The Vine traffic finally cleared at the Schuylkill Expressway, which Badde followed to Walnut Street. He took Walnut through the heart of the University of Pennsylvania campus-honking when delayed by strolling students-and all the way out to South Sixtieth. There he turned down Sixtieth and followed it the fourteen blocks to where it intersected with Catharine Street.
His West Philly campaign headquarters was on the northeast corner of the intersection, directly facing the funeral home across the street.
The row houses in this neighborhood were fairly large-four- and five-bedroom, with three levels totaling up to three thousand square feet. They were set far back from the wide two-way street and tree-lined sidewalk, each with a concrete walk that had two tiers of steps leading up to a wooden front porch. The homes were fairly nicely maintained, their yards mostly kept trimmed.
When Badde shut off the engine and looked to the campaign house, he saw that Roger Wynne was already coming down the first tier of steps of the long walkway. Nailed to the porch railing behind him was a campaign poster: MOVING PHILLY FORWARD-VOTE RAPP BADDE FOR CITY COUNCIL.
Wynne-a short, pudgy, mostly bald thirty-year-old who wore blue jeans, a tan cardigan sweater over a black T-shirt, and tan open-toe sandals with black socks-had a look of concern as he puffed heavily on the pipe he held in his left fist.
Badde thought that he could easily see Wynne teaching a political science course at the University of Pennsylvania-which Wynne had done until tiring of the struggle for tenure and going to work for Rapp Badde as a “political advisor” while continuing to teach part-time at U of P. Badde was not nearly as impressed with Wynne as Wynne was with himself, but felt that he served some purpose in helping Rapp get legitimate votes-and keeping any questionable ones quiet.
Wynne pulled the pipe from his teeth as he offered Badde his hand.
“Good to see you, Rapp,” he said. “Sorry to make you come all the way out here.”
Badde shook the hand and said, “Miserable damn day to be out driving. But you said it was important.”
Wynne nodded as he took two heavy puffs of his pipe. “It’ll be better if I show you.”
Badde followed him down the sidewalk to the side of the house along Catharine Street. There was a weathered wooden door with another Badde campaign poster on it. Badde knew that this was the separate entrance to the basement; another was inside the house, under the stairwell that led to the upper floor.
Wynne unlocked the door, went inside, and flipped on a light switch. Badde followed-and immediately saw what Wynne wanted him to see firsthand.
The basement, which Kenny had set up as his combination bedroom and office, was completely trashed. The mattress was overturned. The old wooden desk was up on its side. And all three of the rusty and battered metal four-drawer filing cabinets had been ransacked. Some of the drawers still contained papers and folders, but most were empty.
“When the hell did this happen?” Badde asked.
Wynne puffed on his pipe once, then exhaled smoke as he said, “Sometime in the last twenty-four hours. It was okay after lunch yesterday when I was down here.”
“You don’t know exactly when? This had to have made one helluva racket.”
“I told you on the phone that I didn’t get back here until after I got your voice mail. That’s why there was the delay.”
He looked at Badde and saw anger.
Roger Wynne took two hard puffs on his pipe.
Then he got mad, too.
“What the hell, Rapp? Last night was Halloween, and there was a great party at U of P. I live here. I’m not a prisoner. Nor am I a goddamn warden, watching that moron Kareem. I never liked the idea of him being here when you first forced him on me. But you said it was an important political favor and that he’d be fine in the basement. And I reluctantly agreed. Which, of course, I obviously now regret.”
Roger Wynne then made a sweeping gesture at the destroyed room. “How the hell was I supposed to know this was going to happen?”
Badde glanced at him, then looked back at the destruction and sighed audibly.
“Okay, Roger, besides the obvious, what’s the damage?” He pointed at the filing cabinets. “What was in them?”
“Mostly Kareem’s logs, the lists of all the voters he collected. And he also had many of their absentee-voter cards or forms. I was dumbfounded how he could collect so many. He wouldn’t tell me. He just showed them to me and said it was because he was a hard worker and you were going to reward him for that.”
