the other two?”
Mudd was shaking his head. “No idea. And of course, until we hear from Dr. Mitchell’s autopsy, we won’t know for sure if the third died of blunt trauma. The one thing that is clear, however, is that there were people living in these houses right up until sometime today.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, these folks were holdouts. They didn’t want to move. They refused the buyout from PEGI.” He pointed down the street. “That middle house? We found one of the dead at the kitchen table, slumped over with his face in a bowl of apparently just-made tomato soup.”
“Possibly putting the time of death around noon?” Payne asked.
“Possibly,” Mudd said. “Who knows?”
Payne looked at Harris and Rapier.
“Any thoughts, gentlemen? You know as much about the cases as I do.”
Kerry Rapier shrugged, then grinned. “Death by drowning?”
Harris and Payne groaned.
“Only the obvious fact,” Tony Harris then said, “that this doesn’t fit the pop-and-drop MO in any way at all. Unless we’re missing something…”
Mudd glanced at the line of five remaining row houses and said: “Do you want to take a look inside?”
“Not right now,” Payne said. “It’s going to be dark soon. Let’s talk about the other dead guy.”
“Even better,” Mudd said, “let’s go over to the scene.”
Payne gestured that Mudd should lead.
As they started walking along the sidewalk in front of the half-demolished row house, they heard an Italian- accented voice bark, “Aw, what the fuck, youse guys?”
When they all turned, they saw a frustrated Little Tommie Turco standing with both arms above his head, palms up.
Detective Harry Mudd held up his right index finger again, this time in a gesture meant to signal Back in a minute.
They heard Turco then bark, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” and watched as he tore the cigar stub from his mouth and threw it to the dirt.
[TWO]
As they rounded the corner from Jefferson to Hancock, Matt Payne saw that there was yellow POLICE LINE tape strung between two boarded-up row houses, blocking the entrance to an alleyway.
The first thing Payne saw behind the yellow tape was the blood trail. He took another step forward, his eye following the trail up the alleyway until he saw in the shadows the body of a very big black male. On the concrete beside his head was an inverted-V plastic marker with a black numeral “01” on it.
Parked on the street, blocking off the alleyway, was a Chevy Impala squad car. The right rear door was open, and a young black boy was sitting in the rear seat, turned so his back was to the scene.
“That’s the deceased’s nephew,” Mudd said. “He says he didn’t see the the shooter, which I doubt. We’re trying to find his mother.”
Payne nodded.
Poor kid is probably in shock.
As he glanced around, he thought, Three dead back there. Another dead-a possible pop-and-drop-here.
Two crime scenes two blocks apart. Or is it just one big scene?
And all this is going on just three blocks from The Fortress.
Then he thought: Oh, shit, Amanda!
He tugged back his left shirtsleeve cuff and checked his wristwatch.
Almost six?
He pulled out his cell phone and pounded out a text message with his thumbs:
HI, BABY… SORRY I’M JUST NOW GETTING BACK TO YOU. GOOD NEWS amp; BAD NEWS. BAD FIRST: I OBVIOUSLY CAN’T MAKE IT BY 6. JUST GOT TO A SCENE WITH MORE DEAD. GOOD (OR MAYBE MORE BAD) NEWS: IT’S ONLY BLOCKS FROM THE CONDO. REALLY GOOD NEWS: SO, SEE YOU SOON? SORRY, BABY…
He hit SEND. As he started to put back his phone, it almost immediately vibrated with the reply:
AMANDA LAW OK. SEE YOU WHEN I SEE YOU XOXO -A
Uh-oh. Do I read between the lines?
That was a fast reply.
Like she was waiting.
Correction: a fast and terse reply.
Or dismissive?
On the one hand, she shouldn’t be pissed. She said she understands why I have to do this.
The damned pop-and-drop body count is probably up to nine. Then there’s the three dead next door. Someone’s got to stop it…
But on the other hand, Amanda’s emotional because she’s not completely over her abduction-which I can understand-and she’s not happy with my job and the idea of my being in danger.
Having been shaken to her very core, she’s wisely questioning where things will go for her-for us. And, ultimately, who will I owe my allegiance to in five, ten, twenty years?
To the police department of a wild city whose crime rate doesn’t seem to be improving?
Or to the goddess who’s the loving mother of my children?
His thumb hovered over the REPLY key while he contemplated what he should say.
I can’t lose this woman.
I should say something, I just don’t know what’s-
“Matt, you need to see this,” Harris called.
Payne looked up, then glanced at the phone-then slipped it back into his pocket.
Nice job, Matty ol’ boy.
You just proved once again that you don’t deserve her.
“What is it, Tony?” Matt said as he walked toward him.
Harris was pointing in the direction of another evidence marker, this one somewhat obscured by weeds and shadows. It was close to the yellow tape. Next to it was a pair of spent shell casings.
“Any chance they’re. 45 GAP?” Payne asked.
“They are,” Mudd offered. “Just two of them. But. 45-cal. Glock.”
Kerry Rapier said, “Number nine? Our mystery shooter strikes again?”
Payne exhaled audibly, then looked at Mudd.
“Well, hell, Harry, let me guess,” he said, gesturing toward the alleyway. “The guy’s got a history of sex crimes.”
Mudd stepped over to the Impala, reached in, and from the front seat picked up a plastic evidence bag. He handed it to Payne.
Payne looked through the clear plastic at the Wanted sheet and its mug shot of the huge, goateed, droopy- eyed LeRoi Cheatham.
“You got it, Matt,” Mudd said. “Cheatham served time for rape and was out on early release. Then, because he thought he could make only one visit with his parole agent, he got on the Megan’s Law list.”
“There’s just no damned end to these perps,” Payne said.
He read the back of the sheet. Handwritten in blue ink was: “Lex Talionis, Third amp; Arch, Old City, $10,000 reward.”
“Check out the back,” Payne said, handing the bag to Harris. “I’d say Kerry’s right: number nine for our mystery shooter. Or ten, if Reggie Jones turns out to be his handiwork, too.”
Harris held up the bag, then passed it to Rapier and said: “And, as Kerry likes to say, I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that we’ll find the same doer’s prints on that sheet. Looks like the same cheap gray paper stock as the
