Deadly Assets

by W. E. B Griffin

  Then he pointed across the street in the direction of a dead-weed-choked lot, the snow dotted with discarded car tires. In front of it, by a storm drain at the curb, was a faded yellow plastic ten-gallon bucket on its side.

  “Will you look at that! Don’t tell me they’re also dumping their crap down that drain . . .”

  McCrory looked at the bucket, then scanned the row houses. Only one had any lights visibly burning.

  “Okay, then I won’t tell you,” McCrory said drily. “But you should know, Detective, that if there’s no power in a place, there’s usually no running water, either. You can probably do the math from there.”

  After a long moment Kennedy said, “It’s just un-fucking-believable.”

  They rolled farther down the block. Then the right tires of the unmarked sedan—it had been impounded after a drug bust, then confiscated in a forfeiture and released to the police department’s motor pool—scrubbed the curb and bumped over it.

  McCrory pulled to a stop in front of a burned-out, redbrick row house. Old dirty white vinyl siding sagged from the eaves. Entire panels were missing elsewhere on the facade. Windows, behind bent black metal burglar bars, were boarded over. Where the front door had once been, there now was a sheet of weathered plywood hanging at an angle from strap hinges and secured with a rusty chain and padlock. It had the crude rendering of a rodent—little more than a spray-painted black blob with huge whiskers and a long tail—with a large X painted over it. Written beneath it was NO RATS!!!

  “You sure this is the place, Dick? Looks locked up pretty good.”

  “It’s what Pookie texted,” McCrory said, then pointed down the block. “If not, we must be getting close. Wonder if they did that for him.”

  Kennedy looked through the falling snow, then nodded. The two stop signs, on opposite corners, had been tagged with graffiti—silver spray paint that spelled SNITCHIN under the reflective lettering.

  “Stop snitches? No rats? And you really think you can get one of these knuckleheads to talk, huh?”

  He sighed as he pressed the wiper stalk to clear snow from the windshield.

  “Hell, I dunno. Pookie said this guy knows who the doer is. What I do know is if you don’t try, you don’t get squat and . . .”

  He stopped when an unkempt dark-skinned man came out of the house that was to the left of the burned-out red one. He had on a filthy faded black hoodie sweatshirt and dirty blue jeans with the cuffs stuffed into dull black leather lace-up boots. The sweatshirt’s hood was pulled tight over his head, leaving little more than his thick black-framed eyeglasses and whiskers visible. He rubbed his bare hands together incessantly.

  Without turning his head, he glanced at the car. Then he sauntered past, headed toward the corner at Wingohocking.

  “Bingo,” McCrory said. “Short black male, medium complexion. Coke-bottle glasses and a scraggly beard. That’s our guy. The kid looks not even twenty.”

  “You see those eyes?” Kennedy asked.

  McCrory watched the kid through the rearview mirror. “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s damn sure hopped up on something.”

  “Uh-huh. Can’t really walk a straight line.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Looking up and down the street. And now looking at us. And . . . and now he’s coming back this way.”

  “And probably packing.”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  Kennedy grunted. He gestured across the street. “Or, more appropriately, a junkie in a bucket?”

  Both men pulled their department-issued Glocks from their hip holsters. They were sitting on their seat belts, which were buckled beneath them to allow for them to exit the vehicle more quickly, despite the canned message regularly broadcast over police radio to “always wear your seat belt—the life you save could be your own.”

  McCrory, who wore black leather gloves, placed his 9-millimeter semiautomatic on his lap under a New England Patriots knit cap; Kennedy crossed his arms, concealing his under his massive left bicep as he held on to it.

  “Okay. He’s crossing the street and coming at us,” McCrory said.

  McCrory bumped his window down a quarter of the way. An icy draft crept into the car. He kept a wary eye on the kid’s hands.

  The kid approached the open window. The wind carried his body odor.

  Ugh. Reeks of weed, McCrory thought, and no bath in who the hell knows how long.

