“I need to visit the men’s room.”
He stood and made his way toward the bar, then to the windows on the other side. He called Wynne back as he looked out at the grand view the thirty-seventh floor offered.
“Found him, Rapp,” Wynne said when he answered. “Well, where Kenny’s been, anyway. A nice old woman by the name of Irma Graham just called here looking for Kenny. Said she missed him tonight at Fernwood Manor’s bingo, and that she hadn’t seen him since he put a bunch of boxes in the storage room of their Community Activity Center.”
That was bingo I heard in the background!
“Get someone over there to whatever you said-”
“Fernwood Manor at Cobbs Creek,” Wynne furnished. “And I’m already on my way.”
“Destroy every goddamn shred of paper. I don’t care if we ever have those votes again.”
Badde ended the call. Looking out the window over the city, he thought, Well, at least that’ll get rid of the absentee-voter stuff. Now Kenny can’t squeal-who’s going to believe him without proof?
I may again have just dodged going to jail…
On the way back to the table, Badde paused at the magnificent bar.
There was a muted large flat-screen television tuned to the Eagles- Broncos National Football League game. Badde, acting as if he’d stopped to catch the score-Philadelphia was just barely beating Denver-took in the crowd, particularly all the attractive women.
Well, I’ll damn sure be coming back here.
The TV broadcast went to a commercial break.
One of the TV news talking heads came on with a tease for the eleven P.M. newscast. The box that popped up next to the news anchor’s head showed Francis Fuller awarding at least three ceremonial ten-thousand-dollar reward checks. The text below the pop-up box said
HALLOWEEN HOMICIDES: COLD-BLOODED MURDER TURNS INTO COLD CASH.
And Kenny-and that drug dealer Cicero-are going to be next.
X
[ONE]
The Roundhouse, Third Floor Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 9:12 A.M.
The Executive Command Center’s main bank of monitors-all nine sixty-inch flat-screen televisions-was filled with the beet-red, angry face of the Honorable Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
He stared right into the camera with a searing fire in his intense brown eyes as he said with great force: “And never in all my years in this city-both during my years in the Philadelphia Police Department and my time in elected office as your mayor-never have I witnessed such careless disregard for our laws. And I am here to tell you that this is lawless chaos of the worst sort”-his fist could be heard pounding the lectern-“and I will not let it stand! There will be law and order in the great city of Philadelphia if I have to bring in the state police and our National Guard troops.
“And I am also telling you again that if you have information about any crime, you are to call our police department or the tips hotline-and no one else-and the police department will respond appropriately. This will not in any way cause anyone to be ineligible for any possible reward. It will, however, restore decorum to our fine city and dignity to its citizens.
“Now, to show how absolutely serious I am in this regard, just this morning four people who went to Lex Talionis in Old City-”
The image on the screen then cut to a shot of what had become the familiar scene at Third and Arch. Except this time there was a sea of dark blue-uniformed police lining the sidewalks shoulder to shoulder as far as the eye could see. And there were police cruisers parked bumper to bumper all along the curbs. There was a Medical Examiner’s Office van parked on the sidewalk, its rear doors open and a gurney with a full body bag being pushed inside.
And in front of the van were four people, their hands cuffed behind their backs, being led by blue shirts to the open rear doors of two Chevy Impala police cars parked at the curb. The first was a tiny, ancient, gray-haired black woman in a sacklike dress, then a skinny young teenage black girl in a white sleeveless jacket, and two teenage black males in jeans and hoodie sweatshirts.
A Tow Squad wrecker rolled past on Arch Street, a rusted-out mid- 1970s AMC Gremlin hanging backward behind it.
“-were each arrested on multiple counts of suspicion of murder, tampering with evidence at the scene of a crime, and various other criminal charges in connection with the murder last night of one Jossiah Miffin. Arrested were his grandmother and three teenagers, two boys who identified themselves as Miffin’s neighbors, and a girl who said she was his niece.”
The image went back to Carlucci’s face.
He went on pointedly: “If these people had followed the proper procedure and called 911 for the police to handle the case of Miffin’s murder-and not brought the deceased to Lex Talionis-certain charges would never have been brought against them.” He paused, exhaled audibly, and in a calmer manner added, “So, in conclusion, let there be no mistake that, as I swore to do when I took my oath of office, I will see that the laws of this fine and just city are enforced to the letter. And, together, you and I will see Philadelphia return to normalcy. Thank you for your time. And may God bless you and the great city of Philadelphia.”
Corporal Kerry Rapier was in his wheeled nylon-mesh-fabric chair at the control panel, manipulating the images on the three banks of monitors. He rewound the recording back to where Carlucci was forcefully saying: “And never in all my years in this city…”
“I think three times is enough, Kerry,” Sergeant Matthew Payne said. “It was difficult enough to watch live the first time. I was convinced that his anger was being directed at the head of Task Force Operation Clean Sweep, who has accomplished exactly zero in his appointed duty.”
Payne was sitting at Conference Table One. Detective Anthony Harris sat beside him. Each had a commanding view of the three banks of TV monitors, all brightly lit with various images, ones that now included the new pop-and-drops. Before them on the table, each had a notebook computer wired into the communications network. Matt’s screensaver image showed a hundred tiny. 45 ACP rounds continually ricocheting across the screen, looking like a copper-jacketed hollow-point meteor shower.
Next to Matt’s computer was a coffee-stained mug with the representation of a patch. On the patch was the downtown Philadelphia skyline with the statue of William Penn atop City Hall. Overlooking that was a Grim Reaper in a black cape and holding a golden scythe. And in gold letters the words PHILADELPHIA POLICE HOMICIDE DIVISION-OUR DAY BEGINS WHEN YOURS ENDS circled the patch.
Kerry Rapier said: “But, Matt, I just love that part where the spittle starts flying and he pounds the lectern with his iron fist while declaring, ‘… and I will not let it stand!’ Brilliant, just brilliant theater.”
Payne raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty damn sure he wasn’t acting. I’ve seen him blow his cork a time or three before.” He looked to the second bank of monitors. “Getting back to the task force task at hand, so to speak, let’s see if we can turn over some damn stone under the stone.”
Kerry Rapier checked the notes he’d written on his pad, then looked at the banks of monitors and said, “We have new information in the case files of Kendrik Mays, LeRoi Cheatham, Reggie Jones, and now Jossiah Miffin.” He paused, then added, “Oh, and those three dead we saw at the demolition site in Northern Liberties.”
“Not those now,” Payne said. “They were a block away from where Cheatham got popped, but they’re not even remotely connected to any of the pop-and-drops, including Cheatham’s.”
“I agree,” Harris said. “Unless the medical examiner finds some obvious cause of death-maybe poisoning?-my gut tells me that those are fast on their way to becoming cold cases. All we know is what caused the blunt trauma on the one-a damn wrecking ball-but that wasn’t necessarily the cause of death.”
“Gotcha,” Rapier said. He manipulated his control panel.
