Deadly Assets

by W. E. B Griffin

  Finally, he paused, looked across the aircraft at Janelle Harper, rolled his eyes when there was no reply, and added, “Well . . . ?”

  —

  As soon as his cell phone had showed that he had service, Badde had been constantly redialing the two numbers he had for Skinny Lenny as the Gulfstream came in on final to the general aviation field.

  Right before landing, as the aircraft had descended beneath the thick layer of gray clouds, Badde had glanced out the window. They were flying along the Delaware River, and just upstream from the casinos the property where his $300 million multitower project was going to be built came into sight.

  In his mind’s eye, he could see the architect’s rendering.

  There was the first phase, which would be a twenty-story, two-hundred-room five-star hotel covering two acres on the riverbank, with high-end retail shops and restaurants on the ground level. And then there was phase two, which would project out into the river itself, reclaiming another acre of land. It would feature a $120 million tower with one hundred fifty luxury condominiums, and have a boardwalk and docks.

  I just can’t screw this up, Badde thought.

  Then, right before the beginning of the runway, he noticed that they were passing over the snow-covered Union League golf course.

  And that’s another thing. A small thing, compared to others, but another thing that’s gonna go to hell if I don’t play my cards carefully—my future Union League membership.

  I don’t think Mike Santos was happy that I said I had to get back to Philly to deal with some fires that were suddenly flaring up.

  Real fires, it turns out.

  What I do know is that Santos was pissed—he said he was, and that heads would roll in Washington—when he explained the problems he mentioned in that beach tent had to do with those EB-5 visas not getting approved yet.

  I don’t think that was my fault—HUD rubber-stamped them—but government types are always fast to shift blame, pointing their lazy fingers at someone—anyone—else.

  Right now Lenny is my big problem.

  What was that line that Willie Lane read to me?

  “It’s a crime to scheme to monitize one’s official position.”

  Why would he bring that up? Everyone on the council does it in some way.

  Then again, not everyone gets caught.

  Willie said that Carlucci demanded I get “Skinny Lenny to renounce that incredible notion that we allow illegal drug activity to flourish as a method of population control.”

  I don’t know who the hell told him Lenny’s real name. And about Lenny doing jail time.

  But I’m pretty damn sure he didn’t swallow the line Jan gave me about putting him on CPOC “because his time in the penal system gave him a unique perspective for the committee.”

  Willie said if Lenny doesn’t take back what Carlucci called “outrageous nonsense and reprehensible,” then the president of the city council should say that he was immediately transferring me from my seat on the Committee for Public Safety, “which of course would have an immediate effect on any and all of his appointments in such capacity.”

  I don’t care one bit about being booted from Public Safety.

  But if for some reason Willie does the same to me with HUD, then whoever takes over HUD can and will look into the details of the PEGI projects—and possibly cancel them.

  And then if they make the connection that I am essentially the one behind Urban Ventures, Willie can get on his high horse and say that he warned me “it’s a crime to monitize one’s official position.”

  Rapp Badde felt an icy chill shoot through him.

  Maybe that’s why he did that!

  He knows!

  And if that’s the case, kissing any chance at the mayor’s office good-bye will be the least of my worries. And—Boom!—forget the new project.

  I’ll be busy just up the river serving time in Curran-Fromhold.

  —

  “Well, Lenny? What the hell do you want to stop this nonsense?” Badde barked into the phone.

  The aircraft’s tires began rumbling as they touched down on the 33 of the shorter of PNE’s two perpendicular strips. Despite the runway having been plowed, it still was slick from the snow, and the pilot used up almost every inch of the five thousand feet of asphalt before stopping and being able to turn onto the taxiway.

  “You gonna calm down and listen?” Cross said. “Or just keep yelling that same thing over and over?”

  You bastard, Badde thought.

  He said: “I’m waiting.”

  “Okay, what I want is what you and your boy Willie’s got.”

  You mean you want blackmailing assholes like you? Badde thought.

  He said: “I thought you were all worried about stopping the killings in Philly.”

  “That, too,” Lenny said, his tone sanctimonious.

  After a long moment, Badde said: “Can you be more to the point?”

  “I want a piece of the pie, Rapp.”

  He can’t know about the hotel project.

  The ink on those contracts isn’t even dry yet.

  “You’re already getting a nice piece of pie, Lenny. You’re getting eighty grand a year on CPOC.”

  “Yeah, and twenty of that finds its way back to someone’s political action committee.”

