Deadly Assets

by W. E. B Griffin

  Speeding up to make it through the changing traffic light at F Street, she suddenly heard through her open sunroof the sound of a male screaming.

  She quickly turned off the radio.

  She turned her head, trying to find him.

  And then she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye—someone running out of the shadows and down the slope of the park toward the street.

  It appeared to be an enormous human figure, with a mop of dreadlocks.

  Then she heard him scream again. The tone was one of sheer terror, and she could now make out exactly what he was screaming.

  It sent a chill through her.

  “They’re here! They’re here! Save me!” he screamed.

  When she turned, she saw that the enormous human, despite the bitter cold, had absolutely no clothes on.

  Then she screamed as the enormous naked male suddenly ran in front of her Prius.

  She slammed on the brakes.

  The tiny car shuddered when the man bounced off the front bumper, then slammed across the hood.

  In that instant, she saw the terror in the man’s eyes, and the heart and peace symbol tattoos on his face, and, finally, the Family tattoo across his throat.

  And then he hit the windshield, and it shattered, and then began to become coated in red.

  Everything went silent.

  Piper Ann began sobbing.

  X

  [ ONE ]

  Word of Brotherly Love Ministry

  Strawberry Mansion, Philadelphia

  Saturday, December 15, 10:02 P.M.

  Matt Payne found the doors locked on the Police Interceptor, leaned against its front right fender and turned up the collar of his suit coat in a futile attempt to block the icy wind. He surveyed the smoldering blocks-long scene while waiting for Tony Harris to catch up—What the hell’s taking him so long? I’m freezing—then noticed a strong smell.

  “Jesus!” he said aloud.

  And then he realized the source: His clothing reeked of everything that had been set afire, especially the heavy odor of burned rubber tires.

  Another good reason to get the hell out of this suit . . .

  —

  After ducking under the yellow crime scene tape when they’d first arrived in Strawberry Mansion, Matt Payne thought that he might have been a bit overly critical—Okay, so I was more than a little bit, but screw ol’ Raychell—since his tailored suit and tie was just as sartorially out of place in the hood as the pearls and high heels he had just mocked the Action News! brunette reporter for wearing.

  Consequently—worse—the suit also turned him into an obvious target.

  There may as well be a blinking neon sign above me with an arrow pointing at my back: LOOK! PUBLIC ENEMY #1 RIGHT HERE! SHOOT ME!

  Those death threat postings are probably coming from chickenshit keyboard warriors.

  But all it takes is one bullet from some emboldened bastard to ruin your day.

  Walking toward the red front door of the mission, he scanned the area and felt some comfort in the fact that there were uniformed officers all over the scene.

  Only a fool would try something now.

  Trouble with that is, this city proves itself to be full of fools with nothing to lose.

  He saw that smoldering mounds of debris, including one topped with a charred lectern and what was left of the poster of Public Enemy Number One, were in every direction. And there were broken beer bottles, the glass shards scorched by intense heat, indicating Molotov cocktails.

  And some of those same fools came prepared to cause trouble.

  And—big surprise—did . . .

  At the curb on the corner, there was a vile-looking heap of muck that had been left beside a storm sewer opening. Indistinguishable bits and chunks of trash poked out of the crude sludge.

  Looks like the Crime Scene crew checked the storm sewers for evidence.

  God-knows-what all winds up down that drain.

  That’s some really foul-looking stuff . . . almost like it could be hell’s version of a Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Flavor of the Month.

  He stepped carefully, making a wide arc around the pile.

  Ahead, a half-dozen plainclothes officers were standing in front of the red door of the former row house turned Chinese restaurant turned church.

  Payne recognized most of them, some by face and others by name, including Harvey Simpson. The thirty-two-year-old detective had been in the old PECO van running surveillance when Payne tapped him to coordinate the operation to grab Tyrone Hooks after the rally—before anyone else could, if Sully O’Sullivan’s warning held true.

  Simpson wore a faded blue winter coat with diamond-shaped stitching. An oval white patch with red cursive lettering was on each breast, the left one reading Carlos and the right one Doylestown Moving Co.

  It was the polar opposite of what Payne was wearing.

  For cops wanting to blend in with crowds, outfits like Simpson’s were common—the average civilian tended to take things at face value—although at this moment Simpson had intentionally blown his cover. His jacket was unzipped and his holstered Glock 9-millimeter pistol and police department shield next to it were clearly visible on his right hip.

  The small group began to disperse, the men greeting Payne as they went.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Simpson then said. “Let me say again I’m sorry we let that bastard Hooks slip away. The team was in place, ready to grab him right after the rally, and now they’re really damn disappointed—”

  Payne held up his hand.

  “Don’t sweat it, Carlos,” Payne said with a smile. “How the hell could you know that shooting would start? I sure didn’t.”

  After a moment, Simpson said, “I guess you’re right.”

  “Keep the faith, Harvey. We’ll get the bastard. So, what’s the latest?”

  Simpson took out a small spiral notepad from the pocket under the Doylestown Moving Co. patch. He flipped a few pages, then read his notes.

