The Vigilantes boh-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  Payne saw that except for a line of five row houses-Make that four and a half, considering that hole in the one on the end-only smelly, raw earth remained on the once-residential city block. There was some heavy equipment and the white PEGI signs in each corner of the block. And that was it.

  Yellow POLICE LINE tape was strung from the half-fallen wooden back fence of the semidemolished row house to the rear of the red-and-white Link-Belt crane, then to a four-foot-high iron pole in the concrete sidewalk that once held a parking meter, then past the Medical Examiner Office’s van and all the way down the sidewalk to the farthest row house at the corner of Jefferson and Mascher.

  Payne looked at the small group gathered beside the crane and saw a familiar face, Detective Harry Mudd of the Crime Scene Unit.

  Mudd-a muscular, five-foot-eleven thirty-five-year-old with fiercely inquisitive eyes and salt-and-pepper hair trimmed short-was a ten-year veteran of the department. Payne knew him to be a no-nonsense and damned thorough investigator.

  Mudd stood with his arms crossed and head somewhat cocked as he listened to one of the three beefy men who looked like construction workers.

  Or heavy-equipment operators, Payne thought when he saw the sloppily hand-lettered cardboard square sign-TURCO DEMOLITION amp; EXCAVATION-that was taped to the side of the crane.

  Mudd’s eyes darted to Payne, who was leading Harris and Rapier toward him. He held out his right index finger as a Hold that thought a moment gesture to the beefy guy who was doing the talking. Then Mudd turned and started moving to intercept Payne.

  “Sergeant Payne, good to see you,” Detective Mudd said, offering his hand.

  “It’s ‘Matt,’ Harry,” he said, taking it, then he gestured to the others. “You know Tony Harris. And this is Corporal Kerry Rapier.”

  “Harry Mudd, Kerry,” he said, shaking the corporal’s hand.

  Kerry Rapier nodded, more than a little impressed by Mudd’s grip. He was almost afraid he was going to pull back his hand and find his fingers crushed to a bloody pulp.

  “Nice to meet you, Detective,” Rapier said.

  Tony Harris said, “How they hanging, Harry? It’s been a while.”

  Mudd nodded. “It has. And if you mean, how are the bad guys hanging, I wish I could say by a noose. Otherwise, the answer’s the same, one lower than the other.”

  He and Harris exchanged grins.

  Payne looked over at the three men standing beside the Link-Belt crane. The tallest one, who appeared somewhat pale and had his chin almost to his chest, had a real look of gloom. The shortest of the three, who had a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, glanced at his wristwatch as he anxiously kicked the raw dirt with his boot toe, then glared in Payne’s direction.

  “I’m assuming one of those guys is Mr. Turco?”

  Mudd glanced over. “Yeah, two actually. The tall one’s name is Bucco, Bobby ‘The Ballbuster’ Bucco. He was running the crane when the ball found the deceased. The owner of the company is the short one who’s sucking on the cigar stub. Thomas ‘Little Tommie’ Turco. And he’s ten kinds of pissed off.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  “You.”

  “Me? I just got the hell here.”

  Mudd nodded. “And that’s why he’s pissed. I told him I was under orders to wait for the head of the homicide task force to get here. You’re here in that shiny undercover car-nice wheels, by the way; where’d you steal them?-and he’s probably guessing that I’m talking with The Man.”

  Payne decided it best to ignore the hot-car question. But the fact that Mudd raised it indicated that it wouldn’t be the last time someone was going to ask how he came by a nice new vehicle when almost everyone else in the department was driving battered hand-me-downs with six digits on their odometers. It damn sure wasn’t the kind of vehicle that was going to hide in plain sight very well.

  “So,” Payne said, “I still don’t get why he’s pissed at me.”

  “He wants to return the crane to the rental place, which he says is now charging him Sunday double time. But I told him I couldn’t release him or his equipment until you gave the go-ahead.”

  Payne raised his eyebrows.

  “Like I said, Matt, I’m just doing what I was told. You know how antsy the department’s chain of command gets when Mayor Carlucci holds a press conference. And that shit flows downhill so fast.”

  Payne nodded. “Understood, Harry. You know I have full faith in your skills, so we can skip the formalities. What the hell is going on here?”

  Mudd pulled out his spiral notepad and began, “Thomas ‘Little Tommie’ Turco’s company was hired by HUD to turn the whole block back to dirt-”

  “-and he’s really pissed at ‘that expediter sonofabitch who’s really going to pay for all this,’ ” Mudd finished a few minutes later.

  “So, three dead?” Payne said. “But no idea why they were in the condemned buildings and no idea what killed 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 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.