The Vigilantes

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “You’ve gone all the way back to the beginning?”

  “Sure. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when trying to turn over a rock under a rock?”

  Payne nodded. “Yes, indeed it is. And, to answer your question, there’s not any single answer—with the exception of what Kerry recently suggested. None apparently knows what the hell a condom is.”

  Radcliffe said, “I’ve been feeding key data into my skunk-works search engine.”

  Radcliffe had managed to get his hands on an early version of a super-powerful software program developed at MIT, and Payne had seen him use it before.

  “And?” Payne said.

  “All the pop-and-drops who’d been shot had either been charged with or served time for a sex crime, all but the lawyer and his client.”

  “Right.”

  “Jay-Cee,” Harris put in, “had charges against him of involuntary deviant sexual intercourse and rape of an unconscious or unaware person in one case that Gartner got tossed.”

  “Tossed on a technicality,” Radcliffe said. “The chain of evidence of the rape kit was broken. It was deemed inadmissible in the trial. But the results still are on file. They state that the blood test from the girl he raped showed that she had really early stages of the bacterial disease gonorrhea.”

  “And?” Payne said.

  Radcliffe shrugged. “Nguyen’s master case file from those charges says that he was undergoing treatment for gonorrhea.”

  “So Nguyen gave the girl the clap,” Payne said.

  “Would appear that way.”

  “Nothing new. Kerry has a story about one where the rape victim got whatever disease in her throat,” Payne said. He then appeared to be in deep thought. He said: “Which puts Nguyen in line with the other pop-and-drops, leaving only Gartner with no sex-crime link. He may just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time when Jay-Cee got popped.” He paused, then added, “Lucky us.”

  “You didn’t like Gartner?”

  “Nobody liked that slimy sonofabitch.”

  Andy Radcliffe raised his eyebrows, nodded once, then looked back to the laptop screen. “Maybe I can find a link with Gartner and some sex crime. . . .”

  “Kerry, let’s take another look at the interview I had with Shauna Mays.”

  Rapier worked his control panel, and the image of Matt with the malnourished and badly bruised woman in Homicide’s Interview Room II came on the monitor. In the right-hand bottom corner was a small date stamp: 01 NOV, 13:20:01.

  “Run it up to about 13:30,” Payne said.

  Rapier fast-forwarded to that point on the clock, hit play, and shortly thereafter the sound of Payne exhaling came through the speakers in the ceiling. Then his voice, slightly frustrated, said:

  “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. Who had the gun?”

  “A delivery guy. He come in with Kendrik’s paper. That paper I had that the cop took?”

  “The Wanted sheet?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. He come in and—No, wait. First he say he got a check for Kendrik. And when I let him in, he give me the paper. The sheet. Said there was no check.”

  “This began at what time?”

  She cocked her head. “Time? This morning, all I know. Ain’t no clocks in a crack house!”

  In the ECC, there was a chorus of chuckles from Harris, Radcliffe, and Rapier.

  As they watched Payne in the video nodding while writing in his notepad, Kerry said, “Gee, Marshal, I thought everyone knew crack houses didn’t have clocks.”

  Payne gave him the finger as his voice came through the speakers:

  “What did this guy look like? And was he alone, anyone else in the house?”

  “Just him. Old white guy, maybe my age. Tall. Kinda skinny.”

  “Okay, you can stop it, Kerry,” Payne said. He looked at Harris. “So, a delivery guy. A FedEx delivery guy? And Mudd said the blue shirt had seen a FedEx minivan rolling through right before Cheatham took a bullet.”

  “But that kid, his nephew, told Mudd that he didn’t see one. Which of course, as Mudd pointed out, could’ve been a straight-out lie.”

  They were quiet a long moment, each in deep thought.

  Then Harris said: “You have any idea how many FedEx trucks there are in Philadelphia?”

  “But it was on a Sunday, not a normal day for deliveries.”

