Deadly Assets (18 page)

And standing in the middle of the mayhem—in front of a sheet that covered a human form—was Matt Payne.

He wore gray trousers, a pale blue starched shirt with a red-striped tie, navy blazer, and shiny black loafers. The slacks had been soiled and the shoes scuffed during the chase. He had his Colt .45 in hand, and was giving the helicopter a thumbs-up gesture.

Bright red lettering at the top of the poster read
SGT. MATTHEW PAYNE,
and
PUBLIC ENEMY #
1 was along the bottom.

Simpson clicked on the ECC button.

“Yeah, Harv,” Kerry Rapier's voice came over Simpson's headset. “Saw it on the monitor here. I've sent word up the chain of command.”

“Payne didn't shoot that guy, if I remember right.”

“You're right. That guy—something Jones . . .
Kenny
Jones—had just fled the scene of a shooting. He stole a minivan, and Matt pursued him in an unmarked Crown Vic. Jones managed to get on the bridge going the wrong way—into seven lanes of oncoming traffic. Payne caught up in the Police Interceptor and executed a textbook PIT maneuver, bumping the minivan so that Jones spun out and hit the zipper barrier.”

“Who knows how many lives he saved doing that. But you get no points for that, huh?”

“No kidding. And then Jones ditched the minivan and made a run for it—with Payne on foot in hot pursuit. It was anyone's guess what the hell the guy would do next—probably carjack someone headed toward Camden—but then he blindly ran into the path of a bus.”

“At least there's not a poster of Jones.”

“I wouldn't speak too soon, Harv.”

Simpson grunted as the screen then showed the men placing another poster at the back of the van, this one of a pudgy, balding, middle-aged white male wearing a coat and tie.

“Who is Cairns?” Simpson said, reading the poster.

“The casino jewelry store manager shot this morning. Guess he wasn't ‘young' enough.”

“Huh?” Simpson said, then added, “Oh.”

He saw that, while the poster had listed the name, Malcolm Cairns, and the white circle with a red
MURDER VICTIM #361,
there was no age mentioned. It was clear, however, he was long past his twenties and thirties.

The next three males shown on the posters were labeled as murder victims
350
,
351
,
352
. Ricardo Ramírez was a chunky twenty-seven-year-old Puerto Rican, Héctor Ramírez a swarthy forty-year-old Cuban, and Dmitri Gurnov a tall, wiry, thirty-year-old Russian with sunken eyes and a three-day growth of beard.

“Aren't those guys from Payne's shoot-out last month on the casino boardwalk, Kerry?”

“Yeah, but it was the Russian who whacked the Cuban Ramírez, and maybe five minutes later Ricky Ramírez killed Gurnov. Then when Ricky Ramírez started shooting at Jim Byrth—”

“That Texas Ranger who was up here?”

“Yeah, that's him. Ramírez shot at Byrth and then took shots at the helo that came on station and was lighting up the scene. When Matt ordered Ramírez to drop the weapon, the bad guy made the mistake of getting in a shoot-out with the good ol' Wyatt Earp of the Main Line. That poster attests to the fact that it didn't turn out too good for Ramírez.”

“Why the hell do they get included in this? Because Payne took out one? An active shooter who'd just killed a guy? That's pure horseshit.”

“Well, technically they all are homicides and made the list. But I take your point.”

The next poster was of an attractive, petite nineteen-year-old Puerto Rican. Krystal Angel Gonzalez was listed as
MURDER VICTIM #348
.

Rapier said: “And there's the poor girl who made the mistake of getting involved with Ricky Ramírez.”

“That's the girl who was killed in the home invasion in Old City last month, right?”

“Yeah. Tragic story. Spent most of her life in and out of foster homes, then got conned by Ramírez. All the details haven't come out, but what we do know is that Ramírez was running drugs and hookers out of a dive bar in Kensington. He made the Gonzalez girl think she was his girlfriend, then tried to pimp her out, and beat her when she wouldn't do it.”

Simpson grunted again. “Same old story. You're right—tragic.”

“Same story but with a twist. After he began beating her, she got her hands on his books—contacts, schedules, everything—”

“And passed them to the woman who ran the foster home,” Simpson finished. “I heard that. And the woman went into hiding when she found the girl killed in her fancy house, the place set afire with Molotov cocktails.”

“And the woman who went into hiding used the books as leverage to get to Ricky Ramírez and the Russian, who owned the dive bar.”

“Nice guys. And now all dead guys. Sergeant Payne should get credit for all three.”

They watched as the final posters were being put up—with Payne's Public Enemy #1 poster being affixed to the front of the lectern.

“Those bastards,” Rapier said. “Harv, if you knew Matt, you'd know he'd rather not get credit for even one. It's why this all stinks. Anyway, I'll check back in a bit.”