Badde raised his eyebrows at the word “reward.”
I do have a reward in mind for you, Kenny.
Just not the one you’re probably expecting.
Wynne continued: “So, I, uh, came down here one day while he was out ‘canvassing’ for the so-called Forgotten Voters Initiative. I had a little look around and found all the records. In addition to going door to door, he’d gone to retirement homes and signed up voters en masse. Then he’d moved on to nursing homes.”
Badde already knew this, of course, but replied, “Really? Well, you have to give him credit for thinking outside of the box.”
Badde walked over and pulled an official-looking governmental form from one of the metal file drawers. The letterhead had the familiar crest of the City of Philadelphia and: CITY COMMISSIONERS COUNTY BOARD OF ELECTIONS ROOM 142, CITY HALL PHILADELPHIA, PA 19107 215-686-3469 215-686-3943
The first line of the sheet read: “Absentee Ballot Application amp; Requirements.”
He read farther down and saw the requirements for “Alternative Ballots”: If you are a registered voter who is disabled or age sixty-five or older AND who is assigned to an inaccessible polling place, you are qualified to vote using an Alternative Ballot.
Badde looked up at Wynne and said, “And I do give the bastard credit. He found groups of voters who probably really had been forgotten by the system. Well… some, anyway.”
Wynne shrugged and went on: “Then, some weeks back, Harvey Wilson across the street-”
Badde shook his head at first, but then he recognized the name: “The mortician?”
Wynne nodded. “He came banging on the front door. Said he’d caught Kenny in his office at the funeral home.”
“What the hell was he stealing? Drugs? Do they even have drugs?”
Wynne shook his head. “No drugs. And Wilson said he wasn’t really stealing anything, per se. At least nothing of real value to Wilson, as they were just records. But Wilson didn’t like the idea of Kenny just making himself at home in his office, and told me to keep him the hell away.”
“So, what was Kenny doing?”
“He got caught going through their files.”
“Why?”
“He was methodically copying all the names and addresses of Wilson’s recent clients.”
“Identity theft of the dead?”
Wynne nodded. “Not that any of them were about to complain. If he could apply for the absentee-voter cards before the city got notice that these people were dead-and you know how muddled and long that kind of bureaucratic process can be-then he’d have even more quiet voters.”
Badde grinned. “Smart. Never would’ve expected that from the dimwit.”
Wynne nodded. “Yeah. And for all his faults-and there were many-Kareem was a stickler for detail. Maybe it was because he had so much time on his hands. He logged and filed everything.”
Badde nodded toward the upturned filing cabinets.
“And took it all with him,” he said.
“Stating the obvious, as long as those records were in there, and you already had been elected to office-”
Badde, affecting a bit of a French accent, authoritatively said, “It would have been faint plea, of course.”
Wynne cocked his head as he puffed his pipe.
“A what?” Wynne said.
“You know, a faint plea-the French saying for ‘the cow is out of the barn,’ or even ‘you can’t get the toothpaste back in the tube.’ It’s a
done deal, and you can’t go back.”
“You mean fait accompli,” Wynne said. “An accomplished fact.”
“That’s it,” Badde said.
Wynne noticed that Badde was wholly unembarrassed by the correction.
“Anyway,” Wynne said, “if someone pulls those forms down at City Hall, or wherever the hell they’re warehoused, they’re going to see a lot of the same signatures at the same mailing addresses.”
They exchanged a long glance.
“And then,” Wynne went on, “it’s not fait accompli, because if there’s voter fraud, the courts get involved. And then…”
Badde nodded slowly at the implication.
He said: “And you think Kenny, Kareem, whatever the fuck you want to call him, has the forms?”
“As your political advisor, I think it’s important that we proceed as if he does. Him, or someone more dangerous…”
City Councilman H. Rapp Badde, Jr., inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly.
Then a cell phone rang in his pants pocket, and Badde quickly grabbed his Go To Hell phone. But when he looked at the screen, there was nothing.
