Deadly Assets

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I would not characterize it as imploding,” Stein offered, earning him a glare from Finley. “But it certainly is the tip of the financial iceberg, and that has to improve or else Center City’s shiny towers, high-end retail spaces, and hotels and restaurants could slowly empty and eventually falter. If people see Philly as a place of crumbling buildings and slain tourists—which is today’s reality—they will take their money elsewhere.” He paused, and then added, “When was the last time you heard someone say, ‘Hey, how about we take the family for a vacation in Detroit!’?”

  First Deputy Police Commissioner Coughlin chuckled, and immediately felt Finley staring at him. He looked at Stein.

  “Sorry. I take your point.”

  Stein went on: “When the tourists don’t show, everyone suffers. Especially now. For many businesses, how well holiday sales go makes or breaks them for the year. And no sales means no sales tax. It’s lose-lose.”

  “Something is going to have to be done about stopping these murders!” Finley said. “Something different that works. And now. It’s only ten days until Christmas . . .”

  “Listen,” Carlucci said, “I like to think I know a thing or two about police work—”

  “I know, I know,” Finley interrupted, his tone clearly one of frustration. “You’ve ‘held every job but meter maid’—”

  “Every job but policewoman,” Carlucci snapped, and was immediately sorry he’d lost his temper.

  Did that bastard just goad me into that?

  “Let me be clear,” Finley said. “I do not need this job. I took it because I love this city. And because you asked me. That is, Ed asked me to work with him.”

  Carlucci looked at him.

  And you—maybe both of you—will report back to Frank Fuller what you perceive to be my failures.

  “Look,” Carlucci went on evenly, “I take great pride in my time on the force. And, as mayor, I continue to take great pride in seeing that our laws are enforced, our people protected.”

  “Then what do you plan to do?” Finley said. “Two families are about to visit the morgue and have to identify their dead teenage son and daughter. And that animal put a young mother through hell by kidnapping her child!”

  “We’re as disgusted by this as you are, James,” Carlucci said. “The first thing we’re doing is putting more uniforms on the street, beginning with a surge in Center City.”

  He looked at Coughlin, who nodded.

  “Including all of the Mounted Patrol Unit,” Coughlin added.

  “‘Mounted Patrol’?” Finley repeated.

  “Officers on horseback,” Coughlin said. “Very effective, both from the vantage point of being higher and seeing more ground and from the ability to cover a lot of that ground quickly. There’s also a PR aspect—the public really likes seeing the horses, and are more prone to interact with the officers, take pictures, that sort of thing.”

  Stein nodded thoughtfully.

  Carlucci then turned and looked between Finley and Stein as he went on: “But know that even if we put a uniform on every street corner, there simply is no definitive way to protect against a thug hell-bent on killing. Take, for example, John Kennedy and Ronald Reagan. Both were surrounded by layers of Secret Service agents actively looking for a possible attack, yet determined men still got to them. So, even if we’d had a uniform dive in front of the girl, there’s no guarantee it would’ve saved her from being stabbed.”

  “Murders are up and our case clearance rates are down,” Coughlin put in, “because things are different now. Back in the day, most victims knew their killers, and it was only a matter of time—usually within the first forty-eight hours—before we connected those dots, caught the doer, and gave the district attorney’s office a solid case to put them away.”

  “But . . . ?” Finley said, crossing his arms.

  “Today, though, random stranger-on-stranger crime—murders, robberies, purse snatchings, carjackings—it’s everywhere. Drug dealers kill one another battling for turf—something that might explain what happened again just yesterday in Kensington. And these murders this morning could have been, say, some gang’s rite of initiation. Anything’s possible. We will know more from our investigations.” He paused, then added, “But understand that budget shortfalls have hit us hard, too. We’re stretched thin. Our department is down significantly from our onetime strength of eight thousand. I’ve had to cancel two police academy sessions. And I won’t get into our outdated gear, et cetera. If it weren’t for federal grants for equipment and things like the FOP getting local supporters to donate body armor, we’d be in trouble.”