  The kid leaned in closer, his dilated, bloodshot eyes darting between the men as his fingers wrapped over the top of the window. McCrory saw bruises and scabs on the top of his hands, the telltale pockmarks of needle tracks along the veins.

  The kid mumbled, “What the fuck you doin’ here, man?”

  McCrory slowly leaned back, pressing against his seat, and thought, Oh, man! That breath’s foul . . .

  “Pookie said you had something for us,” McCrory said.

  “Pookie?”

  “Yeah, Pookie. Said he’d texted you that we were coming because you said you had something for us.”

  He thought for a minute, then said, “Pookie, he’s all right. What you want? Oxys? Xannys?”

  “No. Pookie said you wanted to talk.”

  “Talk? About what?”

  “Dante Holmes.”

  The kid’s eyelids drooped, and he stuck a thumb and index finger behind his glasses and rubbed them. Then he said, “Dante? He from around here?”

  McCrory grimaced, then sighed.

  Need to try a different approach, he thought.

  “How much for Oxys?” McCrory said.

  “Forty a pill,” the kid said, his blurry eyes surveying Kennedy.

  “No T-bone?” McCrory said.

  The junkie’s eyes then tried to lock on McCrory’s.

  “I got T-bone. Got a pocketful. Nickel- and dime-bumps. How many you want?”

  McCrory didn’t respond.

  “Look, man,” the junkie said, looking back over one shoulder, then the other, “I don’t wanna get my ass capped ’cause of you hangin’ here!”

  Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the fookin saints, McCrory thought.

  And I don’t want to touch this junkie, let alone have him stink up the backseat worse than it is.

  But here goes . . .

  “Don’t worry, we’re professionals,” McCrory said, and heard Kennedy’s deep chuckle.

  McCrory, right hand on his Glock, pulled on the door latch with his left, then leaned hard with all his weight into the door panel. The door flew open, knocking the junkie off balance. He toppled backward on his heels, landing flat on the snow.

  Guns up, McCrory and Kennedy were out of the vehicle about the time he hit the ground. Kennedy, scanning up and down the street, covered McCrory as McCrory put the muzzle of his pistol to the junkie’s forehead, then grabbed his right wrist and spun him facedown. Putting a knee in the small of his back, he effortlessly handcuffed the right wrist, then the left.

  Limp as a rag doll.

  At least the smack and whatever else he’s on is good for something.

  McCrory then looked toward Kennedy, and saw that the Patriots knit cap had fallen to the sidewalk and now was by his feet.

  “Hey, don’t step on that!”

  Kennedy shook his head as he slipped his Glock back in its black leather hip holster.

  “That thing alone could get us shot at out here,” Kennedy said, pulling on blue latex gloves. “Only thing worse might be a Dallas Cowboys one.”

  “Cowboys suck!” the junkie said.

  “See?” Kennedy told McCrory, then said to the kid, “You got bigger problems than football right now.”

  “You got a name?” McCrory said, as he began patting him down.

  He yawned. “Name? Why you need a name?”

  McCrory showed him his bad
ge.

  “Now give me your name.”

  “Aw, shit, man.” He sighed, and after a moment said, “I, uh, I go by Jamal . . .”

  Right.

  “You got a real name, Jamal?”

  He looked over each shoulder, up and down the street, then said, “All right. It’s Michael.”

  “What about a last name?”

  “Hayward.”

  “Gimme your date of birth.”

  Michael Hayward, aka “Jamal,” did. And Kennedy, who was watching every move and listening closely, then sent the information in an encrypted text on his phone back to the Homicide Unit.

  “This Dante Holmes,” McCrory then said, “he got capped in a drive-by last night over in Kensington. What do you know about it?”

  Hayward sighed, then again looked up and down the street.

  “I don’t know nothing ’bout nothing.”

  McCrory heard Kennedy quietly reading him the reply to the text: “Five priors, two for public intoxication and three for pot, personal possession, less than thirty grams. No outstanding warrants.”

