Byrne looked at the sheet on the seat next to him. He had breezed into the office, run DeRon Wilson’s name. Besides being a person of interest in Terrell Hightower’s shooting, he had two counts of possession with intent, five counts of misdemeanor assault, lewd vagrancy, shoplifting, possession and passing of counterfeit currency. And that was just the first page.
Byrne entered the building, took the back steps. The walls were covered in tags, the stair platforms were stacked knee-high in plastic bags and loose debris. The smell was all but toxic.
He pushed open the door to the second floor. Byrne noted that more than half the doors had jimmy marks along the jambs, splintered wood that indicated a break-in. Some of the apartments had padlocks on the outside. Sounds filled the hallway — hip hop, game shows, radio ads, arguments, barking dogs.
DeRon Wilson’s was the last apartment on the right. Byrne opened the window at the end of the hall, checked to see if there was a fire escape. There was, so he left the window open. If Wilson decided to jump out, at least Byrne wouldn’t have to break the window to chase him.
Byrne stepped up to the door, knocked. He heard the volume of the television lower, footsteps padding to the door. He saw the peephole go from light to dark, then light. Nothing. He knocked again.
‘Philly PD,’ he said.
Byrne was just about to knock a third time when he heard the bolts turn. A girl opened the door. She was light-skinned, pretty, no more than seventeen. She wore a short silk kimono.
Byrne showed his ID. ‘I’m looking for DeRon Wilson.’
‘Don’t know him.’
She went to close the door, but Byrne got a foot inside the jamb. ‘Miss, it’s very important that I speak to him.’
‘I said, I don’t know him.’
Again she tried to slam the door, but this time Byrne got a shoulder into it. He heard doors open in the hallway behind him. He glanced inside the apartment. The walls were covered in a vinyl, wood-grain wallpaper. A 60-inch plasma TV against the far wall showed an old music video. The floor was littered with brightly colored toddler toys.
Before the girl said another word a man came out of one of the bedrooms.
‘It’s cool, baby,’ the man said.
DeRon Wilson stepped into the living room. Even though Byrne had the man’s stats, DeRon was a lot smaller than Byrne had anticipated — chiseled hard, late twenties, standing about 5’4”. He couldn’t have weighed more than 125. A real bantam, in all respects. In his most recent mug shot he had short dreads, but now his head was shaved. He was covered in tats. He wore a white wife-beater T, jumbo shorts, slung low. Byrne looked at his hands, the pull on his belt. If he had a gun, it was not tucked into his shorts.
‘PPD always welcome here,’ Wilson added. Heavy-eyed, he proffered a smile.
‘Are you DeRon Wilson?’
Wilson stepped fully into the doorway. The girl disappeared into the bedroom. Byrne backed up, giving the man space. All part of the power play.
‘What can I do for Philly’s finest?’ Wilson asked.
‘You can start by answering my question,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you DeRon Wilson?’
‘Everybody knows me.’
‘I’m going to take that as a yes,’ Byrne said. ‘Do you know a boy named Gabriel Hightower?’
Wilson smiled. Three golds in the grill. ‘I know lots of boys.’
More doors opened. Byrne turned to see a half-dozen people in the hallway. They all had cell phones in hand.
‘Do you know him?’ Byrne repeated.
‘I might. But why I gotta tell you?’
‘Mr Wilson, could we step inside? This will only take a few moments of your time.’
Wilson did not back up, did not invite Byrne inside. Instead, he moved further into the hallway, making Byrne retreat a few more steps.
Wilson put a finger into Byrne’s chest. ‘I think you need to get out my face.’
Byrne looked down at Wilson’s finger, swept the hem of his coat back and unsnapped his holster. ‘You need to take a step back.’
‘I don’t need to do a damn thing.’
‘Lower your voice and calm down,’ Byrne said.
‘I’m calm, motherfucker. I’m JB fuckin’ Smoove. What you need to do is to get the fuck out my house.’
At this Wilson put his hand into the pocket of his shorts. Byrne couldn’t take the chance. Before Wilson could pull out his hand Byrne exploded across the hallway and threw one of his massive shoulders into Wilson’s chest, all but putting the man through the wall. The drywall split, raining gypsum dust onto the floor. It was as loud as a shotgun blast.
From his not-too-intimidating perch on the floor, Wilson shook it off, yelled, ‘I’m gonna own you for this, motherfucker.’
Byrne grabbed Wilson by the front of the shirt and yanked him to his feet.
‘You’re gonna own me?’ Byrne drew his Glock, put it to the center of Wilson’s forehead. ‘I might as well buy the whole loaf then, right? How many do you want? Let’s negotiate. Give me a fucking number.’
DeRon Wilson closed his eyes, waited for the pain.
‘This is how it’s going to be,’ Byrne said. ‘You come near that kid again, you even look his way, and I will make it my personal fucking mission in life to make sure you never sleep again. You feel me?’
Wilson remained silent. Byrne pushed the weapon harder into the man’s forehead.
‘Answer me or I will drop you where you stand.’
Wilson opened his eyes and said, ‘Yes.’
Byrne took a few moments, backed off. DeRon Wilson sagged to the floor.
Byrne held his weapon at his side and slowly walked down the hallway, accompanied by shouts of ‘police brutality’ and the like.
A few minutes later, as Byrne walked out the front door of the apartment building, he turned to look at the second floor. Every window was filled with a tenant, leaning out, each with a camera cell phone in hand.
TWENTY-FOUR
Shane had followed Kevin Byrne at a discreet distance, watched as he left his apartment in South Philly, then to the Roundhouse, then down to the river in Port Richmond. He watched him sit in the parking lot for what seemed like an hour.
Shane had felt himself drifting off, until he heard the screech of tires, and looked up to see Byrne’s car fishtailing out of the lot. He headed up Allegheny.
As he tailed the detective, Shane checked his rearview mirror and side mirrors every few seconds. He saw no one else from another TV station, at least anyone in a car with the station logo on the side. Shane had learned long ago that, if you were going to work in a television market — especially a top ten market — the first thing to find out was what kind of cars the police department used, then get that same make and color. More than once he had been able to park among a group of departmental vehicles unnoticed. If you didn’t check the plates, you would think they all belonged to the police. He had gotten inside the tape on many occasions this way.
When Byrne took a right on D Street, Shane got caught at a light, and lost him.
He banged a fist on the steering wheel, pulled over a block away from where he had last seen Byrne’s car, turned up the volume on the scanner. Something was happening. Something was definitely happening. Byrne had taken off like a bat out of hell.
Shane thought about calling the TV station, getting a shooter, but he didn’t need Cyn or anyone on this. He had his own rig in the trunk, and there was no better one-man-bander in Philly.
He found himself right in front of a coin laundry, so he rolled back about thirty feet, taking himself out of the electric glow of the fluorescent lights. He berated himself for staying too far away, for not being better at shadowing a subject.