“I'll be here with bells on,” Simpson said, reaching for the thermos.

—

Five minutes later, Simpson watched over the lip of his stainless steel cup as a new shiny black Lincoln Navigator came flying up Twenty-ninth and then, tires screeching, pulled up onto the sidewalk behind the rental box truck. The driver of the SUV slipped a paperboard sign on the dash that had a facsimile of a crucifix and the wording
CLERGY—ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS.

Simpson saw the SUV's right rear door swing open. Out stepped Josiah Cross. The tall, skinny, bearded forty-year-old African-American wore a black cloak with a white clerical collar.

Bingo,
Simpson thought.

He zoomed in for a close-up as Cross, dodging traffic, then walked out into the middle of Twenty-ninth Street. Cross put hands on his hips as he looked up at the banner on the yellow rental truck, then surveyed the stage and its posters, and nodded appreciatively.

He turned to start walking back toward the sidewalk—and almost stepped right in front of a car.

As the driver stood on the horn, and then the accelerator, Cross quickly stepped backward out of the path of the roaring car. Then, before he could catch himself, Cross pumped his right arm above his head, his fist in a ball, middle finger extended.

Simpson let out a loud laugh that filled the van.

Cross composed himself, then turned and made it to the sidewalk without further incident.

He went to the stage, hopped on it, and then surveyed the view from there. This time he raised both hands above his head, all fingers extended, turning right and then left, addressing an imaginary crowd. He then, apparently satisfied, nodded and lowered his arms, then hopped down from the stage.

As he walked purposefully toward the open red front door, a short, heavyset black male came out with a cordless phone handset and extended it toward Cross. He wore black jeans and a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt on the front of which was what at first glance looked like the logotype of the Warner Brothers movie studio.

But it wasn't.

Nice,
Simpson thought.

“WarnaBrotha.”

Keeping the no-snitching real in the hood.

How many of these murders can be directly connected to that bullshit? Nobody talking about who the doers are?

He watched Cross take the phone and follow the male back inside.

Simpson shook his head as he reached down and poured another cup of coffee.

[ ONE ]

Word of Brotherly Love Ministry

Strawberry Mansion, Philadelphia

Saturday, December 15, 3:01
P.M.

“Hold on for a minute, Rapp,” the Reverend Josiah Cross said into the cordless telephone handset, then motioned with it to get the attention of the heavyset male wearing the yellow
WarnaBrotha
T-shirt. “Deacon DiAndre, come back here!”

Hearing his name, twenty-five-year-old DiAndre Pringle, who was five-foot-four and one-sixty and had big brown eyes that seemed to slowly scan his surroundings and take in everything, looked up from his tablet computer, nodded acknowledgment, then walked toward Cross as his big eyes dropped back to the device and he rapidly typed on its glass screen.

The large main room, featuring gold-and-black-patterned wallpaper and red-painted trim, was filled with more than two hundred brown folding metal chairs. They formed two dozen rows arranged at an angle and separated in the middle by a wide aisle that went from the red front door to almost the far wall. There, a crucifix crafted of rough-hewn timber hung on the wall above a vacant area that an hour before had held the black wooden cubes and the lectern and speakers that now were outside on the sidewalk.

A series of more black cubes were arranged to one side, stacked to form two tiers, with five brown folding chairs lined up on each level to accommodate members of the choir. On the wallpaper just above the highest chairs, the outlines of lettering that had been pried off spelled out a faded
BUFFET
.

Pringle approached Cross, who stood beside a flight of wooden steps that led to the upper two floors. Two young men carried cardboard boxes down them, then went to the front door and out it.

“What up with the numbers, DiAndre?” Cross said.

Pringle held up the tablet computer for Cross to see, then tapped the glass screen and pointed to it.

“I just sent out another call to action to a new group in Frankford that's got about three hundred people,” Pringle said. “But look here, Rev. There's five thousand two hundred and forty-one—and still climbing pretty quick—thumbs-up Liberty Bells for the Stop Killadelphia Rally. If we get half that many people to show up, just that'll be some crowd.”

“What's this call to action thing you said?”

“When I go on
Philly News Now
—you know, its social media site?—I can reach all kinds of people around the city. Who these people are and how many of them are in whatever group depends on what their interests are.”

“Like that star one for my ministry here, right?”

“Right. Our
asterisk
–
Word of Brotherly Love
has almost a thousand followers. That ain't a bad number, 'cause their interest is this church and this neighborhood.”

“What do you mean by that?” Cross snapped.

“Nothing bad, Rev. I mean it's just a limited group. You want some crazy serious numbers? Try being the Pope.”

Cross narrowed his eyes and looked ready to snap again.

