissal?" Clearing out cases so there could be speedy trials was precisely why, at least in theory, the Municipal Court had invoked Rule 555 in the criminal court procedures.
Despite the shared name, Philly's three-strikes law had nothing to do with laws across the land which declared that if someone racked up three felony convictions, he or she was clearly a habitual criminal who hadn't learned a damn thing the first two times in the court system-and, accordingly, deserved a long sentence that essentially locked them up and threw away the key.
Philly's three strikes, in fact, could be argued to have the polar opposite effect of those laws: Rule 555 actually put criminals back on the streets.
When someone was arrested, they came before the court for a preliminary hearing. But, due to any number of reasons-busy work or school schedules, miscommunications, even having second thoughts about testifying against a known thug-not all the victims or witnesses would show up for a hearing. And if they were not there in court at the scheduled time, then the prosecutors had to inform the judge that they were not prepared and that they had to request a rescheduling of the preliminary hearing.
An occasional request for rescheduling might be manageable for the court system. But with the understaffed DA's office overwhelmed with cases, the constant juggling of hearing dates made court scheduling chaotic, if not impossible.
In response, the judges came up with Rule 555. It allowed prosecutors only three attempts at a preliminary hearing. If on the third hearing date the victims or witnesses still had not made it before the court, the judge slammed his gavel and announced, "On grounds of no evidence, case dismissed!"
And the accused walked.
Criminal defense lawyers were not held to such a standard. And the manner in which Danny Gartner and others of his ilk abused the system was equal parts clever and slimy.
One type of abuse was for the defense attorney to ask his client on the day of a hearing if he or she saw anyone waiting in the courtroom who could be called as a witness against them. If they did, the defense attorney told the accused to scram. When the judge called the case, the defense attorney came up with an excuse-"Your Honor, my client could not get free from his job" and "didn't have bus fare" were popular-and promised the court that the client would absolutely make a later court appearance-"even if I have to fry those McBurgers myself, Your Honor, then chauffeur him here." The lawyer would request a delay.
That wasn't strike one, two, or three for the prosecutor.
But it damn sure was an inconvenience for the prosecution. And especially for the victims and witnesses, who, unlike the judges and lawyers and cops, were not paid for their time in the judicial system. Accordingly, they genuinely might not be able to get another day free from their job or school duties, and would end up a no-show. And then their absence did trigger a strike against the prosecution.
Another type of abuse was for the accused, or an associate of the accused, to intimidate the victims or witnesses back in the 'hood so that they simply gave up on pressing the case altogether. The message-Snitches are not tolerated-was not lost on anyone in the ghetto. It didn't matter that such an act was illegal. It still effectively caused a case to go nowhere-and the accused to go free.
And thus Rule 555 made the DA's job of bringing cases to trial more difficult-if not damn near impossible. "Now," Mickey said, "where were we on the pop-and-drops?"
"Tony was describing how they found Gartner and his punk pal."
Harris nodded, then said, "Well, both of the victims were bound. They had their wrists and ankles taped with packing tape. You know, it's clear and maybe three inches wide, designed for those handheld dispensers?"
"Yeah," O'Hara said, "I've got one. I just use the rolls by themselves, because every time I tried with the dispenser, that jagged row of teeth always wound up slicing my hand or arm."
Payne snorted. "I've had that happen."
"Anyway," Harris went on, "it appears that the doer also used the tape without the dispenser. Through the clear tape you actually could see dirty fingerprints that were picked up on the adhesive side."
"The doer didn't wear gloves?" Payne said.
Harris shrugged. "Unless the doer made either Gartner and Jay-Cee bind the other, or made someone else. Whatever the sequence, whoever did it left prints. We will just have to see if they match those of the deceased, or whatever prints they can lift at Gartner's office." He stopped and gestured upward with his left index finger. "Speaking of which…"
He paused and finished off his Hops Haus lager, then signaled the bartender for another round of drinks for all three of them.
"Speaking of which," Harris went on, "when we ID'd Gartner at the scene-his wallet, including driver's license and sixty-four bucks cash, was still in his hip pocket-we sent Crime Scene Units over to Gartner's apartment and to his office. The apartment manager didn't seem particularly upset with his demise, except for the fact he owed three months' back rent. Anyway, the manager let us in. There was no apparent sign of anything having happened in the apartment."
