Payne agreed with his assessment. ‘Wipe your prints before you leave.’
‘No worries,’ Jones said as he adjusted his gloves. ‘Already done.’
38
That is, if the letter was in there at all.
Wearing leather gloves, he opened the first box and looked inside. It was filled with T-shirts, shorts, and an assortment of summer clothes. Apparently she had been forced to make room for her winter wardrobe in her closet upstairs. The second box was crammed
To give himself a little extra room to manoeuvre, Jones hauled both boxes outside the door as Megan watched from the hallway. ‘Any trouble?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Need a hand?’
‘Nope.’
She smiled. ‘Nice talking to you.’
‘Yep,’ Jones said with a grin.
The third box was half the size of the first two. It was made out of thick cardboard and had been placed on top of some larger boxes along the right-hand wall. With a black marker, Ashley had written ‘STUFF’ on the side of the box. It wasn’t the most descriptive noun in the world, but unlike the first two boxes, at least she had taken the time to mark it.
The passenger door of the squad car swung open, and a brawny officer climbed out. Dressed in dark blue pants, a turtleneck sweater, and a long patrol jacket, he adjusted his hat and holster, then slammed the door shut. A few seconds later, he was walking towards the lobby like a sheriff from the Wild West.
For the time being, Payne wasn’t concerned with the young cop’s presence. As long as his partner stayed in the car, he wasn’t going to venture deep into the building. Especially if they had come here for a murder investigation.
Flying solo was simply too risky when a homicide was involved.
Jones opened the box and smiled at what he saw. Sitting on top of several photo albums was a manila envelope with a strange-looking postmark. He couldn’t tell where it had originated — the stamps were exotic, the postmark had been
Still wearing gloves, he turned the envelope over and was surprised to see the flap completely intact. Whoever had opened it — probably Ashley — had done so carefully, possibly steaming it open to prevent any damage. If so, had she known what it contained before she had taken it? Or had she been planning to return the envelope before anyone knew it was missing?
They were all good questions, but Jones didn’t have time to answer them now. Instead, he focused on the task at hand. He needed to make sure the letter was inside.
With a delicate touch, he tapped on the bottom of the envelope and emptied its contents on top of a nearby box that he had brushed clean. Two pieces of cardboard, attached with clear tape that had been broken on one side, formed a protective shield around a single sheet of parchment yellowed with age. Although Jones was no expert, the letter appeared to be quite old. At least a century, probably more.
Next, his eyes drifted to the body of the letter. A grin quickly surfaced on his face. He was confident that he was staring at the original. The
Payne knew there was trouble as soon as the meathead cop waved his partner inside. A minute later, they were greeted by an elderly man who had a gigantic set of keys dangling from his hip. The cops handed him a sheet of paper, which he studied intently before he started fiddling with his key ring. Whether he was a janitor or the building’s superintendent, it was pretty obvious that he had been summoned to give the police access to some part of the complex.
The only question was: would they be going up, or down?
Just to be safe, Payne called Jones before the officers had revealed their decision, hoping to give him as much notice as possible. He answered on the second ring.
‘I found the letter,’ Jones announced.
‘I’m glad, because the cops just produced a warrant.’
‘That’s not good. Which way are they heading?’
‘I don’t know yet. They’re standing in the lobby with someone who looks like the Keymaster.’
Jones smiled at the Ghostbusters reference. ‘We
‘Actually,’ Payne said as he watched them from afar, ‘you need to worry now. They’re heading towards the stairs, not the elevator.’
‘Shit!’
Both men realized the police wouldn’t trudge up six flights of stairs to Ashley’s apartment, but they might walk down one flight to her storage unit in the basement.
‘What’s wrong?’ Megan asked from the hallway.
Jones hung up the phone. ‘The cops just showed up. We have to clear out.’
The colour drained from her face. ‘What can I do?’
‘Tuck this under your shirt,’ he said as he handed her the envelope. ‘I’ve gotta move these boxes.’
It didn’t take him long to carry the two boxes inside. Their placement wasn’t important, so he tossed them against the others without rhyme or reason. The only thing that mattered was turning off the light and closing the door before he was spotted in the closet. The moment the lock clicked shut, Jones figured they were in the clear.
At least he thought they were — until he met the meathead.
39
Rocky films.
In recent years, a population shift had occurred in South Philly, one that had been the source of racial tension among some of the locals. A few of the smaller sections — most notably Grays Ferry, Point Breeze, and the areas closest to Center City — were no longer white neighbourhoods. For most people, racial diversity isn’t a problem, but it didn’t sit well with Vinnie and his racist friends. Ultimately, that was one of the main reasons Vinnie had become a cop after a two-year stint in the Marines. In his mind, it was an opportunity to clean up the city he loved.
Wherever Vinnie went, Paul followed — whether he liked it or not.
Because of Payne’s warning, Jones knew the cops were taking the stairs to the basement. Grabbing Megan’s arm, they hustled to the opposite end of the corridor, hoping the elevator would arrive before the cops did. But it wasn’t to be. Vinnie threw the door open with a bang and marched down the corridor like he owned the building. The Keymaster, the elderly complex manager, was directly behind him trying to keep pace, and further back was Paul.