That wasn't lost on Pringle, who tried to recover with: “The good news is that almost all of your followers gave a thumbs-up to the rally. I'd bet it's a pretty good chance that they will be here.”

“And you've got one of these star things for the turkey day, right?”

Pringle tapped the glass of the tablet computer.

“Here's
asterisk–Feed Philly Day
,” Pringle said.

“Three thousand thumbs-up bells?” Cross said, then wondered aloud, “Jesus, are we gonna have enough food?”

Pringle shrugged. “Don't know about that. Need to find out, 'cause all of these here followers checked the box that they were coming for the meal. Who knows how many others are just going to show up? And there were more than a thousand boxes checked for a frozen turkey.”

“Jesus!” Cross muttered.

“Ain't saying ‘Jesus' a sacrilege, Rev?”

“Look, son,” Cross snapped, then faintly heard his name being called repeatedly and realized it was coming from the cordless telephone handset he'd forgotten he still held.

“Keep getting more people for the rally,” Cross ordered Pringle while pointing to the tablet computer, then put the handset to his ear.

Cross watched Pringle disappear up the steps to the second floor as he said, “Sorry about that, Rapp. Look, I'm glad you called. You gotta get me that check today.”

“What check, Lenny?” H. Rapp Badde said.

“For the frozen turkey guy. I've got a lot of hungry folks saying they're coming. We may have to order extra birds. But he said he's still waiting for his money, up front. And said he's got other buyers if we don't come through.”

“He's bluffing. He's probably still pissed you bounced that last check,” Badde said, then added, “I thought you had the rental truck?”

“What about it?”

“What's in it?”

“What's
on
it is the banner saying turkey day is Monday. And saying it's sponsored by you.”

“But what's in the truck? No turkeys?”

“I told you we get them Monday. If you get me that check. You really don't think I'd leave a truck full of frozen turkeys out there, do you? They'd be stolen in no time. Hell, the truck, too. We parked it here for the rally, so the news cameras can show it in the background. Right now it's got posters and boxes of T-shirts for the rally.”

There was a moment's pause before Badde then said, “Look, Lenny, about that rally. I didn't call about the turkeys. What the hell is this about you calling that cop Payne a murderer?”

“What? You called about that? Well, I did. Because he did. He is.”

“Jesus! You can't do that.”

“He's Public Enemy Number One, Rapp,” Cross said, his tone self-righteous.

“Lenny, damn it! Don't do it again! It's not helping the situation.”

“Situation? What situation?”

“You're on CPOC and now its chairman—”

“And I'm done with using that position to make a change. Now I'm using the ministry—”

“But you're linked to CPOC.”

“Rapp, how long has CPOC been around?” Cross didn't wait for a reply. “Fifteen, twenty years? A long damn time. And what's it ever done? Not one damn thing, that's what. Every member on CPOC is frustrated. I'm just the only one speaking up.”

“Why, Lenny?”

“Because there's pretty much been a murder a day forever. It was Killadelphia then, and it's Killadelphia now. And it's mostly brothers. You get what I'm saying?”

Badde sighed. “I'm hearing you.”

“So, I don't know why the hell you're pissed off about this. The rally is really getting to the people. You should check out the following we're getting on the
Philly News Now
link—”

“I've seen it. Trust me . . .”

“Over five thousand viewers have given it one of those bell thumb things. That means there'll be a big crowd at the rally.” He paused. “It would look good if you showed up, made an appearance. Sure you can't make it?”

“Not if you keep calling the cops killers, I can't!”

“Whatever. Your choice.”

“I'll be there for the turkey day. But, for now, listen to me, Lenny. I can't make this plain enough. You are putting a lot at risk here, starting with your CPOC position.”

Cross was quiet a moment, then said, “You didn't just say that. You really mean that? Wait. You want to know what? I really don't care, Rapp. It's my last year anyway.”

Badde blurted: “I meant what I said. You're going too far, and there's gonna be a price to pay. I've got Carlucci's new guy breathing down my neck because of this, because I got you on CPOC and now you're trashing the cops.”

“Got Carlucci's attention? Really?” Cross said. “Then I'm onto something.”

“You're onto something, all right. Out on your ass, Lenny!”

“Look, Rapp, I told you I don't care—”

“No, you goddamn look, Lenny! This is not just about you! What you're doing is putting me in a really bad light that I cannot afford. Got it?”

Cross grunted. “Is that what this is about? Putting you in a light? You've got your name on those construction signs all over town. You and ol' Willie Lane. Showing folks what all you're doing for them, just like your daddies done back in the day. But you know what, Rapp? They got put in office, and then we put you all in office, 'cause you promised things would get better.”

“And they have . . .”