"And the office?" Payne asked. "Where is it?"
"Over on Callowhill, not far from the ICE office."
"Really?" Payne said, mentally picturing the building that housed the local office of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the federal agency that was under the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. "Was Gartner into immigration law, too?"
"I doubt it. I don't think he was that smart."
"You know, those guys can be real lowlifes," O'Hara put in. "Some poor immigrant, wanting to do the right thing and become a legal citizen of the United States, willingly goes through all the hoops, including hiring an immigration attorney to help him understand all the legalese. The immigrant gives the lawyer his five-grand cash retainer, then the lawyer doesn't do shit and the poor immigrant, who probably drove a cab to hell and back to earn that five large, and now is even poorer, winds up deported. And the lawyer keeps the retainer, never again to see the client for whom he's done nothing."
Payne shook his head. "Nice."
Mickey looked furious. "If I ever find a way to put stuff like that on CrimeFreePhilly, those guys are toast, too."
John Sullivan delivered their drinks, and after they'd all had a sip, Harris continued.
"Gartner's office was a mess. But it appeared to be just a normal office mess. There was no sign of a struggle there. And no forced entry. Curiously, both the front and back main exterior doors of the building had been left unlocked, as had the interior door to Gartner's office. We found drugs on one of the desks, what looked like coke or crank in one zip-top bag, and another bag with roofies. There was even a line of powder on the desktop that hadn't been snorted."
"That's strange," Payne said. "Like someone had to leave fast. But no signs that either he or his punk client was popped there?"
Harris shrugged. "The CSU boys were still working it when I stopped by on the way here. But, for now, it appears the answer is no. And Jay-Cee's motorcycle was parked on the sidewalk." He paused, sipped his beer, then said, "Something did happen there, though-something really weird."
He looked between Matt and Mickey, whose curiosity clearly was piqued.
After a moment, they said in unison: "What?"
"Piss."
"Piss?" they repeated in unison.
Harris nodded.
"There was piss everywhere," he said. "And I mean everywhere. You'd think gallons."
"Animal urine? Like some dog got loose in there?" Payne asked. "You said the doors were unlocked. Maybe they'd been open, too."
"I don't know. Maybe. Judging by the amount, though, something bigger. I mean, who has that large of a bladder?"
Mickey glanced over at a couple at the bar in a two-part cow costume.
"Cows?" he offered. Then he looked back at Harris and said, "Or maybe the doer is a deer hunter. Once, when I was up in Bucks County, I found a place where they were selling bottles of animal piss-I think it was doe urine-that hunters poured on themselves to mask their human scent in the woods. Or maybe it was meant as an attractant to draw out horny males. Or something."
Payne looked at O'Hara, raised his eyebrows, and said, "So you're thinking that fucking Bambi is the doer?"
O'Hara and Harris laughed.
Payne then looked at Harris and said, "I'm assuming there's enough piss to run a DNA analysis?"
Harris snorted.
"Enough to float a boat. There was a pool of piss in the plastic bag alone. The dope that hadn't dissolved just floated in it!"
"Was there piss at the scene at Francis Fuller's office in Old City?"
Harris nodded. "Yeah. On Jay-Cee's pants crotch. But that was more like he'd just pissed himself. Nothing like the pools of it in the office."
"Anything else out of the ordinary?"
"Define 'out of the ordinary,' Sergeant Payne."
They all chuckled.
Harris, looking deep in thought, then said, "Not really. Gartner was wearing a T-shirt that read PEACE LOVE JUSTICE."
Payne snorted. "File that under 'Irony,' Detective, not 'Extraordinary.'"
Harris shrugged. After a minute, he added, "Well, the only other thing that comes to mind is that there wasn't any paperwork attached."
"Really?" Payne said, visibly surprised. "Now, that's out of the ordinary-outside the MO of the other pop-and-drops, that is."
"Paperwork?" O'Hara asked, looking from Matt to Tony. "Like police forms?"
Then he looked at Payne.
"Wait," O'Hara said. "Back up. Explain that 'outside the others' modus operandi oddity thing. What method of operation?"