And the ringing was still coming from his pants pocket.
Other damned phone.
About time it’s not the Go To Hell phone.
He exchanged phones, then looked at the caller ID.
What does Jan want?
“Whut up, honey?” he said into the phone.
“Damn it, Rapp, I thought I told you not to do things with PEGI without my knowledge,” she said with absolutely no pleasantries.
Uh-oh. Bad tone.
She’s way beyond pissed.
Now all I have to do is figure out which thing I’ve done without telling her.
That list could be endless.
“I’m sorry, honey. But-”
“Don’t goddamn ‘honey’ me, Rapp. What’s this about an expediter?”
“‘An expediter’?” Rapp repeated.
“Yeah, the one who just got us in a whole helluva lot of hot water.”
“What expediter?”
“Apparently, someone’s saying he’s the new expeditor at HUD and PEGI. One I didn’t hire, and I thought you put me in charge of this.”
“I did. I mean, I didn’t. I didn’t hire anyone, is what I mean. And I did put you in change, honey.”
“Knock off the ‘honey’ crap, Rapp. I know where you are, who you’re with.”
“I’m out at the West Philly row house,” Badde said somewhat piously. “Want to talk with Wynne?”
Smiling smugly, he exchanged glances with Roger Wynne.
Jan said: “Don’t change the subject, Rapp. We got problems here.”
H. Rapp Badde, Jr., then looked at the empty filing cabinets and thought, Honey, if you only knew…
VIII
[ONE]
Jefferson and Mascher Streets, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 5:12 P.M.
Speeding down Girard Avenue, just past the Schmidt’s Brewery development and just before the Hops Haus complex, Sergeant Matt Payne pulled a hard left onto Howard Street, putting the unmarked gray Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor into a tire-squealing four-wheel drift.
Moments earlier, Jason Washington had reported that not only were there three dead at the Northern Liberties scene, but a call had come in saying that a blue shirt at the scene reported another shooting had just taken place a block away.
Matt had floored the accelerator pedal.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw in the rearview mirror that the maneuver had thrown Corporal Kerry Rapier against the right rear door.
“Hey, Marshal,” Rapier said, his tone casual, “think you might want to take it a little easier on the car?”
Detective Tony Harris chuckled.
“This thing’s a tank, Kerry,” Payne replied calmly as he steered in the direction of the skid to correct it. Then, squared up, he stepped harder on the gas pedal and the engine roared. “Heavy Dee-troit metal. Big iron block V-8. And you couldn’t throw a turn like that back there without the rear-wheel drive. It’s not as nimble as my Porsche, but then I wouldn’t attempt a PIT with my 911. These cars are built to take it.”
Rapier knew that Pursuit Intervention Technique was basically tactical ramming. In a PIT, the reinforced nose of the Police Interceptor smacked the tail of the car being pursued so that its driver suddenly lost control, turning sideways or spinning out before skidding to a stop.
“Not built to take the way you handle cars,” Rapier replied. “I heard you got that nice sports car all shot up.”
Harris chuckled again. “He’s got you, Matt. By the way, what’s up with your 911? That happened months ago.”
“Still mired in the purgatory known as insurance adjuster arbitration,” Payne said. “I hate insurance companies. The bastards don’t want to write me a check for what it’s worth to replace. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back. So, while I was killing time stuck at the desk going over the pop-and-drops, I found out a half-dozen unmarkeds were about to go back to the feds-they were on loan to Dignitary Protection from the Department of Homeland Security-and I managed to get this one’s transfer paperwork ‘misplaced’ for the foreseeable future.”
Harris grinned. “Smooth move. It’ll take the feds forever to figure out one’s missing.”
“Yeah, and my conscience is clear. Thanks to budget cuts, we don’t have near enough cars, and we’re at least putting this one to good use. The paperwork showed the other five are just getting parked, either warehoused or ‘tasked to a possible high-value target.’”
“Translation being,” Harris said, “left sitting empty with the wigwags flashing outside the U.S. Mint or Fed Reserve here to give the impression that one of the alphabet agencies under DHS is on the ball.”