“Maybe better for you, Rapp! But there's still that killing a day, and no one seems to care. There's still good people who can't sit on their own porch 'cause they're afraid of crime, afraid of the gangbanging punks running the streets. I'm looking at a bunch of posters of folks—”

“Look, Lenny,” Badde interrupted, his tone frustrated, “we can talk about all this when I get there. Right here, right now, I really need you to back off. Can you give me your word that you'll do that?”

“So you're saying that we just stop? Just let the killings go on and on?”

“No, Lenny. I'm saying just dial it down a few notches. Go after the goddamn murders, reach out to our people . . .”

Your votes, you mean,
Cross thought.

“. . . but just don't go after the police. Okay? It's important for you and for me.”

Cross, silent and in thought, stared across the room for a long moment.

“And one more thing,” Badde said. “You have to call Carlucci's guy. Just let him know you're not giving up on all the murders in Philly—that's your right—but you'll leave the police out.”

Cross was silent for another long moment.

“Lenny . . . ?”

“When do I get that check for the turkeys?”

[ TWO ]

Torresdale Avenue and Kinsey Street

Frankford, Philadelphia

Saturday, December 15, 3:12
P.M.

The silver late-model Volkswagen Jetta slowed as it passed an automobile salvage yard, then braked hard and turned off the street. It nosed up to the faded orange overhead steel door of a freestanding two-story masonry building. Stenciled on the door in three-foot-high black letters was DO NOT BLOCK DOOR!!! TOW AWAY ZONE!!! To the right of the overhead door there was a steel man door, in the same faded orange, and stenciled in smaller black lettering was
MARIANO'S
COLLISION CENTER. FREE ESTIMATES.

The driver of the VW, a chunky five-foot-four twenty-year-old Puerto Rican with a black stocking cap pulled low on his head, anxiously hit the horn three times as his dark eyes scanned down the street. He took a long draw on his cigarette, then exhaled audibly.

Torresdale was lined with small businesses, most of which were involved in some fashion with the automotive trade. On one side of Mariano's was a three-dollar drive-through car wash, now closed due to the snow, and on the other side was Worldwide Quality Imports.

The larger of two used-car lots on the block, Worldwide had an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire. Strung from light poles above that were ribbons of faded multicolored plastic banners imprinted with SALE. The painted wooden sign on the fence read
WE FINANCE. EVERYONE IS APPROVED. GOOD CREDIT. BAD CREDIT. BANKRUPTCY. REPOS. NO PROBLEM! YOUR JOB IS YOUR CREDIT! 215-555-2020
. The lot itself was packed with about thirty late-model vehicles. Another half-dozen older models, with neon stickers on their windshields announcing
LOW MILES! CLEAN!
LIKE
NEW!
, were parked on the sidewalk and in public parking spaces at the curb. Two of them—a Nissan Ultima sedan and a compact Toyota SUV—the driver recognized as ones he had delivered a couple of weeks earlier.

The driver saw the steel man door crack open about six inches, then immediately swing shut. A moment later he could hear the sound of the overhead door clunking as it began opening.

Then the driver, remembering what he had meant to do minutes earlier, quickly glanced around the dashboard area. He reached for the glove box, yanked it open, and began rifling through it. He pulled out a handful of paper napkins and drinking straws wrapped in plastic sleeves from a fast-food chain, tossed them on the floorboard, then found a black vinyl folder that contained the owner's manual for the vehicle. He threw that back in, slammed the glove box shut, then opened the ashtray.

Here we go!
he thought, glancing up to check on the opening door.

The ashtray held a mix of papers—gas pump and other store receipts crammed in with a wad of one- and five-dollar bills—and a small pile of coins. He stuck his fingers in, clawed at the mass, then managed to grab all but a few coins and stuff it in his pants pocket.

He looked again at the opening door. It was now about a third of the way up, and the snow was beginning to blow inside the garage. A brown hand then poked out and began motioning in a rapid fashion for the Volkswagen to pull inside.

The driver eased the car forward, stopped as the top of the VW's windshield neared the bottom lip of the steel door, then when clear pulled completely inside. The overhead steel door then began to close.

The interior was harshly lit in a gray-white of industrial mercury vapor lamps. There were seven or eight wrecked cars on either side of the workshop, all in various states of repair. At the back of the garage was a nearly new white Volkswagen Passat that had been badly rear-ended and, next to it, a red Honda Accord with no wheels sitting up on blocks, its damaged front end cut free from the rest of the vehicle.

The driver of the Jetta could now see the rest of the hand that had waved him inside—a Hispanic male who looked to be in his twenties, of average height but very thin, his faded blue overalls hanging loosely on him. It clearly was cold inside the shop; the driver could see moisture when the Hispanic male exhaled. His hand now motioned for the driver to stop.