  McCrory rolled him onto his back and continued frisking him. At the belly pocket of the sweatshirt, he felt a familiar heavy object beneath the fabric. He carefully reached inside the pocket and came out with forty-five dollars in rumpled fives and tens, and a dozen postage-stamp-sized zip-top bags. A few of the clear glassine packets held a single pill each. The rest of the small bags contained various amounts of a brown powder and had a black drawing of a T-bone steak rubber-stamped on them.

  McCrory then yanked up the bottom edge of Hayward’s dirty sweatshirt.

  “Well, look at what we have here,” Kennedy said, squatting as he reached down with his gloved hand and pulled a black-framed .40 caliber Smith & Wesson semiautomatic from Hayward’s waistband.

  “Congratulations, Jamal,” McCrory said. “Possession of a firearm just added an automatic mandatory five years to whatever other lucky sentence the judge hands down.”

  Hayward seemed unfazed by that.

  McCrory looked at Kennedy.

  “Don’t forget what Matt Payne said about your little show.”

  Kennedy nodded, then stood.

  Pointing the muzzle at the ground, he racked back the slide and smoothly engaged the lever that locked it open. In the process, a live round had ejected, and he caught it in midair. Then, using only his gloved index finger and thumb, he held the pistol high over his head for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. He looked up, studying it as he turned it back and forth. Then he brought it down and depressed the release for the magazine with his right thumb. The mag fell from the pistol grip into his left palm.

  The magazine felt unusually light, and when he glanced at it he was surprised that it was empty.

  Kennedy produced from his pocket a gallon-sized clear polymer bag and dropped the single bullet and the empty magazine into it. The heavy-duty bag was leak-proof and puncture-resistant, with one side imprinted EVIDENCE in large letters and, below that, lines to note such details as date evidence collected, case number, collector’s information, chain of custody, et cetera.

  “Only one round, Jamal?” Kennedy said.

  Hayward shrugged.

  “All I got left,” he said.

  McCrory and Kennedy exchanged glances.

  Then Kennedy ran a plastic zip-tie through the barrel as a visual aid that the bore was empty. He slipped the weapon, its slide still locked back in the open position, into the evidence bag, sealed the adhesive closure, handed the bag to McCrory, then finished the pat-down.

  McCrory looked at the lone .40 caliber round in the bag and noticed that the full metal jacket of the bullet had been scored, two cuts in the copper forming a crude X across the tip.

  He looked back at Jamal and thought: That drive-by scene had .40 cal and 9 mil casings all over the place.

  He says he doesn’t know Dante Holmes. But there could be a damn good reason for saying that, and for knowing who’s responsible for whacking Dante—because he damn well could’ve done it himself.

  Small wonder he didn’t show any response to the extra five years for weapon possession—a murder rap is bad enough.

  And that prick Pookie, who clearly lied about Jamal wanting to talk, just sold him down the river.

  Or . . . not.

  If this is one of the weapons that was used in the shooting, ballistics oughta be able to make the match.

  But that won’t establish who pulled the trigger.

  These guns get bought and sold and traded over and over—especially after a crime.

  He squatted beside Jamal.

  Hell, Pookie or someone else may have set this bastard up just by giving him the gun.

  Only thing we know for sure: Jamal’s a junkie, and high as a kite, and figuring out the truth is going to be a bitch.

  “You’re under arrest,” McCrory said loudly, and pulled a playing card–sized paper and a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket.

  He held the card so that Jamal could see it.

  “‘You have the right to remain silent . . .’” McCrory began, reading from the card despite being able to recite every word of the Miranda Rights from memory.

  When McCrory finished not thirty seconds later, he turned Hayward and put his knee in his back, unlocked the right handcuff, and waved the card and pen in front of his face.

  “Sign this,” McCrory said.

  “I ain’t signing nothing.”

  “Just sign the damn card.”

