Michael shook his head again.
“What’s your uncle’s name?”
“Uncle LeRoi,” he said, punctuating that with a nod.
Ding-ding! We have a winner! Will Curtis thought as he glanced at the door of the house. And if he’s in the “family” drawing…
He said: “LeRoi Cheatham? Is he home?”
“Don’t live here no more. Told you that, muthafucka.”
“Is your mother home?”
He shook his head.
“You’re home alone?”
He nodded.
“Look, Michael, I have this very important envelope for your uncle.” Curtis held it out toward the boy, who turned to look at it. “See? Says right here, ‘to LeRoi Cheatham.’ Do you know where I can find him so he can have his mail?”
The boy nodded. “He at Demetri’s.”
“Can you tell me where that is”-Curtis motioned with the envelope-“so I can give him this?”
“It that way,” Michael said, pointing with the chalk to the south.
“What’s the address?”
He shrugged.
“Is it close? Can you show me?”
He shook his head, then said, “Don’t walk there no more.”
“Why not?”
“Gangstas. Muthafuckas hit me. Kick me.”
He gets beat up?
“Nobody will bother you with me around, Michael.”
The boy shook his head vigorously.
Well, he must’ve really gotten his ass kicked.
No surprise. Law of the jungle is to prey on the weak.
“Michael, listen to me. This envelope is very important. I’m sure your uncle would really want to have it.”
Curtis pointed to the minivan.
“You want to ride in my new delivery vehicle? You show me where he lives, we’ll give him the envelope, then I’ll bring you back here.”
The boy jerked his head to look across the street. His eyes grew wide. Then he turned back to Curtis and nodded enthusiastically.
“Yeah, muthafucka! I ride to LeRoi! I tired of drawing.”
[TWO]
Executive Command Center The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 4:29 P.M.
“Okay,” Matt Payne said, rubbing his eyes, “let’s bring up the last one, Kendrik Mays. Not that it’s likely we’ll find anything new on him yet. But in the spirit of leaving no stone under the stone unturned…”
Matt felt a brief vibration in his front pants pocket, and he reached in and pulled out his cell phone.
He looked at the screen. It read: “(2) TEXT MESSAGES FROM AMANDA LAW.”
“Oh, shit!” he said aloud. Then he thought, Two? I never felt the damn phone vibrate before.
As he started thumbing the phone to read the texts, he saw the signal-strength icon.
Not even one goddamn nanobit or -byte or whatever of signal!
He looked at Kerry Rapier and said, “Is it just me, or is the cell service in here worthless?”
“Just you, Marshal,” Rapier said with a straight face.
Harris snorted, then said, “My signal reception’s lousy, too, Matt.”
Payne eyed Rapier, who smiled back.
“Seriously,” Rapier then added, “it’s ironic that we have some four million bucks’ worth of high-tech commo equipment in here but, except for over there by the window, we can’t get decent cell service.” He paused, then added: “If it’s any consolation-as in, misery loves company-I heard the top guy at AT amp;T couldn’t get a signal in his Hops Haus Tower penthouse. So he personally ordered that a cellular antenna be added on the roof of the building-and he still couldn’t get a reliable connection!”
Payne shook his head.
“Gotta love technology,” he said, his eyes falling to his phone’s screen. The text message, which had a time stamp of 2:45 P.M., read: AMANDA LAW HEY, BABY! SORRY FOR THE TONE OF MY LAST MESSAGE. I KNOW YOU HAVE A JOB TO DO. I WAS JUST CAUGHT OFF GUARD BY THE MAYOR’S ANNOUNCEMENT. I HOPE YOUR SILENCE IS BECAUSE YOU’RE BUSY-NOT BECAUSE YOU’RE UPSET WITH ME. XOXO -A
Payne felt his throat tighten.
What a wonderful woman.
All I had to do was shoot back, “Sorry, I’ll make it up to you”-or something.
But, being a cad, I didn’t. And still she sends this.
I damn sure don’t deserve her…
Then he scrolled to her most recent text message: AMANDA LAW SORRY TO BOTHER YOU AGAIN, BABY. THINK YOU MIGHT GET A BREAK? MAYBE DINNER? WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU, IF ONLY FOR A MOMENT. I HAVE TO RUN BY THE HOSPITAL BUT WILL BE BACK BY 6 TO LET OUT LUNA. HOPE YOUR DAY IS GOING AS WELL AS IT CAN! XOXO -A
Damn, it’s nice to have someone like her to look forward to after a day like this.