  “The Fraternal Order of Police is having to do that?” Finley said, then, with a look of frustration, slowly shook his head as he looked down at his shoes.

  Behind Finley, on the television, the attractive female reporter had turned from looking into the camera and was reaching up with her microphone, putting it before a nicely tanned male in his mid-twenties who looked as if he’d just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers advertisement.

  The caption at the bottom of the screen read HOMICIDE SGT. MATTHEW PAYNE ON PARK MURDERS: “WE WILL NOT REST UNTIL WE FIND WHO COMMITTED THESE ATROCITIES.”

  Jesus, Coughlin thought, don’t let Finley see Matty or he’ll really get his shorts in a knot.

  Then he glanced at the mayor, who had a slight grin as he looked at the TV, and guessed he was having similar thoughts.

  But Jerry’s probably smirking because he’s hoping that it gets under Finley’s skin.

  Then Coughlin looked back toward Finley, and on the television saw the caption had changed to A POLICE SOURCE REPORTS THAT SGT. PAYNE WAS CLEARED LAST WEEK BY INTERNAL AFFAIRS IN NOVEMBER’S SHOOT-OUT ON CASINO BOARDWALK THAT LEFT 3 DEAD.

  Finley looked up and saw that everyone was looking behind him.

  He turned to the television just as the caption changed to SGT. PAYNE IS ALSO KNOWN AS THE WYATT EARP OF THE MAIN LINE.

  “Damn it!” Finley said. “And now him!”

  “What?” Carlucci said, now stone-faced, purposefully having lost the grin. “Payne gets his man. It’s what you said you wanted.”

  Finley’s head jerked. He met the mayor’s eyes.

  Here it comes, Coughlin thought.

  Finley, he’s playing you like a fine instrument . . .

  “What I want,” James Finley snapped, “is for there to be fewer killings so he will have fewer bastards to go after—and fewer chances for him to get in shoot-outs that wind up sensationalized in the media with that Wild West tagline!”

  “When that nickname first made headlines,” Carlucci said, somewhat sharply, “the reporter meant it as a compliment. Marshal Earp was considered the most effective lawman of his time. Matt comes from a family of good cops. His father was killed by a robber months before Matt was born. And it reflects well on the department to have in its ranks officers from the Main Line, especially one who’s smarter than hell. He graduated from the University of Pennsylvania summa cum laude and, not surprisingly, scored the highest in the department on the sergeant’s exam.” Carlucci glanced at Coughlin, then looked at Finley. “And, because Matt also comes from money, he doesn’t need his job, either. In a sense the same as you, James—with one difference.”

  “And what is that?”

  “He’s time and again put his life on the line to save people in this city,” Carlucci said.

  Finley stared for a long moment at Carlucci, then looked at Stein.

  “Ed? What do you say?”

  Stein looked between Finley and Carlucci.

  “I agree the media sensationalizes the O.K. Corral thing. If, however, you mean about Matt? You won’t be thrilled, James, but I say I like him. And that’s not because I used to work for his father’s firm.” He paused, then in a lighter tone added, “Or because it would appear that we frequent the same clothier . .
.”

  Finley snorted.

  Stein shrugged. “I’m with the mayor. I think Matt’s a great cop doing a great job that most people do not understand and would never do once they learned what it takes to protect our society from the barbarians. He does not go to work looking to shoot someone. He’s a deadly asset, and without such deadly assets, crime soars.”

  I suddenly like you even more, Stein, Carlucci thought.

  “Well, that is putting a happy face on it,” Finley said sharply. “Because that’s damn sure what happens. Over and over. He’s been in—what?—three shootings that resulted in deaths in just as many months? And that’s just recently.”