“Exactly.”
Kerry Rapier went on: “Did you guys know these are about to become dinosaurs? Ford’s not going to make the Crown Vic anymore. And no Crown Vic means no Crown Vic Police Interceptors. They’re going to be replaced with a hopped-up Ford Taurus.”
“What? A scrawny V-6 front-wheel-drive like our Impala squad cars!” Payne said, making a mock gasp. “Horrors! You, Corporal Rapier, have ruined my joyous thoughts of being forever able to abuse police pursuit vehicles. I may as well put in my transfer to the Bike Squad.”
Payne saw in the mirror that Rapier was smiling out his window.
And then he saw that Rapier wasn’t wearing his seat belt.
When they’d first gotten in the car at the Roundhouse, both Payne and Harris had climbed into the front seats. It wasn’t lost on Rapier, as he automatically went to latch his seat belt, that Matt and Tony had sat on their seat belts. The belts had already been buckled across the seats.
“Hey, guys, didn’t your mothers teach you to always put on your seat belts?”
Payne was putting down the unmarked squad car’s two sun visors so that they would be visible at the top of the windshield from the outside. On the driver’s visor was a white sticker with red block lettering that spelled POLICE. Strapped to the passenger visor was a light bar with red-and-blue strobes. The twelve-volt DC power cord for the emergency lights was snaked over the stalk that held the rearview mirror to the windshield and ran down to the cigarette lighter.
As Payne stuck the plug in the lighter receptacle, he said, “Yes, but that was before dear ol’ Mummy knew that I’d be carrying a pistol on my belt.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“I was going to say, ‘Didn’t they teach you at the Police Academy
…?’ then realized that if they had, it would have been on the QT.”
“Why quiet?”
Payne, badly mimicking a Shakespearean actor, said: “To buckle or not to buckle, that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer either the slings or the arrows”-he went back to his normal voice-“the slings in this case being seat belts, the arrows being bullets.”
Harris put in, “You really but
chered that, Matt.”
“You people clearly have no couth,” Payne said. “Simply put, then: It’s a judgment call as to which you consider the safer option: wearing a seat belt so that you’re better off in case you’re in an accident, or not wearing one so that you can exit the vehicle and draw your weapon faster when going after a bad guy. Having numerous times had to exit vehicles in pursuit of bad guys-some of whom thought it a good idea to shoot at us-certain of us have chosen not to buckle.”
Payne, looking in the rearview mirror, had seen Rapier considering that.
And now, as they had turned onto Jefferson, he saw that Rapier was sitting on his seat belt.
Payne braked hard, bringing the Crown Vic Police Interceptor to a screeching stop not far from a Crime Scene Unit van. A Medical Examiner’s Office van was parked farther down Jefferson, and a gurney holding an obviously full body bag was being rolled into its rear cargo area.
Unrestrained by seat belts, the three men were almost instantly out of the unmarked shiny gray Police Interceptor.
“That’s one massive steel ball,” Kerry Rapier said, looking up at the towering red-and-white Link-Belt crane that in the late-afternoon light was casting a huge shadow across the dirt. “Must weigh two, maybe three tons. Could be a contender for the largest murder weapon on record.”
Harris snorted. “If in fact it was the cause of death. Remember that the Black Buddha said the other two victims showed no known cause of death.”
With Payne leading, they walked past a big, bright white sign announcing a Philadelphia Economic Gentrification Initiative project by City Councilman Rapp Badde and the coming of three thousand new jobs.
That’s a lot of jobs, Matt thought. Especially here.
Probably another political lie.
Payne couldn’t help but notice that the sign was plastered with homemade flyers that bore a crude representation of the city councilman.
“Badde wanted for crimes?” Kerry Rapier then wondered aloud.
“Everyone’s got their own idea of what constitutes a crime,” Payne said. “As far as I know, Badde hasn’t broken any laws on the books. Arguably, he’s bent the living hell out of a few, but then that’s what politicians do.”
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