sleazy patterns. It wasn't Philly's first encounter with vote fraud, and no matter what Emil chose to believe, it wouldn't be the last. Something was rotten at City Hall and Bennie could smell the stink. She stood up and grabbed her wet jacket and hat. 'Where's Jen Pressman's office?'
'The chief of staff? Down the hall next to the mayor's. Why?'
'I have to ask her some questions. How can I get a meeting with her? She hates my guts. Because of the police misconduct cases. Every time I sue the city, I put her in the chair.'
'I know Jen Pressman. She likes me. I'd be happy to go with you.' Emil's dark eyes flickered with the remembered thrill of the hunt.
'No, what I have to discuss with her is confidential.'
'I won't go in with you, I'll merely introduce you. Get you in. Pave the way. If it's something big, you'll give me the exclusive.'
'You dog.' Bennie smiled. 'What about that phone call you were waiting for from your editor?'
Emil glanced up at the ancient black clock on the wall. 'It's eight o'clock. My shift was over a long time ago. Let him call somebody who's the right size.'
48
Marta stood over the metal strongbox in amazement. She had run the thing over in the pickup and it lay crushed in the deep rut of snow. Still, the Master padlock had stayed intact even after the hinges on the strongbox had popped. What were these padlocks, kryptonite? No matter, if Marta couldn't get past the fucking lock, she'd go in through the broken hinges.
She picked up the box, wrenched cruelly out of shape, and squinted through the hinges. She could see the edge of a manila envelope. Her heart beat quicker. She pried the hinges with her fingers but her gloves were clumsy. She tore them off and held them in her teeth while she tried to wrench the lid off the box. No luck. It was too badly smashed.
Marta ran back to the truck with the box and sat in the driver's seat while she searched the tool chest. Chisels, hammers, and about three hundred pritchels tumbled by. Why hadn't they been this easy to find last night? Her fingers groped the bottom of the chest and she came up with a thick Phillips head screwdriver. Good enough.
She grabbed the box and drove the screwdriver between the demolished lid and the box, trying to pry them apart with the screwdriver as a lever. She couldn't wedge the screwdriver in because she'd crushed the box too flat. She tried again and again, breaking a sweat even in the cold car. It was late. The sun was up. She had to hit the road before the cops found Bogosian's body.
Marta abandoned the screwdriver for a hammer, braced the box on her lap, and pounded the twisted metal hinges. The jarring hurt her legs and the pounding reverberated in her skull, but she hammered away. She was about to scream with frustration when the lid popped up. She tore it off and it flopped aside, hanging by the padlock.
Marta's mouth went dry. Inside the smashed box was a manila envelope, the kind her L.A. office used for mailers. The envelope was crumpled from being run over and there was no writing on the front. She ripped open the envelope with a nervous hand. Inside was a stack of paper, which she pulled out and set on her lap. They were printed pages that looked like computer entries:
>18 294 827
>03 04 95
>03 06 85
>03 31 99
>F
>5'7'
>BRN
>C
>–
>*/1
>Jamie Rodriquez
>110 Kenwall Avenue
>Philadelphia, PA 19103
Underneath the single-spaced grouping was a UPC code, a miniaturized signature, and a photograph of a young man with a fuzzy goatee and slacker's expression.
Marta reread the entries. They appeared to be some sort of identification. It was familiar, but Marta couldn't place it. She studied the next set of information, also grouped together:
>29 837 471
>11 10 95
>11 06 55
>11 30 99
>M
>6'2'
>BLU
>C