‘Stay calm,’ Jones whispered as he studied the trio out of the corner of his eye. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just waiting for the elevator.’
Vinnie saw the two of them whispering in the distance and was sickened by the sight. A gorgeous woman like her had no business being with a guy like him. In Vinnie’s mind, it went against the laws of nature. In his old neighbourhood, their coupling would’ve resulted in a brutal beat-down that would’ve left blood on the street — something he and his friends had done many times before. It was their way of keeping the mulignans off their turf.
‘Where’s the closet?’ Vinnie demanded.
The Keymaster pointed ahead. ‘Up there, on the left.’
‘Open the door. I’ll be there in a minute. I need to check on somethin’.’
‘Where are you going?’ Paul wondered.
‘Don’t worry ’bout it,’ Vinnie growled. ‘Go with him.’
Paul nodded and followed the Keymaster towards the storage unit. Meanwhile, Vinnie marched towards the elevators.
‘Hey,’ he called from a distance, ‘what are you ladies doin’ down here?’
‘Stay calm,’ Jones warned her. ‘Let me handle this.’
‘Okay,’ she whispered.
Jones responded. ‘Megan lives here. She was giving me the tour.’
‘Of the basement? Why show him the basement?’
‘I’ve got a lot of stuff. I need somewhere to put it.’
Vinnie stared at Jones. ‘Was I talkin’ to you? No, I was talkin’ to her.’
‘Sorry,’ Jones apologized, hoping the elevator would hurry.
‘So?’ Vinnie growled as focused on Megan. ‘Why are you down here?’
‘I’m just giving him the tour. He might move here.’
‘Great, that’s all we need. Let me see your ID
.’
‘Why?’ she squeaked. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘That’s for me to decide. Let me see your ID.’ He glared at Jones. ‘Yours, too.’
Both of them fished their IDs out of their pockets and handed them to the cop. He barely
‘Against the wall and spread ’em,’ he told Jones. Then he looked at Megan and said, ‘Stand over there, Jungle Fever, and don’t move.’
Jones rolled his eyes and turned away from the elevator as its doors opened with a clang. Unfortunately, cops had pestered him a few times over the years, so he was familiar with the procedure. Hands on the wall, legs wide apart, no back talk of any kind. If he played by the rules and stayed cool, the meathead would probably let him go. If Jones fought back or did anything stupid, the cop would have him in cuffs before the elevator doors closed.
Jones was determined not to let that happen.
‘Where’s your gun?’ Vinnie demanded.
‘Right coat pocket,’ he answered calmly.
Vinnie reached in and grabbed it. He took a moment to inspect the Sig Sauer P228 before he tucked it into his belt. ‘Any other weapons?’
‘We’ll see about that.’
Vinnie started his search high, patting down Jones’s shoulders and sleeves before he moved to the rest of his jacket. First he reached into Jones’s right pocket, making sure it was completely empty, then he did the same thing on the left. A moment after his hand went in, a huge smile surfaced on Vinnie’s face. ‘My, oh, my. What do we have here?’
Jones closed his eyes and cursed under his breath.
The cop had found his lock picks. In the state of Pennsylvania, the only citizens who were legally allowed to carry picks were certified locksmiths, which Jones was not. Therefore, the meathead could charge him with possession of an instrument of crime, a first-degree misdemeanour.
Grinning widely, Vinnie snatched the handcuffs from his service belt and pulled Jones’s right arm behind his back. ‘For a licensed detective, you sure are stupid.’ He leaned closer and whispered into Jones’s ear. ‘Then again, you are a fuckin’ mooley, so what’d I expect?’
Jones sneered but remained silent. This wasn’t the time to lose his cool.
Vinnie yanked Jones’s left arm back and slapped on the cuffs. ‘What’s it look like I’m doin’? I’m arrestin’ your boyfriend.’
‘But he didn’t do anything!’
‘Hey, Paulie,’ Vinnie shouted as he finished searching Jones.
A few seconds later, his partner ducked his head around the corner. ‘Yeah?’
‘Get your ass over here. This eggplant was carryin’.’
‘Drugs?’ Paul asked as he hustled forward.
‘Nah, he had a Sig and a set of picks.’
‘I’m licensed for the gun,’ Jones clarified. He wanted to make sure the other cop was aware, just in case his permit vanished before booking. ‘You saw my licence. It’s valid.’
Vinnie laughed. ‘It won’t be for long, asshole. Not after I file my report.’
Paul stopped next to Megan. ‘What about the closet?’
‘Fuck the closet,’ Vinnie said as he pushed Jones towards the elevator. ‘I’m takin’ this monkey to the zoo.’
40
Perhaps Megan knew the Keymaster, and the two of them had stopped to chat in the hallway. Or maybe the cops didn’t even go into the basement, giving Jones more time to continue his search.
Whatever the case, Payne wasn’t truly worried about things until the elevator doors popped open and his best friend emerged in handcuffs.