Hope I don’t manage to fuck up this relationship.
Matt had a mental image from the previous night of Amanda walking completely naked toward the master bath, her thick ponytail of wavy blond hair bouncing as her toned, athletic body floated fluidly across the room.
What a goddess. Then he grinned at the thought of a reply: “Love to see you too, baby-starkers!”
He buried his face in both hands, rubbing his eyes again. As he did so, he felt the stubble on his face.
And I do need a break, if only for a shave and bath.
He thumbed the REPLY key, then typed out: HEY, SWEETIE… I AM REALLY SORRY. I GOT YOUR FIRST MESSAGE RIGHT AS CARLUCCI WAS BLOWING HIS CORK. I MEANT TO REPLY… BUT FORGOT. I’M SORRY. REALLY. AND… THERE WASN’T TIME BEFORE CARLUCCI WENT ON THE NEWS TO LET YOU KNOW ABOUT MY HEADING UP THE TASK FORCE-WHICH RIGHT NOW IS JUST ME, TONY amp; KERRY, THE ECC TECH. SOME FORCE, HUH? WORSE, WE’VE MADE NO PROGRESS. JUST KEEPING UP WITH THE BODY COUNT HAS BEEN CHALLENGING ENOUGH. I’LL SEE IF I CAN MAKE A BREAK BY 6. FIRST NEED A SHAVE amp; SHOWER. BE CAREFUL OUT THERE!
He reread what he’d written, hit SEND, then stuck the phone back in his pocket.
Harris, trying to stifle a yawn, was saying, “Even as much as Howard probably reamed those guys in the forensics lab, I doubt they’ve had time to pull anything off Kendrik Mays yet.”
Payne looked at him-noticing that he, too, had a face dark with a five-o’clock shadow-and nodded.
“Number eighteen coming up,” Kerry Rapier said.
The main bank of monitors then showed an image of Kendrik Mays on the blood-soaked carpet on the sidewalk at Francis Fuller’s Old City office building. Then an inset image popped up. It was his Wanted sheet mug shot, which showed an angry young man with foul-looking black dreadlocks and a full black beard that was matted. It was not difficult to see his nasty stubs of teeth and bad gums, both severely eroded by the caustic chemicals used in the manufacturing of crystal meth.
The bottom right-hand corner ID stamp read:
Richard Saunders Holdings/Lex Talionis Third amp; Arch 1241 hours, 01 Nov
The text box read:
Name: Kendrik LeShawn MAYS
Description: Black male, age 20, 5'9", 200 lbs.
L.K.A.: 2620 Wilder St, Phila.
Priors Arrests: 8 total: possession of marijuana (7); possession with intent to distribute Methamphetamine (3); Conviction of and time served for Involuntary deviant sexual intercourse amp; rape of an unconscious or unaware person (1).
Call Received: 01 Nov, 1230 hours.
Cause of Death: GUNSHOT to head (99 percent probability).
Case No.: 2010-81-039614-POP-N-DROP
Notes: Fugitive. Shauna MAYS, mother of deceased, stated in interview that he was killed by SNU in basement of L.K.A. She described SNU as a skinny white male approximately her age (40), and suggested his motive was that someone in his family may have been robbed or raped by Kendrik Mays. Assailant left Wanted sheet with body. Body transported to Lex Talionis, Old City.
“Well, no surprise. No SNU number yet,” Payne said. “And even if it was our doer, all we’d know is that he’s added another bad guy to his exclusive death club. We’d still be no closer to figuring out who the hell he is.”
/> Then Payne glanced back at the image and saw that 2620 WILDER ST was blinking.
“That what I think it is, Kerry?”
Corporal Kerry Rapier said, “I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that we’re now getting a live feed coming in from the Mays crime scene.”
Rapier typed a couple commands on the keyboard, then clicked on the blinking address with the Colt. 45 Officer’s Model cursor. After the pistol fired and smoked, the big-screen image of Kendrik Mays returned to monitor eighteen. Then two new images appeared on the main bank of monitors, which Rapier had turned to split-screen mode.