  “So far,” he then said, “there’s been exactly twenty-seven arrested for the usual—disorderly conduct, resisting arrest—and, surprisingly, a handful of charges—six, to be precise—for assault on a police officer, including the miserable prick who assaulted the horse with that piece of concrete. All those miscreants filled up three paddy wagons fast—”

  “You’re not supposed to say that,” Payne interrupted.

  He looked up from his notepad.

  “Miserable prick? Or miscreants?”

  “Neither. You can’t say paddy wagon. It offends our Irish friends.”

  Simpson let loose a Bronx cheer as he tucked the notepad back in his shirt pocket.

  “You know I’m part Irish, right, Sarge?”

  “As am I—and, it sometimes seems, half the department,” Payne said, and grinned, then in a serious tone added, “How is our Mounted Patrol guy?”

  “Hampton is ten kinds of pissed-off. He ain’t happy he got a broken leg from the fall. But he’s really furious about his partner—the four-legged one—getting hurt. Other than that, he’s okay, I guess.”

  “And what about the horse?” Payne said.

  “His name’s Wyatt—”

  “As in . . . ?” Payne interrupted.

  “Yeah. As in Earp.”

  “You’re not pulling my chain . . .”

  “You’re an Eagle Scout, right?”

  Payne nodded. “Proud of it.”

  “Then Scout’s Honor—I made it to Life rank—it’s meant as an honor, like they say yours is. But no direct connection to you. Anyway, they had to tranquilize Wyatt. The vet came and carried him back to his shop. They’re saying he should be okay.”

  Tony Harris walked up.

  “Hey, Harv,” he said.

  “Just in time, Tony. I was about to tell M
att the interesting—”

  “Hold that thought,” Payne interrupted, holding up his index finger. He looked at Harris. “What did you say to Wonder Woman Ace Reporter back there?”

  He gestured toward Raychell Meadow, who was doing a live shot with the cameraman back at the yellow police tape. Nearby, more bright lights illuminated another five television reporters and camera crews as they jockeyed for their angles.

  “Not a damn thing. I followed your lead, Sergeant Payne . . . Fearless leader, sir.”

  “Good,” Payne said, and looked at Harvey. “For future reference, Detective, should you find yourself so confronted, that is how one effectively handles the media.”

  “Don’t say a damn thing?”

  “Exactly. Now, Carlos, you were saying . . . ?”

  Detective Harvey Simpson, grinning, shook his head.

  “Okay, so, here’s the deal,” he said. “The Crime Scene guys were unable to find any weapons—”

  “And they clearly made a damn thorough search,” Payne interrupted, tilting his head toward the pile of filth that had been dredged from the storm drain.

  Simpson went on: “They did collect the usual spent casings on the street in the general area where the shooter—make that shooters, plural—”

  “Plural?” Payne said.

  Simpson nodded. “Plural. That’s what I meant by interesting. There were live rounds and blanks fired.”

  “Blanks?” Harris parroted.

  Simpson nodded.

  “I’ll get to that in a moment. I say general area of where the shooters would have been in the crowd because who the hell knows how many times the casings were kicked as people fled. All were flattened in some way, both from the .38 cal live rounds and from the nine-mil blanks. But the only bullet holes that were in what we gauged to be the field of fire, which is to say the row houses here”—he made a sweeping motion in the direction of the red pagoda roof—“were not from today.”

  “Old ones, huh?” Payne said. “I’m shocked—shocked—there’s been gunplay in the hood.”

  Simpson pointed at a spot on the exterior wall under the red pagoda roof.

  “There’s one we found. They’re all like that—painted over. No telling how old they are.”

  “Actually,” Payne said, “I’m more shocked there really aren’t any fresh ones.”

  “So,” Harris said, “if we know there were live rounds, but no evidence of them, then the bullets had to go up and over the roof?”

  Payne nodded, adding: “And the trajectory of those bullets going up and over the roof would also go up and over anyone standing on the stage.”

  “So, then, no one got shot,” Harris said.

  Simpson raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s my bet,” he said. “At least no one onstage got shot. Depending on the angle, a round could have gone a couple hundred yards thataway”—he pointed to the north—“or even farther. And then have landed god-knows-where—what goes up must come down—maybe in the street, in the side of a building, the roof of a row house.”

  “Same old story,” Harris said. “Unless the round actually strikes something that someone notices—say, a bedroom window, a car door—”

  “A person,” Payne interjected.

  “Or even a person,” Harris repeated, shaking his head, “then fat chance recovering it.”

  “What about the blanks, Harvey? How do you know for sure that they were blanks?”

  “The brass casings on blanks are crimped differently, because they don’t have a lead bullet.”

  “Tell me more,” Harris said.

  “You know that there has to be a seal on a round of ammo,” Simpson said, “or else there’s no explosion.”

  “Yeah,” Payne said. “Otherwise, when the gunpowder ignited, it would just burn in the brass casing but make no sound.”

  “Right,” Simpson went on. “So, instead of a lead bullet, blanks either have some type of plastic cap, which disperses more or less harmlessly after leaving the muzzle, or the top of the casing is crimped tightly closed, which is instantly obvious. No question whatever that both live and blank rounds were fired.”

  Payne looked at Harris. “The question is, why both?”