Vinnie the meathead appeared next, followed by his partner, and then Megan. Thankfully, her hands were free, which meant she wasn’t under
Payne leaned forward, trying to get a better view of Jones as he was pushed out of the main entrance towards the police car. For an instant, the two friends made eye contact from fifty feet away. Jones simply shook his head in frustration, as if to say he had done nothing wrong and was sorry for letting Payne down.
Ironically, Payne felt even worse than Jones. The guilt he felt for sitting on his ass and watching his friend get hauled off to jail was overwhelming. But what choice did he have? If he had been permitted, Payne would have willingly traded places with Jones, just to spare him the humiliation of being taken into custody. But that wasn’t the way the system worked. And he knew if he rushed forward and told the cops he knew Jones, there was always a chance Payne would be arrested, too — which would do neither of them any good.
With any luck, they’d be back on the street in less than an hour.
Of course, that plan became moot when the first shot was fired.
One moment Vinnie was shoving Jones into the back of the squad car, the next his meat head was being splattered all over the door and window. The killshot was so unexpected it took Payne a moment to process what had actually happened. By the time he did, bullet number two was airborne and headed his way. A splitsecond later, he heard a loud crack and flinched as the front windshield of the Suburban absorbed the impact of the round. Thankfully, the bulletproof glass held firm, saving Payne from nearcertain death.
It also helped him figure out where the gunman was positioned.
Using simple geometry, Payne knew the shooter had to be somewhere near the street otherwise he couldn’t have hit the cop and the Suburban in rapid succession. Leaning to his right, Payne tried to see around the web-like fracture in the glass, hoping to spot him. But before he got a clean view of the road, another shot hit the windshield, pushing thwack followed by a soft crinkling that reminded Payne of ice cracking on a frozen pond. One more shot, and he knew the window might collapse.
Wasting no time, Payne shifted the SUV into drive and punched his foot on the gas. The Chevy shot forward and clipped the bumper of the BMW sedan parked in front of it, knocking it into oncoming traffic. Tyres screeched loudly as Payne turned the wheel hard to the left and rocketed across the road to a chorus of blaring horns. None of that mattered to Payne. His only concern was surviving long enough to rescue Jones and Megan.
Jones didn’t need rescuing. He was quite capable of saving himself.
Covered in blood splatter in the back of the police car, he pulled his knees towards his chest and slid his wrists beyond his feet. A moment later, his cuffed hands were in front him, giving him the freedom to run or fight.
Jones opted to run now, fight later.
The racist cop had fallen face down on the
A black polymer handle dangled from the back of the cop’s belt. Jones recognized it at once. It was his Sig Sauer P228. With a smile on his face, he stretched forward and grabbed his gun.
Suddenly the playing field was a lot more even.
A shot rang out from the nearby street, followed by the crack of glass. Jones turned and glanced at the road but couldn’t see the gunman. He was definitely back there, but where? Realizing he was in a position of weakness — pinned down in the back of a squad car, unable to reach the ignition because of an iron partition between the seats — Jones knew he had to move before the shooter came any closer.
The front entrance to the building was roughly twenty feet away. A long distance to run with bound hands. He stared through the blood-streaked window, trying to gauge how long it would take to cover the ground and where he should go once he got inside. In his opinion, the entire lobby was a tactical nightmare. Furniture
‘Screw it,’ he mumbled as he got ready to run.
Taking a deep breath, Jones burst from the car like a sprinter from his starting block. A gunshot echoed behind him, followed by the screeching of tyres and the honking of horns, but his sole concern was getting indoors as quickly as possible. To hasten his entrance, Jones raised his gun and fired two shots at the front window of the building. The glass shattered on impact, sending tiny shards crashing to the lobby floor. They tinked and clanked in a melodic song, one he didn’t notice as he leapt through the empty window frame and scrambled for cover.
Originally he had plan
ned on running left and hunkering down by the mailboxes, using its angled wall for protection. But out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the middle elevator had just arrived and its doors were sliding open. Taking that as an omen, he cut sharply to his right and dived inside before the gunman could clip him from behind.
Paul was ten feet behind his partner when Vinnie’s head erupted like a pink volcano.
The shot had come from their left, somewhere near the busy road, not from the suspect they had in handcuffs, although there was a chance he had an accomplice who had pulled the trigger. With that in mind, Paul did what he had been trained to do — he grabbed the nearest civilian and dragged her to safety in the opposite direction. Megan was thankful he did otherwise she would have remained standing in the middle of the sidewalk, too stunned by the graphic nature of the killshot to react rationally.
She had never seen someone murdered before; it took a moment for her to recover.
When she finally snapped out of her haze, she was already halfway across the lobby, running towards the sitting area beyond the bank of elevators. Paul pulled her arm and yanked her behind a faux-leather couch that would temporarily shield them from the gunman outside.
‘Stay down,’ he warned her as he pulled his Glock 21, a.45-calibre semiautomatic handgun, from his holster. ‘I’m calling for backup.’
With his free hand, Paul clicked the button on his transmitter and called in a ten-double-zero, police code for officer down, all patrols respond. A few seconds later, Jones fired two shots at the window and sprinted across the lobby.
Suddenly, Paul had more important things to worry about than backup.
He had an armed suspect to take out.
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