  “I’ll say it again, Matt. You have any idea how many FedEx trucks there are in Philadelphia? And just because they may not be delivering, they’re still moving around the city for logistical and other reasons, like maintenance. And, then again, for all we know, this one was stolen.”

  Matt nodded. “Agreed. But it’s a rock to look under. Maybe we’ll find another under it.”

  Looking at the image of Marc James, Payne said, “Whoever he is, our mystery shooter’s bright. He’s doing the reverse of a sweepstakes sting.”

  “A sweepstakes sting?” Radcliffe repeated.

  Payne explained: “You mail out, say, a thousand letters to the LKA of people wanted on outstanding warrants. The letter says the recipient is guaranteed a prize worth up to a couple hundred bucks, and the first fifty people who show up have a chance to win a car. The official-looking but bogus letterhead has the address of some empty store in a strip center you get a civic-minded owner to let you borrow. The day of the ‘event,’ you furnish it with a couple desks and some chairs, then put signs in the window that say ‘Keystone State Sweepstakes Headquarters.’ And you borrow a nice new luxury sports car or SUV to park in front with a sign saying ‘Win This!’ Then, when the wanted ones show up, an undercover posing as a secretary matches the letter to the warrant list to make sure it’s still outstanding, then sends the idiot back to another room for his photograph and prize—a nice shiny pair of handcuffs.”

  Radcliffe grinned. “Sounds like it works.”

  “Not as good as it used to, but yeah, there’s still plenty of stupid critters out there. One really bright one even brought his court papers as his proof of ID.”

  “So,” Radcliffe said, “instead of the guy sending out letters to the LKAs, he went to them individually, saying he was delivering FedEx envelopes containing checks?”

  “That appears to be it,” Payne said.

  Everyone was silent a moment.

  Then Radcliffe went back to his keyboard and stared at the screen, then quickly typed something and smacked the enter key.

  “There,” he said, pointing at the screen. “I don’t know if it means anything, but in Nguyen’s file?”

  “Yeah?” Payne said.

  “The district attorney’s case notes say that William Curtis is employed by FedEx here. Says he lives on Mount Pleasant.”

  Payne casually sipped from his Homicide coffee mug, then said, “Who the hell is William Curtis?”

  Twenty minutes later, Harris returned the receiver to the cradle of the multiline phone on the conference desk. He looked at Payne.

  “This Will Curtis called in sick today. His supervisor”—he looked at his notes—“a guy named Jeff Allan, said he’s in a bad way. Curtis has been out sick most of the month. And he said that, judging by the look of him, it’s the real deal. He guessed it’s something terminal. He asked, but Curtis wouldn’t own up to it.”

  Payne and Harris looked at each other.

  “And there’s no answer at his house on Mount Pleasant,” Payne said.

  Harris’s cell phone started ringing.

  He checked the caller ID, then answered the phone with: “Whatcha got, Charley?”

  Payne looked at Harris and saw his expression brighten.

  “How many?” Harris said. Then: “Okay, got it. Let me know if anything changes. We’re on our way.”

  He looked at Matt as he broke off the call.

  “Bell says two black males just entered the James place on Richmond carrying a black duffel bag.”

  Payne quickly stood up. “Kerry, you and Andy run things here and call me the minute you find anything else on
this Curtis guy.”

  As Payne pulled on his blazer and dug in his pocket for the Crown Vic keys, he said to Harris, “Let’s roll.”

  [THREE]

  3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:45 A.M.

  Allante Williams saw an open parking spot one block south of 3118. He liked it for two good reasons: It was close enough to reach if the deal went sour and he had to run, and his black Dodge Charger would be well hidden by the old PECO truck right in front of it.

  He shut off the car, looked at Kenny Jones sitting in the passenger seat, then reached back and pulled the black duffel from the backseat. He unzipped it and took out a monster of a stainless-steel pistol. Even Kenny appeared impressed at the sight of the Ruger Redhawk, a double-action revolver chambered for .44 Magnum.

  “You ever shoot a wheel gun?” Allante asked. “Any gun?”

  “Damn right, Big Al!”