Payne took a sip of his single-malt, then said: "The MO in the other cases is that someone's shooting fugitives in the head or chest and dumping their bodies. Further, the dead guys-and they're only guys, so far-are wanted on outstanding warrants. A couple of them jumped bail, the others violated parole, for sex crimes against women and children. Involuntary deviant sexual intercourse, rape, aggravated indecent assault. These shits get popped point-blank, then dumped at a district station, one we assume is closest to where they got nabbed."
"None dumped at the Roundhouse?"
"None. At least not yet. That'd be an interesting situation."
O'Hara nodded as he took all that in.
"Now, the difference between those dumped at the districts and these two tonight is that tonight there was no 'paperwork'-printouts of the bad guys' Wanted info downloaded from the Internet. All the others had their paperwork stapled to them."
"Stapled? Like to their clothes?"
Payne nodded. "Usually. But one bastard who'd raped a ten-year-old girl had his sheet stapled clean through his prick. Multiple times."
"Ouch!" O'Hara said, instinctively crossing his legs.
Payne then said, "You know, it's funny, because your website is one place from where more than one of the Wanted posters has been downloaded. You can tell because the line at the foot of the page shows the date the page was printed and its source URL."
"That's great to know," O'Hara said. "That means that CrimeFreePhilly is working!"
"Only," Payne said dryly, "to create more crime, it would appear. As far as I know, as much as a miserable dirty rotten shit Danny Gartner was, he had no criminal record."
O'Hara shrugged. "Chalk it up to collateral damage. You associate with swine, you're going to get muddy, too."
"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."
Payne nodded, then took a swallow of his single-malt and glanced at his watch.
"I need to get the hell out of here. I'm trying to have a life outside of work," he said, then looked at O'Hara. "Okay, Mick. That's all we know at this point. Now tell me what you know."
O'Hara raised his glass. "Not a goddamn thing, Matty. That's why you're called the confidential source close to the Roundhouse, and I'm called the reporter."
O'Hara took a sip of his drink as Payne gave him the finger.
"Sorry, pal. I really wish I had something for you. You know that eventually I will. And when I do, it's yours."
They all then stared into their glasses, quietly thinking.
After some time, O'Hara suddenly said, "So, Matty, what do you think are the chances of solving this?"
"Seriously?"
O'Hara nodded. "Seriously."
"Hell, I don't know. Right now, I'd say that the odds are about as high as the number of 'r's in 'fat fucking chance.' Zilch. Which is maybe slightly better than, say, finding all those fifty thousand fugitives."
Harris said, "Hey, you got Fort Festung. He was in the wind."
"Whoopie! One down, another forty-nine thousand nine-ninety-nine, give or take, to go. And don't forget that he took almost twenty years."
Tony Harris's cell phone then chimed once and vibrated. He pulled it from the plastic cradle on his belt and glanced at the LCD screen.
"It's Jenkins," he said as his thumb worked the BB-size polymer ball to navigate the phone's screen. He rolled and clicked to where the text messages were stored. "He's working the Wheel."
The Homicide Unit had a system called "the Wheel," basically a roster that listed the detectives on the shift. At the top of the roster was the detective currently assigned to "man the desk." When a call came in with a new murder, the "desk man" got assigned to the case. The detective listed below him on the roster-who was said to be "next up on the wheel"-then became the next "desk man."
Harris pushed again, then saw the message and exclaimed, "Holy shit!"
O'Hara looked at Payne and casually inquired, "How come you don't get 'holy shit!' texts from the Wheel guy? You're a sergeant. That outranks a lowly detective like Harris."
Tony handed Matt the phone for him to read the text message.
"Correction," Payne said. "I'm a sergeant assigned to a desk. Tony gets the fun job of working the streets."
He looked at the screen.
"Holy shit!" Payne repeated, rereading the message as he said, "Well, Mickey, do you want an exclusive for CrimeFreePhilly?"
"Sure. What?"
Matt handed the phone back to Tony, then his eyes met Mickey's.
"Minutes after the last Crime Scene Unit drove off from Lex Talionis," Matt said, "another body got dumped there. Someone walking by thought it was a vagrant passed out on the sidewalk. Then they noticed all the blood."
"Holy shit!" O'Hara joined in, then downed his drink.
"You can't run with this just yet, Mickey, but there's something different with this pop-and-drop."
"What?"
"He was strangled and beaten. But no bullet wounds."