  “And every one has been found to be righteous. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it,” Carlucci said, his tone smug. After a moment, he added, “What I’d like to do is find out who the hell’s the source in the department that’s leaking the names of cops.”

  “What do you mean?” Finley said.

  Carlucci looked at Coughlin.

  “In an Officer-Involved Shooting,” Coughlin offered, “we don’t release the officer’s name until after the incident has been thoroughly investigated, and only release it then if the officer is found to have erred.”

  “Why not before?”

  “Because,” Carlucci picked up, “if the officer is cleared and then his name gets released, he’ll get dragged through the mud that is the news media, and then could become targeted—simply for doing his job correctly. A shooting that is determined to be righteous is exactly that.”

  Carlucci exchanged glances with Coughlin, then looked quickly at the television. “Now what the hell are they doing?”

  All eyes turned to see a small group of African-American men marching into view behind the reporter interviewing Payne. They were wearing black cape-like flowing garments over white shirts, some with clerical collars. They carried four-by-six-foot homemade signs atop what looked like wooden broomsticks.

  The first, with rows of photographs of dead men, read PASTORS FOR PEACE NOW! The one behind it had NO MORE MURDERS! and the numbers 360 and 361 crossed out and 362 written next to them. The last one read STOP KILLADELPHIA! All had across the bottom: WORD OF BROTHERLY LOVE MINISTRY.

  “Well,” Finley said, “I didn’t want to mention the good Reverend Josiah Cross, but I wondered when he and his flock would get involved. That last sign would indicate to me that they’re the ones fanning the flames on the Internet.”

  Another sign then appeared right behind Payne. It had an enlarged photograph of Payne that had run widely in the media a few months earlier. It showed him lit by camera flash in a darkened parking lot. He was wearing a dinner jacket and holding his Colt Officer’s Model .45 ACP pistol—and standing over an armed robber he had just shot. Above that image were the words PUBLIC ENEMY #1.

  “That,” Carlucci said angrily, almost spitting out the words, “is what I mean by targeting a police officer cleared of any wrongdoing whatsoever.”

  “Not to mention another PR fire for me to put out,” Finley said sarcastically, and then in a more excited tone added, “You don’t think Payne will shoot them?”

  Finley then sighed.

  “What the hell else could happen today?”

  [ FOUR ]

  Lucky Stars Casino & Entertainment

  North Beach Street, Philadelphia

  Saturday, December 15, 12:55 P.M.

  You ain’t going to be smiling in a minute, Tyrone Hooks thought as he returned the doorman’s automatic greeting with a curt nod and entered the casino through a revolving door. And smile all you want, but I know you really checking me out. On those cameras, too.

  Overhead, closed-circuit surveillance cameras were clearly visible, as well as the countless black bubbles in the high ceiling tiles that concealed additional recording devices. They were all completely capable, Hooks had heard when he’d joined a group taking the casino’s free introductory tour, of capturing every move of anyone in the casino.

  But the last thing the rail-thin five-foot-ten twenty-five-year-old was worried about was being recorded. If anything, the security cameras would show him nowhere near the crime when it went down.

  He paused a moment to stomp the snow from his new high-top gray leather athletic shoes, then he slipped off his heavy winter coat and hung it over his right arm, taking care so that the wad of twenties and hundreds didn’t fall out of the coat’s inside pocket. Underneath he had on a black short-sleeved T-shirt covered by a baggy orange and blue Philadelphia 76ers jersey.

  He made a grand gesture of checking the time on his wristwatch. The new eighteen-karat yellow-gold Rolex President hung loosely, and he had to rotate it in order to see its hands showing it was five minutes before one. The watch was heavy and enormous, and against his skinny black wrist looked even larger, almost counterfeit. But it was genuine. A month earlier, Hooks had paid for it in part with his winnings from the blackjack tables.

