Deadly Assets (30 page)

“Really? Why?”

“Because he knows that the free clinic will swap old needles for new sterile ones. Sometimes he'll do the needle exchange when our mobile clinic van comes by. But if he goes to the actual clinic, where we offer counseling and free medical care, he can get the doc to prescribe Sub.”

“Suboxone? The methadone-like pill?”

“Yeah, for fighting the symptoms of withdrawal from the opiate. Jumper can get a three-month supply, then sell the pills on the street for ten or so bucks each, pocketing about a grand. And for those doing dope, he sells ‘the works'—the sterile needles—for a buck each.”

Piper shook her head.

“That doesn't seem right.”

“The addicts are too lazy to do it themselves. Or too fucked up—pardon my language.”

She waved her hand.

“No worries. I've heard the word a couple times. It seems appropriate here, I guess. But they could get their needles for free.”

“Sure they could,” Bones said. “But Jumper provides a service. Sells the smack for ten bucks, then the needle for another buck. Kinda like, You want fries with that? Capitalism at its best.”

Piper Ann grunted derisively.

“Maybe I'll bring the needles,” she said, “and give them away.”

“Uh, I wouldn't do anything until you learn more. Depending on the person you're cutting out, doing that could get you killed.”

Piper Ann met Bones's eyes, made a face, then nodded.

“Like I said,” Bones went on, “the park's not anywhere near perfect, but it's better than it was.” He motioned at the SEPTA station. “Used to be, just to avoid the drug-dealing and drug-using there at Somerset Station, people would walk the dozen or so blocks to the two other nearest stations, Huntington and Allegheny.” He chuckled. “Hookers are a big problem at Huntington, but I guess that's easier to deal with.”

“What's going on with Amy?”

Bones looked toward the park bench. He saw that Bud just sat there. But Amy was now awake and clearly trying to hold her head upright. She was unsuccessful. Her chin dropped to her chest, and then she did not move.

“What do you mean?”

“Is she hypoglycemic?” Piper Ann said.

“That's not a diabetic shock. She's been doing it almost ten minutes. And look at Bud. He's not worried. If it was suddenly something new she was suffering—and there's a lot of that these days—he'd be screaming bloody murder.”

“Then what?”

“Doper dip. Heroin nod.”

“Oh my God. She's so young.”

“Your other clue is her hair, her clothes—she's a mess.” He looked at Piper Ann. “You'll get used to it.”

“You said there's a lot of suddenly new stuff?”

He nodded. “Follow me.”

As Bones led Piper Ann to the rear of the Free Library, she looked around and realized that she was really not all that surprised at what she saw.

It reminded her of another mission trip she had taken, to New Orleans to help rebuild homes. She found the misery in that southern city—the poverty, the drugs, the crime—was not at all unlike what she had learned existed in clear view in Philly.

And, when her classmates had gone to the jazz clubs on Frenchman Street, which was in a rough section just outside the French Quarter, they'd heard Glen David Andrews and his high-energy brass band perform. Andrews, who talked about being in rehab for his heroin addiction, was a champion for rising above. And his songs carried the message. In one tune, “Bury the Hatchet,” with a trio of trumpets backing him on his trombone, he sang: “How come children know how to work a nine-millimeter but can't work a geometry problem? Illiteracy is not cool . . .”

It's like everyone knows this is going on,
she thought.
One big dirty secret . . . but it's hardly a secret.

—

Near a bench on the backside of the Free Library, Bones bent to the ground and picked up one of the thirty or more discarded plastic pouches that lay in a pile.

Piper Ann saw that they were colorful, and, surprising her, looked kid-friendly. The big yellow letters read
ROCK CANDY.

“You're familiar with MDMA?” Bones said.

“A little.”

“In large part due to it being illegal, MDMA is dropping in popularity,” Bones said, then gestured with the brightly colored pouch. “The other reason is that these designer drugs are taking its place.”

“Designer drugs?”

“MDMA is short for methylenedioxy methamphetamine. Better known as Molly or Ecstasy. The meth creates euphoria by messing with the serotonin and dopamine levels in the brain. Dopamine affects the reward centers of the brain. You know, like when you feel pleasure.”

“Like booze?”

Bones nodded. “Alcohol produces, say, a hundred or two hundred units of dopamine. Cocaine takes it up to three-fifty. And meth creates extreme euphoria—in excess of a thousand units. Small wonder folks get addicted. Lord knows I did. You just want more and more.”

After a moment she said, “What about Spice? Is there much here?”

Bones raised an eyebrow.

“I've never used,” she said. “Not after the stories I heard.”

“Smart girl,” Bones said. “Spice I hope is on its way out. Dealers bought the synthetic marijuana in powder form, mixed it with rubbing alcohol or, preferably, acetone, because it evaporates rapidly, then sprayed it on tobacco or some other leafy material, like herbs, with a bit of spearmint added for smell and flavor.

“What's dangerous about Spice, as well as most street drugs, is there's no quality control—could be a little of the drug, could be a lot—so users never know exactly what they're ingesting. It was flying off the shelves in head shops, even online, for thirty-five bucks for three grams. But now the DEA has labeled the five active chemicals in it as Schedule One controlled substances.”

“Then what's all that?” she said, pointing at the bags on the ground.

“So now along come these new ones. They're synthetic versions of cathinones, which occur naturally in the khat plant. They can be swallowed, smoked, snorted, injected. They're so new—Chinese ‘design' them as variants to older ones, which is why they're called ‘designer'—that laws can't keep up with the changing chemical makeup. Like the ones they called ‘bath salts' and ‘potpourri,' these make folks paranoid. They hallucinate. But what's worse is that they can cause the user to get hyperthermia—their body temperature soars over a hundred degrees.”

He held up the Rock Candy packet.

“This is it. Also called Grrr-ravel. And other names. It looks like tiny rocks.”

“But the package label says Not for Human Consumption,” she said.

“It's an attempt to get around the law. They did the same with bath salts—which were made from a cathinone derivative called MDPV, now banned—but despite the warning, everyone knew their real purpose. It damn sure wasn't bathing. Gravel is in the same cathinone family, but the alpha-PVP isn't—yet—illegal.”

He paused.

“They should just call it Guinea Pig. It's anyone's guess what's in it, and what it's going to do. So every time a user takes it, they're turning themselves into a guinea pig. I heard someone, not exactly kindly, call them a new kind of reverse eugenics.”

She shook her head.

“Darwin's survival of the fittest.”

He nodded, then added, “Cruel, but in many cases not entirely wrong. Their life expectancy is tragically short. I got lucky I got clean.”

“Where do they get these?”

“The better question might be, ‘Where can you
not
get these?' They're everywhere, because they're legal. China, and increasingly Pakistan—they're creating ones so fast that there's not a scientific name for them.

“The DEA says there are more than a hundred and fifty thousand of these chemical manufacturing facilities in China alone. They also admit we're not going to arrest or legislate our way out of this.”

Piper Ann was silent a long moment.

“Surreal,” she finally said.

“Yeah, surreal and worse. And so we have the free clinic. Like I said, one person one day at a time.”

—

Piper Ann Harrison reached over and turned off the radio in her Prius, and sighed heavily again. She had been listening to the news on WHYY, the public radio FM station, then pushed the button for the University of Pennsylvania's WXPN.

They were playing a music program of classic jazz. Coming from her speakers was the sound of John Coltrane on the saxophone. The horn was soothing, especially compared to the news that WHYY had been broadcasting about the rally in Strawberry Mansion.

The WHYY reporter had hesitated to call it a riot, but from her description of burning cars and mayhem, not to mention the shaky tone of the reporter's voice, a riot was what it sounded like to Piper Ann. It all had made her very nervous, and gave her all the more reason to hurry and get the delivery of the sandwiches behind her.

Because of that disturbance, she had had to go out of her way to avoid that part of town. Every other time she had made the drive to Needle Park, she had gone down Lancaster Avenue, then taken Girard Avenue across the Schuylkill River and all the way into Fishtown, then cut up to Front Street to reach the park in Kensington.

But that route took her right past North Twenty-ninth Street.

Taking the expressway now had been frustrating—she really had hoped to already have been there and back—but decided the inconvenience was worth it to avoid the problems in Strawberry Mansion.

Piper Ann turned up the volume on the radio. John Coltrane's horn, playing “My Favorite Things,” was almost hypnotizing. She dug in her purse and produced a cigarette and lighter.

After her first puff, she pushed the button that opened her sunroof. She could feel the bitter cold air, and tilted her head back to exhale the smoke out the opening.

Sooner I get this done, the sooner I can get home.

And the sooner I'll be enjoying the warm Caribbean sun in Cuba.

She pressed harder on the accelerator, and the hum of the electric motor grew slightly louder as the seventy-four-horsepower gasoline engine kicked in with extra power.

Ten minutes later, she approached McPherson Park.

She saw that, despite the winter weather, the park was busy as usual, with many people milling around its center, near the Free Library.

Well, I feel better now that I came.

I can just leave the boxes of food up at the library, then take the empty thermos and head home.

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.

[ 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 Matt 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 W
ARNA
B
ROTHER
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.”