O'Hara banged the glass on the wooden bar and, making a circular gesture with his hand over their drinks, barked to the bartender: "Johnny, all this on my tab. We've got to go!" [TWO] Loft Number 2055 Hops Haus Tower 1100 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 1:14 A.M. Tossing his suit coat and kicking off his loafers, H. Rapp Badde, Jr., chased the beautiful and giggling Cleopatra past the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room. His intent: to make the beast with two backs after ripping off the Halloween outfit as fast as humanly possible.
I love that there're no other high-rises near here so no one can see us through those big windows.
I can do whatever the hell I want… It wasn't the first time that the idea of doing whatever the hell he wanted-damn the consequences-had entered the mind of H. Rapp Badde, Jr.
For almost all of his thirty-two years, Badde-a fairly fit, five-foot-eleven two-hundred-pounder with a thin face, close-cropped hair, and medium-dark skin-had learned that what he could not get with his charisma or his arrogant badgering, he could always get by subtly, or sometimes not so subtly, playing his favorite card, that of being a disadvantaged minority.
It was a tactic-a remarkably effective one considering that Philly as a whole was half black, some sections up to three-quarters-that he had learned from his father. Horatio R. Badde, Sr., had used it successfully to work himself up from being a small-business owner-first a barber in South Philadelphia, then the owner of a string of barbershops throughout the city-to being elected to the Philadelphia City Council, and then, almost ten years later, to the office of mayor.
Which was exactly Rapp's planned next step: to become mayor. He was banking both on the name recognition-"Mayor Badde" still was familiar to voters despite the eight years since his father held the office-and what he considered to be his own accomplishments as a city councilman. And he was going to let nothing get in his way. There'd already been rumors trying to tie him to voter fraud, but he publicly dismissed them as exactly that-rumors that were simply a part of petty politics.
Rapp Badde did as he pleased-damn the consequences-and the Hop Haus Tower condominium was no exception.
The tax rolls of the Philadelphia County Recorder of Deeds, in Room 156 at City Hall, showed Loft Number 2055-a year-old 2,010-square-foot, two-bedroom, two-bath condominium on the twentieth floor-as being owned by the Urban Venture Fund, in care of Mr. James R. Johnson, JRJ Certified Public Accountants, 1611 Walnut Street, Suite 1011, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19103.
There was similar information on the books at the complex.
The building management kept a regularly updated computer file known as PROPERTY OWNERS: PERMANENT RESIDENTS amp; REGISTERED GUESTS. It listed everyone who was officially on file and showed that 2055's permanent resident was named Johnson, James R., and its listed registered guest was a Harper, Janelle.
While it wasn't unusual for the names of owners and guests to be different-there were, for example, many unmarried couples who cohabited, as well as many lawfully married couples whose surnames were not the same-neither James Johnson nor Janelle Harper had a genuine financial investment in Loft Number 2055.
In fact, the apartment's official owner, the Urban Venture Fund, was a corporate entity solely owned by one H. R. Badde, Jr., 1611 Walnut Street, Suite 1011, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19103.
That was in technical terms.
Practically speaking, Unit 2055's permanent resident and its (very) regular guest were actually Jan Harper and Rapp Badde.
Never mind that Mr. James R. Johnson, CPA, had never set foot in the place.
And never mind that Badde had purchased, with cash, the pied-a-terre love nest.
And certainly never mind that the funds for the purchase were a small part of those provided to his mayoral election campaign chest by a generous businessman who believed in the politician, in his future at City Hall, and his influence therein for old friends. Twenty-five-year-old Jan Harper-who had a full and curvy five-six, one-forty body and a silky light-brown skin tone-was down to barely-more than Cleopatra's golden-colored sheer panties and plastic-jeweled collar and crown as she ran into the bedroom. Rapp was hot on her heels.
And just as she jumped on the king-size bed's thick goose-down comforter, her legs flying up and ample breasts bouncing, Rapp heard his Go To Hell cell phone start ringing in his pants pocket.
Damn! he thought.
Badde shared the number of his Go To Hell phone, one of two he carried, with next to no one-only his accountant, his three lawyers, and a select few others who were friends or business associates, or both, had the number. Even Jan didn't know it; being his executive assistant, she could call him on his main cell phone.
He'd given it that name because, when somebody who did have the number called, chances were damn good that something had just gone to hell. Or was about to.