  Badde grunted.

  “Okay,” he said, “then call it sixty. Sixty grand is better than no grand. Which, by the way, I know you’re bluffing about walking away from.”

  “Funny you bring that up, ’cause I’m in my last year on CPOC. That means it is about to be no grand. That’s why I want in on something like you and Willie got going.”

  “You keep saying me and Willie. There is no me and Willie. Get that straight in your head.”

  “Maybe not, but you both got things going. I think it would look good to have Word of Brotherly Love Ministry listed as one of the investors.”

  “But you don’t have that kind of money to invest.”

  “You’re gonna take care of that for me. I let you use the name. You figure out how much that’s worth.”

  There was a long silence before Badde said, his tone even, “How much, Lenny?”

  “You tell me, Rapp.”

  “How much?”

  Lenny was quiet a long moment, then he said, “What’s a small slice of the new stadium pie?”

  What? Even if I wanted, I can’t let him in on the Diamond Development projects. Yuri will not go for it.

  Unless it comes out of my share.

  “I’ll say it again, Lenny: how much?”

  “I think something better than CPOC is good.”

  “Sixty grand?”

  “CPOC was four years of sixty. I’m thinking round it off to two hundred and fifty.”

  “You want a quarter million?” Badde blurted.

  He saw Janelle Harper raise her eyebrows.

  “Yeah, but every year. I’ve got a mission to build.”

  A quarter mil a year! Badde thought.

  You greedy bastard!

  Badde rapidly went over his options—and just as rapidly kept coming back to the series of events he envisioned if Willie Lane followed Carlucci’s lead and stripped him of his council committee seats.

  Badde suddenly had a mental image of a fat brush dripping white paint being slapped across his name on all the Philadelphia Housing and Urban Development construction signs he had erected around the city.

  And then one of an orange jumpsuit with CURRAN-FROMHOLD stenciled on the back.

  “Look,” Lenny said, breaking the long silence, “you think it over good, Rapp. Okay? I’ll get back to you. I’ve gotta work on this next rally.”

  “What next rally, Lenny? The Turkey Day . . . ?” Badde began, but realized that he was talking to dead air.
r />   “Damn it!” Badde then shouted, angrily closing his flip phone.

  “You want to calm down, Rapp,” Janelle Harper said, “and tell me what he said? A quarter million for what?”

  Badde, his face furious, inhaled deeply, then exhaled audibly. Jan saw that he clearly was trying to control his temper.

  “Once you give the bastards an inch,” Badde said, “they want to be inside the tent.”

  “That’s ‘Give them an inch, they take a foot’ and ‘Once the camel’s nose is under the tent, next his whole body is inside.’ You’re mixing metaphors.”

  “Same fucking difference!” he snapped.

  “Good Lord, Rapp. Try to leave the street talk in the street,” Janelle said, her tone icy. “Show some dignity.”

  “Oh,” Badde said, thicky sarcastic. “So now you’re better than that, better than me. An ol’ Uncle Tom in designer clothes?”

  Badde recognized the subtle angry look that suddenly swept across Janelle’s face—Wanda always makes that same look—you’ve hurt my feelings but I’m not going to let you know it—when she’s really pissed off—and immediately knew he again had gone over the line.

  Badde’s flip phone vibrated and he saw that there was a new text from Lenny: “Forgot to say we’re having Feed Philly Day as planned, so still need that check for the food. That will be the sign to my followers that we are moving forward despite being targeted by the police. Going to promote it at the new rally *MarchForRevCross.”

  He showed that to Janelle, who used her phone to view it on the Internet.

  “‘Beat Down The Man’?” Jan said, making a face. “That sounds like a lot more of Lenny’s population control conspiracy theory. That’s not going to be helpful, Rapp. And by that I mean not helpful for you.”

  She stood, collected her bag, and walked to the front of the aircraft, where the main door was opening.

  Watching as she deplaned, Badde thought: Damn it! And I forgot to ask Lenny about that damn rapper who ripped off the jewelry store. That guy hunting him said, “Remember, Rapp, Urban Venture LLC has ownership in the casino, too. We need him so that we can get back the jewelry.”

  Badde texted Lenny: “Okay, you’ll like the next project. We need to start working out the details of your ‘pie piece’ so we can get this behind us. Name a time today and a place. And I’ll bring the turkey check.”