  “I’m beginning to think Sully’s people, or at least the ones he says are doing the casino’s dirty work, actually did do it,” Harris said, “which is why he called and denied it.”

  “But, again, why? He—along with everyone else who does not know that blanks were fired—assumes the rounds were lethal ones.” He paused, scanned the area, then added, “Which may be exactly what Skinny Lenny wants.”

  “You think Cross staged this, Matt?”

  “I think anything is possible with that false prophet sonofabitch, who I think doesn’t really give a rat’s ass about the killings so much as how he can leverage them to his own advantage.”

  Payne turned to Simpson.

  “Who’s in here?” Payne said, gesturing toward the red door.

  “Not Cross or Banks. They let us search it and the Fellowship Hall.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Mostly the chubby bastard who says he’s in charge—wait till you see the shirt he’s had on all day, you’re gonna love it—gave his name as Deacon DiAndre Pringle. But that’s about all he said. I ran his name. Just last week he got one of the new citations for possession of pot. But, other than that, nothing.”

  Simpson nudged open the door with his toe.

  “Have a look.”

  [ TWO ]

  After entering the ministry—followed by Harris and with “Carlos” Simpson bringing up the rear—Payne scanned the large main room with its gold-and-black-patterned wallpaper and red-painted trim.

  There were a half-dozen young men picking up the hundred or more brown folding metal chairs scattered across the floor, many knocked onto their side, others folded flat. A crucifix crafted of rough-hewn timber was hanging at an odd angle on the wall.

  To one side of the room, where the outlines of lettering that spelled BUFFET had been pried off, were black cubes like the ones outside, now burned, that had served as the stage for the rally. These were stacked to form two tiers, each level holding more of the brown folding chairs.

  “That’s him,” Simpson said, looking toward an overweight black male in his mid-twenties sitting at the end of the first tier.

  DiAndre Pringle had his tablet computer in his lap and was rapidly typing.

  Payne grunted derisively when he saw Pringle was wearing a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt with WARNABROTHER on the front.

  As Payne approached him, Pringle looked up, and his big brown eyes grew wide.

  Pringle said, “You’re . . . you’re—”

  “Apparently Public Enemy Number One,” Payne offered, “if Skinny Lenny is to be believed. I want to talk to him now. Where is he?”

  “Who’s Skinny Lenny?”

  “Oh, come on. Your boss, Cross. You know that his real name is Lenny Muggs.”

  “Muggs? That’s shit. I don’t believe you.”

  “And that’s pretty sharp language there for a deacon, DiAndre. Where did you say you attended seminary?”

  Pringle did not reply.

  Payne went on: “Yeah. I thought so. Listen, you don’t have to believe me. Just tell me where to find him.”

  Pringle studied them, then after a moment announced, arrogantly, “In a safe place, because you’re trying to kill him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The shots fired from the crowd?” Pringle said. “They were clearly a planned assassination attempt on Reverend Cross.”

  “Are you crazy? By who?”

  “By you. The Man. He said he’s lucky to be alive—”

  “How badly is he hurt?”

  “Which is why Reverend Cross has gone i
nto hiding,” he said, evading the question.

  Payne sighed audibly.

  He exchanged glances with Harris and Simpson, both of whom had looks that said This is bullshit.

  “Okay,” Payne said to Pringle. “Enough. We did not shoot Lenny—if he was even shot. And what about Tyrone Hooks?”

  “You mean King Two-One-Five?”

  “Okay, sure, King Two-One-Five. Don’t tell me—he was shot, too?”

  Pringle met Payne’s eyes.

  “Everybody saw it here, and on their TVs and all,” he said, pointing at his pad computer. “Got shot right after rapping ‘Beatin’ Down the Man’ and ‘Payne’s Gotta Go.’ That’s why he’s gone hiding, too. Go figure.”

  “And I guess the two of them are now sitting in this safe house of theirs, tending to each others deadly wounds?”

  There came no reply.

  Payne locked eyes with Pringle, then after a long moment just shook his head.

  You sorry sonofabitch! Payne thought.

  Payne felt his phone vibrate, then looked at its screen, then looked back at Pringle.

  “Thanks for your time, Deacon,” Payne said, and handed Pringle his business card. “Tell Lenny he’d better call me. Tell him I know a couple good doctors if he needs them to tend to those wounds. And tell him that Public Enemy Number One said there’s going to be a police presence out front until he turns up, dead or alive.”

  Payne looked between Harris and Simpson.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here, gentlemen,” he said.

  Simpson gestured at Pringle’s chest.

  “Nice shirt, by the way,” he said, then smiled. “FOAD.”

  Pringle looked up at the big black cop. “Foad?”

  Simpson nodded.

  “Just a technical term used in police work.”

  Payne and Harris exchanged glances and grinned.

  Both were familiar with the acronym for Fuck off and die.

  —

  Tony Harris finally returned to the Crown Vic, where Payne now sat on the front fender, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Harris said. “Nature called, and you know you can never be sure if there’ll be another restroom downrange.” He then made a grand gesture of unlocking the vehicle, and added, “Don’t forget what our friends on police radio said about keeping the car secure . . .”