others.”
Mudd said, “The kid said the doer told him to give that to his mother.”
“Well, that’s evidence, so it’s not going to Mama. She’ll have to figure out how to convince Five-Eff to cough up the ten large without it.”
Mudd looked at him, clearly confused.
After Payne explained that Five-Eff was Francis Fuller, Mudd made the connection to the reward.
Mudd then went on: “Cheatham had a hundred twenty-two bucks cash on him. A rusty switchblade knife that didn’t really switch itself open. And two eight-balls of what we suspect is crystal meth. Which the Wanted sheet tends to confirm, as he has a history of doing meth, too.”
Payne glanced at the young boy in the back of the squad car.
“And what about him, Harry?”
“The kid’s name is Michael Floyd, age twelve or age four, depending on the direction the wind’s blowing.”
Now Payne, Harris, and Rapier looked confused.
Payne held out his right hand, palm up, and wagged his fingers in a Let’s have it gesture.
Mudd made a sour face. “He’s a simpleton. Backward, you know? May even have a bit of brain damage. He isn’t saying much. But even if he did say something we might be able to run with, I’d be very skeptical of it.”
Payne glanced at the kid and said, “Well, he’s got to be in shock seeing his uncle dead.”
Mudd shrugged. “Then again,” he said, “it could all be an act, at least the backwardness. Just playing dumb, you know? Reason I say that is, one of the blue shirts, who was directing traffic at the first scene”-he pointed eastward, toward Mascher Street-“saw a white minivan with FedEx logos roll past a minute before he heard the two gunshots. We asked the kid about that, and”-he flipped a couple pages on his notepad and read from it-“he said, quote, What be a FedEx, motherfucker? end quote.”
Payne raised his eyebrows, looking at Michael for a moment before turning back to Mudd.
Rapier handed Mudd the evidence bag with the Wanted sheet.
Mudd said, “He pointed at Cheatham’s Last Known Address on here and said that’s where he and his mother live, not Cheatham. He said his uncle lived in this abandoned house here.”
“Maybe the kid’s mama got sick of her brother’s bullshit,” Payne said. “Must be difficult enough raising a kid with a mental disability.”
Payne then bent over to look at the spent shell casings.
They’re damn near still warm.
We were that close!
Harris said, “What’re you thinking, Matt?
Payne looked up at him and said, “How close we were.”
“And now,” Harris said, “how close we’re not again.”
Payne stood erect and, clearly in thought, stared at Tony a long moment.
“Nothing personal, Detective Harris, but you look like shit. And I’m beginning to feel like it. We’ve been banging away at this”-he glanced as his wristwatch-“hell, I can’t even do the math. I think we need to take a break. Clear our heads. As a very wise person once told me, ‘These guys will still be dead in the morning. You don’t need to make a mistake and join them.’”
“That was me, Matt,” Harris said.
Payne smiled. “I know.”
He turned to Mudd and handed him his business card. “That’s got my cell number, Harry. Let me know if you find something.”
“Will do.”
As they walked back to the gray Crown Vic, Payne thumbed out a text message:
HEY, BABY… ON MY WAY. BE THERE SHORTLY.
He hit SEND and thought, Hope you’re still there-and still talking to me…
[THREE]
Hops Haus Tower 1100 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 7:01 P.M.
It was well past dusk as Matt Payne drove up the cobblestone drive to the circle entrance of the high-rise condominiums. After dropping Harris and Rapier at the Roundhouse, he’d run by his tiny apartment on Rittenhouse Square, grabbed a fast shower and shave, and changed into an old comfortable pair of clean khakis, a long-sleeve navy cotton polo shirt, and boater’s deck shoes. His shirttail was out, concealing the Colt Officer’s Model. 45 tucked under his belt on his right hip.
Parking in a slot across from the massive water fountain on the circle drive, he looked up and marveled at the impressive main entrance. The soaring three-story, stainless-steel-framed wall of thick clear glass gave a fantastic view of the lobby, all the more striking at night with its brightly lit gleaming marble floors and walls.
Payne walked through the main entrance doors and waved to the concierge on duty behind the main marble- topped desk. David Suder was a dark-haired, dark-eyed twenty-eight-year-old with a muscular frame that looked as if it had been forged from hardened steel. He wore a nice two-piece dark woolen suit, a starched white shirt, and a dark necktie that almost looked out of place on him.
“How you doin’, David?” Payne called out.
“Good,” he replied, smiling. “How goes it with you, Sarge, I mean, Mr. Payne? You look like you’ve had a rough one.”
“It’s ‘Matt,’ David. And indeed I have. But it’s getting better by the moment.”
“Glad to hear it. Check six, Matt.”
“You, too, David,” Payne called back as he reached the heavy sliding glass door that led to the elevator bank.
He punched in the unique code for Unit 2180 on the keypad. In mid-October, Amanda had changed it to 0-9- 1-0 for September 10, the day she said her life had been profoundly changed-the day when Matt had saved her from her murderous abductors.
The glass door whooshed open sideways. Inside the elevator, he entered the code again and hit the 21 button on the panel for the penthouse floor.
As he rode up, he thought about the day that he’d met David Suder, who he knew wasn’t really a concierge. As a general rule of thumb, concierges didn’t address guests as “sergeant” and caution them to watch their back for bad guys-“check six” being good-guy jargon that meant for them to be wary of who might be sneaking up behind them, also known as their “six o’clock.”
Suder now worked for Andy Hardwick, and Hardwick had introduced them when he’d told Matt there’d be extra protective eyes watching the penthouse floor and the owner of Unit 2180. But until recently, David had been Philadelphia Police Department Officer Suder, a rising star assigned to the elite Narcotics Strike Force. Earlier in the year he had taken the corporal’s exam and passed both oral and written parts with scores high enough to put him in the top ten percent, and on “The List.” Only those on The List got immediate promotions; everyone else would have to wait for a slot to open, which could take weeks, months-or maybe never even happen. After The List expired in two years, those not promoted would have to retake the exam with a new group of candidates.
But there was one caveat: funding. And because of severe budgetary cutbacks this year, there were fewer corporal slots, and only the top five percent had been immediately promoted.
Officer Suder had not been happy about that, to put it mildly.
Shortly thereafter, Andy Hardwick had been buying a few rounds down the street at Liberties Bar, catching up on Roundhouse scuttlebutt with old buddies still on the force, and he’d heard all about Suder’s displeasure at getting the shaft thanks to City Hall bean counters.
The next day, Hardwick had taken Suder to lunch. Before they’d even been served their desserts, Hardwick had effectively poached him from the Philadelphia Police Department with the offer of a salary that was almost twice what any corporal could ever dream of earning.
But I simply could never do residential security, Payne thought.