  “Why?”

  “It acknowledges that I read you your Miranda Rights. That’s all. But it’s okay, I guess you enjoy lying in this nasty snow. Figure anyone’s dumped one of those piss buckets on it lately?”

  After a moment Michael Hayward sighed, grabbed the pen, then scribbled some semblance of his name across the card.

  Kennedy knelt beside Hayward as McCrory clicked the right handcuff back on Hayward’s wrist.

  “Jesus, you stink,” Kennedy said, grabbing Hayward’s left bicep. He looked at McCrory, who had grabbed his other arm. “On two . . . a one and a . . .”

  They yanked Hayward from the ground and marched him to the back door of the Chevy.

  McCrory, scanning the neighborhood as he slipped his pistol into its holster, then squatted and retrieved his knit cap from the sidewalk.

  Kennedy watched him carefully brush snow from it, then hold it close to his nose and gently sniff.

  Kennedy laughed loudly.

  McCrory met his eyes as he tugged the cap on his head, smirked, and said, “Fuck you, partner.”

  V

  [ ONE ]

  Owen Roberts International Airport

  George Town, Grand Cayman Islands

  Saturday, December 15, 2:35 P.M.

  A smiling H. Rapp Badde Jr.—wearing sunglasses of Italian design, a white silk shirt, tan linen shorts, and brown leather sandals—had just stepped down to the sunbaked tarmac from the glistening white Gulfstream IV jet aircraft when he heard his Go To Hell cell phone start ringing.

  He grimaced as he pulled it from an outer pocket of his leather backpack.

  Badde carried two cell phones, one a smartphone that had what he considered his general use number and the other a more basic folding phone with his closely held private number. The latter he shared with only his small circle of legal and political advisers, and so when it rang, it was not unusual that something was about to go to hell.

  He looked up at the doorway to the aircraft. A curvy twenty-five-year-old woman with silky light brown skin was stepping through it. Five-foot-six and wearing a low-cut white linen sundress, Janelle Harper was Badde’s executive assistant.

  From the beginning, many had suspected that there was far more to his relationship with the young lawyer than strictly city business. And so it had come as l
ittle surprise when at least a dozen salacious photographs of them in Bermuda wound up splashed all over the local news.

  Now Badde, his wife having banned him from their home, was cohabitating with Jan Harper in the luxury two-bedroom condominium in which he’d originally set her up. And as convenient as that certainly had seemed at first, both quietly found that spending so much time together—working and traveling and now living—was putting a strain on their relationship.

  Badde looked at the telephone. The caller ID read PHILA MAYOR’S OFFICE.

  What the hell? Carlucci?

  Why would that Wop be calling me—and on a Saturday?

  And why should I answer?

  As Jan approached, he held up the ringing device and said, “It’s Carlucci.”

  “Then answer it.”

  “You sure? Why?”

  She shrugged. “Then don’t.”

  He made a look of disapproval as he flipped open the phone and put it to his ear.

  “Rapp Badde,” he said, affecting a bored tone.

  “Councilman, this is Edward Stein calling. How are you?”

  Oh, I’m just peachy keen, Badde thought.

  And you’re not Carlucci.

  Who the hell are you and how did you get this number?

  “What can I do for you?” Badde said. “I’m rather busy, what with the constant demands of my office. I’m sure you understand.”

  Badde felt himself beginning to sweat in the bright tropical sun, and stepped into the shade of the aircraft.

  “I do understand,” Stein said. “Councilman, we haven’t met. Do you know who I am?”

  Edward Stein, he said?

  Sounds familiar. But then Carlucci’s probably got at least fifty on his staff.

  Thank God for caller ID . . .

  “Of course,” Badde said. “Carlucci’s office. What can I do for you?”

  “We have a serious problem. And by ‘we,’ I mean you.”

  What the hell?

  “What do you mean I have a serious problem?” Badde said, a sharp edge to his tone. “Does Carlucci know about this?”