Jan was now busily unbuttoning Rapp's white dress shirt as he quickly dug into his pants pocket.
Retrieving the phone, he looked at the screen, hissed the word "Shit," then pulled away from Jan's hands. He walked toward the windows.
"What?" she said, surprised. Then, a little indignantly, she added, "Who the hell is that at this hour?"
He held up his left index finger to gesture Give me a minute, then flipped open the phone, put it to his head, and said, "Everything okay, man?"
He listened for a moment.
"Wait," he suddenly said. "Who the hell is this, and how'd you get this number?"
After a moment, he said, "Goddamn it!"
His eye caught Jan, now sitting up on the comforter with her arms crossed over her naked breasts, her head cocked, looking at him curiously.
"Hold on a minute, brother," he said into the phone.
Then to Jan he said, "I'm sorry, honey. I'll be right back."
Badde slid open the glass door in the wall of the floor-to-ceiling windows and stepped out onto the small concrete balcony.
The view from the twentieth floor was extraordinary. And for more than just the beauty of the lights twinkling in the night.
H. Rapp Badde, Jr., enjoyed the feeling he got from being up so high and seeing so many parts of the city that made up his life. It made him feel literally on top of the world, or at least on top of what he thought of as his world-Philadelphia.
"Okay, Kenny-I mean, Kareem," Badde said when he'd closed the sliding glass door, "calm down and start from the beginning." For his first twenty-two years, Kareem Abdul-Qaadir answered to the name Kenny Jones. That had changed two years ago when Kenny Jones, not the brightest bulb on the marquee, had gotten arrested for selling crack cocaine to undercover Philly cops in Germantown, then fled the justice system by jumping his two-thousand-dollar bond.
The Jones family, who'd lived in a brick-faced row house across Daly Street from the Baddes in South Philly, had four brothers. Kenny was second oldest, after Jack, who'd been a classmate and friend of Badde's seemingly forever.
When Kenny went on the lam, he called his big brother for help and advice. Jack then turned to his old buddy, Rapp Badde. The city councilman had connections with the authorities-"Maybe he can get the whole case thrown out or something," Jack told Kenny. And if for some reason Badde was not able to use those connections, he had other resources well beyond the Joneses'.
Badde hadn't hesitated. Beyond being old neighbors, the Jones family had campaigned hard for his election to office. He couldn't do anything with Kenny's case; that, he told Jack, was a matter involving the court system and the district attorney's office, over which a city councilman such as himself had absolutely no sway, even in a place like Philadelphia.
So he called the manager of his campaign office in West Philly, which was run from a rented row house, and told him to let Kareem live there in the basement bedroom, which had its own door to the street, and to pay him, in cash, to work as one of Badde's "community voter canvassers."
Badde even helped Kenny pick out the cover name "Abdul-Qaadir," which was Arabic for Servant of the Capable. Badde quietly enjoyed the implication of that.
At first, Kareem Abdul-Qaadir's job had been to go door to door pretending to be a volunteer with the City of Philadelphia working for the Forgotten Voters Initiative-a program that, had anyone actually bothered to investigate, would've been found not to exist. He asked the residents if they were registered voters. If they said no, he helped get them registered.
But then came his real job: the compilation of the names and addresses of all these voters, especially noting the elderly, immigrants, and others who could easily be convinced that they needed to request absentee-voter ballot forms. More important, once those ballots arrived in the mail, Kenny would help those voters with filling out the forms-specifically, under "city councilman," marking the box next to "H. Rapp Badde, Jr."
Kenny had then stumbled across an idea that had turned out to be borderline brilliant.
As he was canvassing a far section of West Philly, knocking on door after door, he walked up to a retirement community, Fernwood Manor at Cobbs Creek. The ten-story-high building overlooked the greenbelt of the small tree-lined stream-and, curiously, on the opposite side of the creek, Fernwood Cemetery.
Kenny, whose experience with retirement communities could be equated to his knowledge of quantum physics, had been excited to find the place was packed with really old people. In no time he had talked his way into its Community Activity Center, a large building that reminded him of a high school auditorium. There he found that the residents watched TV, played card games and bingo, and otherwise pleasantly passed time in their retirement before, ultimately, winding up across the creek.