The top row of three monitors had a stationary digital image of the exterior of the Mays house. In the bottom right-hand corner was a white orb that contained the image’s numerical designation, “1a.” Next to that, a text box read: 2620 WILDER STREET-EXTERIOR.
The middle and bottom rows of monitors-each with a black “1b” in a white orb next to the text 2620 WILDER STREET-INTERIOR-displayed the feed from a portable digital video camera. The shaky image was mostly black as the camera’s lone beam of light pierced a circle in the darkness, lighting up bits and pieces of the trashed house.
“My God!” Payne said. “It looks as if they’re going down into some hellish black hole.”
Harris said, “Yeah, like out of a horror movie.”
The unseen technician who carried the camera was carefully walking down a flight of unstable wooden steps. As he went, the beam of light showed busted-up Sheetrock and exposed wooden studs on the wall. Then, when the technician was almost to the bottom of the stairs, the lens caught images of roaches and a black rat scattering.
“Unbelievable,” Payne said.
Then the room began to fill with more artificial light, and when the tech panned the camera back to the wooden steps, another tech could be seen slowly descending. He wore blue jeans, a light blue T-shirt with a representation of the Crime Scene Unit patch-a cartoon Sherlock Holmes and basset hound sniffing the Philly skyline-on its left chest, and transparent blue plastic booties and tan-colored synthetic polymer gloves. A white surgical mask covered his nose and mouth. He carried a pair of telescopic lightpole stands-each of which had two halogen floodlamps burning brightly at the top and a power cord snaking back up the steps-and a telescopic tripod.
The tech reached the bottom of the steps. He then set up the stands at opposite ends of the basement, adjusting the brilliant floodlamps so that the entire room was more or less evenly lit. Next he set up the tripod, and the tech with the camera walked to it. The camera image shook, then became stabilized as it was mounted on the tripod. The camera’s lens was adjusted so that the entire room was visible.
The brilliant halogen lights clearly showed all the incredible filth. There were clothes scattered everywhere, pile after pile of pants and shirts and more, and stacks of suitcases. The walls were mostly bare wooden studs.
And in the middle of it all: a stack of wooden pallets with a blood-soaked, torn mattress on top. On the wall behind it, the exposed brick and the wooden studs were covered in blood and brain splatter that resembled some sort of morbid Rorschach inkblot test.
“Well, there’s where Kendrik Mays went off to meet his maker,” Harris said.
“More like to meet Satan,” Payne said, shaking his head out of disgust. “Though this place looks like hell on earth. No wonder Shauna Mays looked and smelled so damn awful.”
“Someone busted all the Sheetrock off the walls,” Rapier said.
“Probably to pull out the electrical wiring,” Harris said. “Pretty common if it’s copper wiring. And they also rip the copper from air-conditioning units to sell it as scrap.”
Payne then remembered thinking, after Shauna Mays had said crack houses didn’t have clocks, that everything not nailed down got sold for drug money.
And here’s proof that even things that are nailed down get hocked.
Unbelievable…
“And all the suitcases and clothes?” Rapier asked.
“From home invasions,” Harris said. “Those wheeled suitcases make it easier to haul off all the loot. The clothes cover up whatever they stole, and they’re easy to sell, too.”
“They don’t sell the suitcases?”
“Some are sold, some reused. Who knows about the rest. Maybe it’s hard to hock them if they have someone’s name written on them in Magic Marker.” Harris shrugged. “Hell if I know. Hard to say what dopeheads think-or don’t think, as the case may be.”
Harris then pointed to a far corner of the basement. “Is that what I think it is?”
“A shit bucket,” Payne said disgustedly.
The first tech, who had carried the video camera down, came into the frame. He held a professional Nikon digital camera with a squat zoom lens and an enormous flash strobe.
They watched as he began putting out the four-inch-high inverted-V evidence markers. The first yellow plastic marker bore the black numeral “01.” It was placed in the middle of the bloody mattress, next to a pair of torn women’s panties. He then raised the Nikon to his eye and took a series of four photographs of the panties and marker, overlapping the angles of the shots so that later a computer could create a three-dimensional rendering of the evidence.
A couple minutes later, after repeating the process with three other markers, the tech bent over in a corner of the basement. He placed an inverted-V marker bearing the numeral “05” next to a shiny black metal object that was on a dirt-encrusted, sweat-stained T-shirt.