  Allante wasn’t sure if he believed him.

  “This Redhawk is a cannon,” Allante said, handing it to him. “It’s mine, dude, and I want it back, so don’t get any goddamn ideas.”

  “Yeah, sure, man,” Kenny said, wrapping his hand around its big black grip and aiming it out the windshield.

  “Keep it down, dammit!”

  “Okay,” Kenny said, putting it on his lap and swinging out the cylinder to check if all the bullets were live rounds.

  “There ain’t no damn bullets in this gun!” Kenny blurted. “What the hell’s it good for if it ain’t got no bullets?”

  “Calm down, dude. You saw how it looked when you first saw it. That’s all you need to do with Cicero. Door opens, you move inside with the bag of money first, then hold the tip of this badass barrel in his face.”

  And with no bullets you won’t be able to shoot me later.

  “Besides, I’ll be backing you up with this going in,” Allante said, pulling back his jacket to reveal the Ruger 9-millimeter semiautomatic in a holster on his belt.

  Kenny clearly looked as if he didn’t like the idea, but then shrugged. He reached in his pocket and pulled out five or six foot-long white zip ties.

  “Not gonna shoot the bastard, anyway,” Kenny said, pointing to the zip ties. “Gonna do to him what he did to Reggie.”

  With Allante Williams just to the right of the door at 3118 Richmond Street, Kenny Jones banged on the door.

  What are the fucking odds that some hothead inside is going to look out the peephole, see this dumbass holding the sack of cash, then drill the door—and him—with lead?

  Damn good, that’s what the odds are.

  This better be worth forty Gs. . . .

  The door opened a crack, and Kenny said, “Cicero, I got it like I said, man.”

  He held up the bag with his left hand. The hand cannon was in his right, hidden by the bag.

  The door closed, and there was the clanking sound of its two chains being removed, then the door swung open.

  And Kenny, surprising the hell out of Allante, did exactly as he’d been told.

  Allente went in behind him.

  “What’re you doing, Kenny?” Cicero said, staring at the business end of the barrel.

  Then Kenny swung the heavy stainless-steel Ruger, fiercely pistol-whipping Cicero’s mostly bald head.

  Cicero quickly backed up, shielding his head from the blows with his arms.

  “Kenny! Wait!” Allante yelled. “Stop!”

  Cicero then turned and tried to run down the basement steps—but Kenny got one last hard swing in.

  And Cicero went tumbling down the steps.

  In the basement were two small dirty rooms, one with a twin-size bed and a wooden table. There were bags of pills stacked two feet high.

  Kenny dragged the limp but breathing body to the bed, then pulled the zip ties from his pocket and cinched them tightly around Cicero’s neck. Cicero’s body began to convulse. But within a minute, it went slack.

  Damn, that was fast, Allante thought.

  Kenny turned and said, “I’m gonna look for some acid. Be right back.”

  And he ran back up the stairs.

  After Allante was sure Kenny was out of earshot, he called Rapp Badde.

  “Hey, man, I know you were worried. Everything’s under control. The Cicero guy is gone and—”

  “Look,” Badde interrupted, “you don’t have to do Kenny, too. We got back everything that he stole. All’s good. Just turn him in for the reward, too.”

  “Okay, man. You’re the boss,” he said, but realized that he was talking to a broken connection.

  Badde had already hung up.

  Then Allante, starting to paw the bags of pills, wondering what they might be, heard banging on the front door upstairs.

  What the—?

  He threw all the bags of pills he could fit in the duffel, then headed for the stairs.

  Will Curtis, curiosity getting the best of him on his way to Port Richmond, drove to where LeRoi Cheatham had had his Lex Talionis moment. Because of the various one-way streets, he had to make a huge circle around the block.

  Then, there on Hancock, was a shred of yellow POLICE LINE tape flapping in the breeze.

  And that’s all.

  Then he thought he saw a bloodstain on the alleyway. But it was in shadow and he couldn’t be sure.

  A block later, he did a double take at the cleared city block.