At Fernwood Manor's Community Activity Center, he didn't have to go door to door. The retirees came to him. They were happy to see a nice, clean-cut young man such as Kareem. Especially the old-timers who had failing memories, Alzheimer's disease in particular, and never remembered previously meeting him-or filling out forms.
And when Kareem had explained the purpose of his volunteer work, everyone thought that the nice young man was extremely considerate to think of forgotten old folks. That, and to understand how difficult it was for them on voting day. They said visiting polling stations that invariably had long lines was very painful for their aged bodies. At the community activity center, though, they could at their leisure fill out the requests for absentee-voter forms, then later, when the forms arrived, fill those out also at their leisure.
Especially with the kind help of a nice young man like Kareem.
Kenny started visiting as many retirement homes as would let him in the door.
And then he went to nursing homes, where he found the residents were more or less unconscious-almost every one on medication that kept them in a mental fog, or worse-so all he had to do was forge their signatures on the forms. Even easier to sign up were those who in the last year or two had fallen into their own category: deceased.
Slipping the kid or old man in the mailroom a little stash of cocaine or cash, with the promise of more, guaranteed that there'd be a telephone call alerting him when the absentee-voter ballots arrived in the mail.
Over time, Kenny Jones did one hell of a job collecting names and helping the forgotten voters of Philadelphia support Badde for city councilman-and soon, for the office of mayor.
And Rapp Badde had been impressed. Ignoring the unfortunate fact that Kenny was a fugitive charged with a felony, he'd thought that Kenny was still pretty much the good, if dim, kid he'd been when they were growing up. And in two years since his arrest-What the hell's wrong with a little coke now and then? That probably was a bullshit bust, anyway-he'd never gotten into any other trouble.
Until now. "What the hell do you mean something's gone bad with you and Reggie?" he said into his Go To Hell cell as he looked out over the city to the right, toward West Philly and the rented campaign-office row house.
Reggie was the baby Jones brother, but at age twenty and two hundred thirty pounds, not much of a baby anymore.
Rapp knew that Reggie had never been really normal-his mother had had him late in life, in her forties, and there'd been complications at birth-and when Reggie got mixed up with drugs, he really went off the deep end.
Worse, while Kenny had just sold dope, Reggie both sold and used the stuff. Unfortunately, a lot more of the latter than the former, and he was forever trying to pay off his dealer.
Kenny said, "I got a call from Reggie. He was crazy. Crazy scared. Crying, man. Said, 'If I don't come up with thirty large to pay the man, I'm dead.' He didn't, and next day they grabbed him."
Thirty thousand dollars! Badde thought. Jesus!
"How'd he get that deep in debt?" Badde asked.
"Hell if I know. Snorting more than selling? A lot of IOUs over time? And some crazy interest on top of what he owed? Adds up fast."
"Who grabbed Reggie?" Badde asked.
"The dude he bought his coke from. The man. His dealer."
Badde sighed audibly.
"So, what would you have me do about it?"
Kenny was quiet a moment, then with a tone that was incredulous said, "What else, man? You know."
"What?"
"The money. I need the money bad to get him back."
Can I quickly put my hands on that much even if I wanted? Badde thought as he looked out at the city and mentally went over his cash reserves.
There's only ten, eleven grand in my office safe.
He was silent for at least a minute.
"You still there?" asked Kenny.
Badde didn't reply.
Kenny said, "We go way back. My family's done a lot for you, man."
And I've not helped you?
And what the hell have you done that's worth thirty grand?
Kenny added, "It'd just be a loan. You name the interest, whatever."
Right. Where the hell will you get that to repay me?
"Rapp? You there?"
"Yeah, Kenny. I'm here. Isn't there any way you can work out an arrangement with this dealer, just-"
Kenny Jones interrupted him: "Are you listening, man? We passed that point. These people kill for less!"
Rapp stared off into the night, silent.
Kenny went on: "Listen, man, it, uh, it wouldn't be good for folks to find out about those ballots, you know what I'm saying?"
What? "Those ballots"?
He's threatening me!
Sonofabitch! He thinks he can finger me for the voter fraud!
He blurted: "Are you fucking threatening me? You fucking ingrate!"
"I'm just saying…"
Jesus! Him getting diarrhea of the mouth would start the whole house of cards crumbling, starting with the campaign for mayor. And I can kiss the housing project goodbye.