  The cash for the vast majority of the total price—$8,999 before tax, to be exact—had come, however, from the street. His crews pushed plastic baggies of crack, smack, and pot on street corners in the shadows near the Market-Frankford Line El, particularly along a sad stretch of the ironically named Hope Street, no more than a mile from the casino.

  Hooks thought the Rolex’s high cost had been worth every penny, because when he flashed the watch—and the cash and told everyone at the tables that he was an upcoming rap music artist, “King 215”—no one tried kicking the rapper to the curb of the Lucky Stars parking lot.

  They ain’t throwing my ghetto ass out, he thought as he walked toward the main floor. That’d be bad for business when I rap about it.

  Lucky Stars was the newer of two casinos on the Delaware River—in the section of Philly known as Fishtown, which was enjoying a surge of gentrification—and, according to tax payments made to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, already had surpassed the other as the most profitable. (Harrisburg collected about $1.5 billion a year from casinos across the Keystone State, then redistributed it, a portion of which returned to the City of Philadelphia.)

  Lucky Stars’ brand-new five-story complex, with restaurants and bars and large performance theaters, featured a hundred gaming tables and twenty-five times as many slot machines. The cavernous high-ceiling area that Tyrone now approached held rows of slots as far as the eye could see, their lights flashing and bells clanging as people pulled—and pulled and pulled—on the one-armed bandits. The area reeked of stale cocktails and cigarette smoke—twenty-five percent of a gaming floor, by state law, had to be set aside for tobacco users—and of the floral-scented carpet-cleaning chemical that failed to mask the sharp smells.

  While the casino had helpful signage—it indicated, for example, that gaming tables and restaurants and more could be found on upper floors, reached via multiple elevators and escalators—Tyrone Hooks had cased the place enough times to find his way around with his eyes closed. He knew that on the right side of the first floor was one bank of cashier cages. And that beyond those cages was the entrance to the miniature mall of a dozen luxury retail stores hawking to lucky winners—and anyone who hadn’t lost all their money, including next month’s rent—everything from expensive electronics to designer clothing to jewelry.

  Tyrone also knew that while the cashier cages were well-protected, he had learned that the retail stores appeared anything but.

  As he turned and headed for the mall, he surveyed the rows and rows of slots. They looked to be not quite half full, making it a slow Saturday afternoon. For his purposes, he figured a busier crowd would have been better—more people caused more confusion and chaos.

  After passing the cashier cages, he approached, then entered, the retail mall. It was an open-air design, brightly lit with white marble flooring and columns and undulating walls of clear, thick glass panels that separated the individual stores. Averaging about twenty
by thirty feet, each retail space was compact in size but had the appearance of being bigger because of all the clear walls.

  Tyrone Hooks saw that the first store to the left, Medusa’s Secret Closet, had well-formed female mannequins in its front windows, ones made of glass, wearing undergarments that were mere ribbons of material. He caught himself staring at the display before realizing he’d walked past his destination, the first store on the right, Winner’s Precious Jewels.

  He quickly turned back toward the store, then entered. There were only two customers—husband and wife, he guessed—and they were looking at the glass display cases on the left side of the store. Behind the case was the manager, a chubby, balding, middle-aged man in a shiny black two-piece suit. When he saw Hooks, he excused himself to the couple, then turned away and moved quickly toward the entrance.

  “Good to see you again, sir,” the manager greeted Hooks, then gestured toward the gold Rolex that he’d sold him. “That certainly is a beautiful timepiece. Excellent choice. You’re still enjoying it, I trust.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tyrone Hooks said, briefly making eye contact.

  “Splendid! And what can I show you today?”

  “Just looking.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. We recently replenished our holiday inventory. It’s even larger than before, so we have more than the usual number of interesting pieces that would complement your President nicely.”

  “Comp— What?”

  “Complement. Look nice together . . .”

  Hooks thought, Yeah, I’m going to get plenty here to look good.

  “. . . We could create, for example, a very nice heavy gold chain with a customized ‘King 215’ hanging from it.”