  Down there’s where all those cops were.

  But I thought there were some houses on that corner.

  Now it’s all smelly raw dirt.

  He drove on, and ten minutes later, just before eleven o’clock, he turned the white Ford minivan onto Richmond Street, then rolled up the street, looking for 3118.

  During the drive, Will Curtis had decided he wasn’t going to handle this delivery like the others. He didn’t think he could go through the whole charade, then maybe have to wait if the bastard wasn’t here.

  He felt so ill, in fact, that he almost had not come at all. Even after a night’s sleep he had not felt significantly better. He’d regained a little energy from forcing himself to eat a banana and half a turkey sandwich on the drive over. But he was still weak, far more so than usual.

  The only good thing, he decided, was that he hadn’t had another unfortunate accident. The lump on his forehead hurt enough.

  But I really want this evildoer to pay.

  The sonofabitch not only sold those damn date-rape pills, but he’d been convicted of using them, too.

  So, the minute the door opens, I’m just going to go in. I know what the bastard looks like.

  Then it’s Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am, and I’m done.

  [FOUR]

  3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:59 A.M.

  Flying up the Delaware Expressway in the gray unmarked Crown Victoria, Matt Payne killed the siren over Ann Street—where this part of I-95 went from being elevated to ground level—then caught the next exit. The off-ramp actually went over Allegheny, and he had to go up a block to Westmoreland, then double back around a park.

  As he did so, he listened to Tony Harris talking on his cell phone with Charley Bell, the hefty thirty-year-old detective who was sitting undercover in the old Philadelphia Electric Company van.

  “Okay, got it,” Harris said into the phone. He broke the connection and looked at Payne. “He said nobody’s come or gone since the last two went in. And that it’d be a good idea to go around the back and check that first. Said it’s the house with the black Cadillac Escalade in the drive.”

  Payne nodded.

  Harris then said, “Give me your phone.”

  Payne did, and he saw Harris key in a number, then call it.

  “It’s Harris,” Tony said. “Just making sure you have Matt Payne’s number. Now you both have each other’s number ready to speed-dial in your LAST CALL list.”

  He ended the call without another word, then handed the phone back to Payne.

  Because the Crown Vics had been on loan from Homeland Secur
ity and no one knew for sure how long the loan program would last—What the Fed Giveth, the Fed Can Taketh Away at Any Damn Time—the police department had had no intention of spending the money to buy more of its police radios and installing them in the cars when they’d have to uninstall them at the end of the loan. It had been decided that the portable handheld police radio units could be used. And, failing that, a cell phone.

  As Matt made the right turn onto westbound Allegheny, he reached down and tugged the plug for the light bar out of the cigarette lighter receptacle. Harris then flipped the two sun visors up, concealing the light bar and the POLICE sticker.

  Payne turned left onto Richmond, then left again at the next street, which provided access to the rear of the properties. It was next to the interstate highway, and there was plenty of traffic noise along the back side of the buildings.

  Some of the row house backyards still had grass, but it wasn’t well kept. Others were cluttered with anything from storage buildings to busted aboveground swimming pools to junk cars.

  And one had a shiny black luxury SUV.

  “There’s the ride,” Payne said as he pulled out his Colt Officer’s Model .45 from inside his waistband. With the muzzle pointed at the floorboard, he thumbed back the hammer to cock it, then thumbed up the lever at the back of the slide to lock it. Then, as he continued to scan the area, he held it on his right thigh. “But I don’t see anything happening at the house—or any of the others, for that matter.”

  “Me neither. Go up a couple more drives past it, and I’ll get out and cover this back here while you and Charley take the front.”

  Just before making the right turn to get back to Richmond, Matt saw in his rearview mirror that Tony was rolling two rusty drums from the yard next door and putting them behind the Escalade.

  That probably won’t stop someone trying to get away, but it ought to slow them.

  Then Matt saw ahead of him, at the corner of Richmond, the nose of Charley Bell’s PECO van. It was parked against the right curb.