Well, that is fucking worth thirty grand.
But if I cough up the money, I can forget getting paid back, with or without interest.
And what's going to stop him from squeezing me for more?
Shit!
"Kenny, where am I going to put my hands on thirty grand?"
"Important folks like you, you got connections."
Badde kicked the concrete four-foot-tall wall that served as the balcony's railing.
Goddamn it!
"Where are you now?" he asked.
"At the house in West Philly."
"How soon do you need the money?"
"Like yesterday?"
Shit.
"Kenny, I hate to ask this, but do you know if he's still alive? Have you talked to Reggie?"
"Yeah, this morning. But he won't be if I don't do something."
Bullshit. Then they really wouldn't get their money.
Kenny, as if reading Badde's mind, added, his voice cracking: "And if they kill him, they're coming after me for it."
Well, then not paying would remove one problem immediately.
But Kenny would still be mine, especially if he went into hiding and started blowing the damn whistle on the absentee ballots.
The goddamn media would love that story. It'd become a bigger circus than the Bermuda photographs.
And even if I gave him the money, I can't keep having to wonder when dimwit Kenny or Reggie will fuck up again, or if Kenny will open his mouth about the ballots.
"Okay, look, Kenny, it's going to take a little time. Especially at this hour. But I'll send someone first thing-"
Kenny interrupted, "No, man. You need to bring it."
He waited a moment, then replied, "Why me? Personally?"
"It'd be better. That's all."
Badde lost his temper: "Well, you can fucking forget it, Kenny! Goddamn you! You want the money or not?"
There was a long pause while Kenny thought about that.
"Fine, then. I'll be here waiting."
As Badde broke the connection, looking out at West Philly and shaking his head, he heard the glass door slide open, then Jan's voice: "Everything okay, honey? I saw you kick the wall."
When he turned and looked at her, he saw that she glistened from having just taken a shower. Now she wore a tan silk robe. It hung open, and he could see that she was completely naked beneath it.
Badde took a deep breath and composed himself.
"Yeah, just give me one more second. I've got to make a quick call. You do look incredible, honey."
"I'll be waiting," she said softly, and slid the glass door shut.
H. Rapp Badde, Jr., felt a stirring in his groin.
Is that from seeing her gorgeous naked body-or because I'm about to have someone whacked? [THREE] The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 7:30 A.M. Lieutenant Jason Washington looked up from reading the front page of the morning's Philadelphia Bulletin in time to see his boss walking purposefully around a corner, making a beeline for Washington's glass-walled office. Captain Henry C. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Unit, was a stocky balding man in his late forties. Like Washington he wore khaki slacks, but instead of the white button-down-collar shirt Washington had on, Henry wore a red knit polo under a navy blazer.
Jason glanced at the wall clock and saw that Quaire was fifteen minutes earlier than he had said he would arrive. They'd spoken on the telephone an hour earlier. Quaire had called Washington at home and announced that Frank Hollaran had just called him at home, asking if they could be at the Roundhouse as soon as possible.
Quaire said that Captain Francis Xavier Hollaran, the forty-nine-year-old assistant to First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. "Denny" Coughlin, had told him: "Denny wants us to be prepared before we meet with Mariana and before Mariana's meeting with Carlucci. Mariana said Carlucci wants damage control, and he needs to know what we know about the pop-and-drops."
Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariana, a natty Italian, was the top cop with four stars on his uniform. And the Honorable Jerome H. "Jerry" Carlucci, who had once been the top cop, was Mariana's boss, the mayor of Philadelphia.
Coughlin, whose three stars made him the number-two cop in the department, reported to Mariana. They were both appointed to their jobs by the managing director of the city, but served at the mayor's pleasure. Every policeman below them in rank on the force-which, with some seven thousand in uniform, was the fourth largest in the country-was a civil servant.
Washington saw that Quaire was sipping from a heavy china coffee mug that bore the logotype of the Emerald Society, the fraternal organization of police officers of Irish heritage. Washington wasn't a member, but he knew Hollaran and Coughlin had belonged to "The Emerald" all their long careers.
"Well, Jason, I see you've seen the good news," Quaire said by way of greeting. He motioned at the desk and repeated the quote over the TV: "If it bleeds, it leads."
The newspaper's front-page headline at the top of the fold screamed: