Then there came another yawn, this one deeper and long.
He looked at the couch again and realized that his eyes were so tired they felt rough as sandpaper.
Or. . I can just lay down for five minutes, recharge-which will help me think more clearly-and then get the coffee.
He tossed a box that was on the couch to the floor, laid down, put his feet up on a pillow-and was almost instantly snoring.
–
Payne was startled awake by a banging sound.
What the hell?
He felt very groggy.
The banging came again. After a moment, he realized it was someone at his door.
Who the hell?
It was not common knowledge that there was an apartment in the garret. And of those who did know about it, only a select few knew the code to the door on the third floor that gave access to the steps that led up to the apartment door.
He checked his watch.
I slept. . Jesus!. . four hours?
From the other side of the door came Harris’s voice: “Matt? You okay?”
“Coming!”
As he shuffled across the small room, he checked his phone. The screen was packed with a long list of voice and text messages. He scrolled through it quickly and saw the usual that he’d expect to see.
Then one caught his eye. It was from Kerry Rapier: “The blue shirt sitting on O’Hara’s mother got a gut feeling and knocked on her front door. She didn’t answer. He went to the back door. It was unlocked. He cleared the house. Said it looked like she had just cleaned it. But she was gone. And her car.”
Jesus!
Then more knocking.
“I’m coming!”
Payne flipped the dead bolts and opened the door.
He greeted Harris: “Not dead yet, pal.”
–
“McCrory said he was going to see Pookie,” Harris explained once he was inside the apartment, “then tried to reach you. But when he could not get you, he called me.”
“Sorry for the trouble. I just crashed. And hard.”
“No trouble. I got a little sleep, too. You want to catch up with McCrory? He said the house is on Clementine, down the street from where Dante Holmes got whacked. Said to just let him know when you want to meet.”
“Yeah. But hold on.”
Payne scrolled through his messages.
“Nothing new here on Cross or Hooks. You hear anything?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Something needs to break,” Payne said. “Let me grab a hat. You want to tell McCrory we’re en route?”
“Sure.”
–
As Payne was locking his apartment door, his phone vibrated.
Mickey. About time. .
Payne thumbed the glass screen and the complete text of O’Hara’s message came up: “Got it. Thanks. Sadly, that death doesn’t bring back Tim and Emily. Remember me telling you about the EB-5 visas? There’s more to that story. But, first, tomorrow I’m running O’Brien’s next story-about the Cartel del Nuevo Acuña laundering its dirty money into gold. Erring on the side of caution, I’ll be out of pocket for a few days after this story breaks. Be safe, Matty.”
Gold? My God! Payne thought, then shook his head, recalling the conversation about the visas:
“Matty, you know that high-rise on Arch that you blew a gasket over?”
“The one the Poster Boy for Billionaires got the hundred million in tax breaks for? What about it?”
“You ever hear about EB-5 visas?”
“Yeah. And I remember hearing on a Philly News Now broadcast that Rapp Badde’s PEGI is using them for some of the funding of that new sports complex.”
“Well, ol’ Willie Lane greased the skids for Fuller’s company to get EB-5 funding to build his project.”
“Why not Badde?”
“Two reasons. One, Center City isn’t suffering economically like the hard-hit areas and thus does not meet standards under the Philadelphia Economic Gentrification Initiative.”
“And two?”
“Two, Lane is council president and can yank Badde’s chairmanship of HUD at any time-actually, officially ‘reassign’ his duties where he believes they best could be utilized-say, on the Parking Meter Coin Collecting Committee. .”
Payne chuckled.
“. . and thus Badde doesn’t want to rock the boat.”
“But,” Matt said, “as damn disgusting as that ‘fund a visa, get a fast green card’ program is, it’s legal.”
“The problem is where the money is coming from. That’s a different story-a big one, according to O’Brien.”
Payne then remembered how O’Hara had replied when he asked how O’Hara squared working for Francis Fuller-to wit, by quoting Sun Tzu’s “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
—
Now, Payne thought, the lesson learned here is: Don’t piss off an Irishman.
O’Hara is not afraid of Five-Eff.
Or the cartels.
–
Tony Harris was behind the wheel of the unmarked Crown Victoria waiting at the curb. He had his cell phone to his ear.
Payne pulled open the front passenger door.
“Okay, Dick, we will see you in a few,” Harris said as Payne settled in the seat.
Harris broke off the call and placed the phone in the dashboard mount.
“I’m starved, Matt. You hungry?”
“What the hell?” He pointed at Harris’s phone. “Wasn’t that just McCrory? What did he say about him-us-meeting Pookie?”
“There’s no rush.”
“Why?”
“Pookie’s instead gone to meet his maker.”
Payne slowly shook his head.
Harris went on: “Got whacked about a half hour ago. Dick’s at the scene waiting for the M.E. to arrive. Happened right down the street from where Dante got whacked.”
Payne stared out the windshield.
“Shit,” he said, then sighed.
After a long moment, Payne then looked at Harris, raised his eyebrows, and said, “It’s a bit out of the way, but I could really go for a Dalessandro’s cheesesteak. I’ll even let you buy.”
Harris smirked, and dropped the gear selector into drive.
“You’re the best, Marshal Earp.”
XI
[ONE]
Clementine and F Streets
Kensington, Philadelphia
Sunday, December 16, 2:35 P.M.
Matt Payne shoved the last bite of his cheesesteak sandwich into his mouth as Tony Harris turned onto Clementine, wound his way around various vehicles belonging to the news media, and then parked the Crown Victoria with two right tires up on the sidewalk.
“Try not to rub your greasy fingers all over,” Harris said, taking a drink of his coffee as he handed Payne a small stack of paper napkins, then put the gearshift in park. “You’ve already ruined one set of clothes this weekend. And you’ll want to look your best for the media when you give them the silent treatment.”
“What would I do without you, Detective Harris?”
As Payne wiped his hands, he looked out the windshield.
Just beyond the nose of the Police Interceptor was the perimeter of yellow police tape that was keeping the reporters and onlookers at a distance. Inside it, Dick McCrory and Hal Kennedy were standing at the foot of a row house’s cracked concrete steps.
Payne chuckled.
“What?” Harris said.
“Even in plainclothes, those two look like cops.”
Payne then pointed at the small group of five black teenagers, four males and a female, milling on the corner down at the other end of Clementine, near the intersection of E Street.