“It’s a pistol,” Kerry Rapier said.
The tech raised the camera and popped four overlapping images of the pistol.
Then he reached down with his gloved hand and carefully picked it up.
Now they had a better view of it on the TV monitor.
“A snub-nosed revolver,” Rapier added. “Looks like maybe an S amp;W Model 49?”
“Uh-uh,” Payne said, shaking his head. “The Bodyguard has a hammer shroud. And that hammer is not only exposed, it’s cocked back.”
“Then it’s a Chief’s Special,” Rapier said with more conviction. “At least both are. 38 caliber.”
“Yeah,” Payne said absently.
They watched as the tech, with what obviously was practiced skill, put the thumb of his gloved right hand on the knurled back of the hammer and, keeping a steady pressure with the thumb, squeezed the trigger with his index finger. The released hammer rotated forward-but slowly, the pressure from the thumb preventing it from falling fast enough to fire off a possible live round.
Then he thumbed the release that allowed the cylinder to swing open and carefully removed the round that had been under the hammer. It was a live one. He shot another series of four photographs of the pistol in that position. Then he extracted all the bullets from the cylinder-three spent rounds and two live ones-and photographed them. He threaded a plastic zip tie through the barrel and clasped it in such a way that it was visually obvious that the gun could not be fired, either accidentally or on purpose. Finally, he put the fired and live rounds in a clear plastic evidence bag, put the pistol in a separate clear bag, and labeled both bags.
Payne sighed.
“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” he said. “It will take some time for them to process all of that hellhole.”
“And then even more time to begin updating these master case files with the information and images,” Rapier said.
After a moment, Rapier added, “What do you think are the odds of that being the doer’s weapon?”
Payne shrugged.
“Who the hell knows, Kerry. You heard Kendrik’s mother say in the interview that the gunshot made a big ‘boom.’ Arguably, a. 45 is a helluva lot more of a ‘boom’ than a. 38-a. 38’s more like a ‘bang.’ But what does she know? A damned cork popgun would probably sound like a boom to her.” He looked at the video feed of the basement. “Maybe there’s a. 38 embedded in the wall there with Kendrik’s blood splatter. Or maybe it’s a. 45-cal. round, which could bring us back to our mystery shooter”
-he looked at his notes-“good ol’ SNU 2010-56-9280, who now has, at last known count, seven notches on his gun. But, if there is a. 38 in the wall, maybe there’s another doer’s fingerprints on that snub-nosed Smith and Wesson. Which means another candidate for Task Force Operation Clean Sweep. And on and on. Until we get lab results, we’re basically in hurry-up-and-wait mode.”
“And we’re at least an hour away from getting a response from IAFIS on the two prints taken off Reggie Jones.”
As Payne looked at him and nodded, he felt his cell phone vibrating. He pulled it from his pants pocket, read the caller ID on the screen, and said aloud, “Wonder what’s on the Black Buddha’s mind?”
He put the phone to his head and said, “Boss, I sure as hell hope you’re not calling for a progress report on Task Force Operation Clean Sweep. Because we’ve yet to make any ground.”
“Matthew,” Jason Washington said, “we just got a call from the Twenty-sixth District. More bodies were found a little over an hour ago. Three dead.”
“Jesus! More pop-and-drops? Wait-the Twenty-sixth? That’s north of here, not Old City.”
That news caused Harris and Rapier to look at Payne curiously.
“No, they’re not pop-and-drops in Old City,” Washington said. “In fact, quite interestingly, there’s no obvious cause of death at all with two of them. They say the third looks like he succumbed to blunt trauma. May or may not be a connection with your doer, but because Carlucci says your Op Clean Sweep gets priority, you are hereby officially in the loop.”
“Where’s the scene, Jason?”
Payne pulled out his notepad, flipped to a clean page, and wrote “Jefferson amp; Mascher” on it.
“On our way,” he said. “Thanks.”
[THREE]
2408 N. Mutter Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 4:35 P.M.
Michael Floyd, sitting up in the front passenger seat of the Ford Freestar, was grinning from ear to ear under the brim of Will Curtis’s grease-smeared FedEx cap.
Curtis steered the minivan off the curb. Because Mutter was a one-way street northbound, he headed for the next street up, Cumberland.
“No! No!” Michael began shouting.
The Vigilantes boh-10 Page 21