  [ FIVE ]

  Rittenhouse Square

  Center City, Philadelphia

  Sunday, December 16, 8:20 A.M.

  Despite the fact that his apartment was in complete disarray, with half-packed moving boxes cluttering every corner, Matt Payne opted for Tony Harris to drop him off in Center City so that he could get his shower and change of clothes there.

  While Payne had more or less already moved into Amanda Law’s luxury penthouse condominum in Northern Liberties, going there would have meant him being very careful not to wake her—she had only a couple hours earlier texted him that she’d just returned from some emergency at the hospital.

  To Payne, it simply did not seem possible that he could get in the one-bedroom condo, get past Luna without the dog greeting him with happy whines and her tail thumping on the wall, get in and out of the shower, then dig clean clothes out of the closet, and finally get back past Luna and out of the condo—all without making a sound, or sounds, that would disturb Amanda’s rest.

  And so it was off to Payne’s tiny apartment, which was in the garret atop the hundred-fifty-year-old brownstone that presently housed the business offices of the Delaware Valley Cancer Society. The building, overlooking what was generally considered to be the most attractive of Philadelphia’s public squares, and certainly was among the most expensive real estate in the city, had been in the Payne family since it was built.

  When the brownstone’s three lower main floors had been converted to modern office space, the existing apartment, its small rooms and slanted walls making it practically unleasable as office space, had been left alone. And Matt, because police department rules requiring its members, after a six-month grace period if necessary, to live within the City of Philadelphia, had made it his home.

  —

  Payne put the contents of his pockets next to his Colt .45 and cellular telephone on one of the glass shelves above the bathroom sink. He then tossed his dirty clothes into one of the cardboard boxes that sat just outside the door.

  He poured a dab of face wash that Amanda had bought him into his palm and began scrubbing his stubble. He had immediately decided against shaving because, for one, he was exhausted and just didn’t feel like it was a good idea to risk running a razor-sharp blade across his neck, and, two, because he felt that an unshaven look would be a better fit in the hood.

  His cell phone made a Ping! and when he raised his head from the sink he saw an image of a Marine Unit vessel, its emergency lights flashing, holding its position maybe twenty feet off a brush-covered riverbank.

  What the hell? Payne thought.

  Most likely, the photograph had been taken from above, Payne decided, from a police helicopter.

  The message read that it had been sent by Kerry Rapier.

  There then came another Ping! and a new photograph from Rapier, a close-up, appeared in place of the first. It was taken from the police boat itself. It showed a large male’s body, clad only in a T-shirt and blue jeans and work boots, laying facedown at the water’s edge along a strip of large rocks that protected the riverbank from erosion.

  Payne’s phone then began to ring, and he quickly wiped his face, then took the phone from the glass shelf.

  “You got my attention, Corporal.”

  “Those images come through okay?” Kerry Rapier said.

  “Yeah. What am I looking at?”

  “The aerial shot of the scene I got from Tac Air. And the other—sent in from the Marine Unit—shows one of the doers in the O’Brien case. He was pronounced at the scene.”

  Payne always found it interesting that most people preferred the shorthand version of “pronounced dead.” He thought it was almost like a superstition that no one liked to actually say the key word.

  “No shit? That was fast . . .”

  “At seven this morning,” Rapier explained, “a maintenance crew—they were working on that train trestle that spans the Schuylkill River just upstream from the Bartram’s Garden property—saw the body. It was below them, along the bank, caught up on that riprap.”

  “They get his fingerprints run?”

  “In the process. But he had Kevin O’Brien’s credit cards, an AmEx and a PNC Visa debit, in his jeans pocket.”

  “The Crime Scene guys confirmed that there were two distinct sets of bootprints,” Payne said. “So, assuming this actually is one of the killers, at least one more is still out there.”

  “Maybe one guy whacked the other? Set him up with the credit cards?”

  “That can’t be ruled out. But, based on what we know about the killers of the reporter in San Antone, I’m betting that they both got whacked. And that’s what I meant by ‘one more still out there’—that other body will probably pop up next spring.”

  “Why next spring? That’s four, five months.”

  “In winter, bodies tend to sink and stay down in the cold water.”

  “That’s right. I knew that.”

  When the river water warmed in the spring, whatever bodies were in it also became warm, and, once warm, the process of decomposition accelerated. The gases that were created by that process then made the corpses buoyant, causing them to rise to the surface.

  “That’s always a lovely time of year,” Rapier said. “Wouldn’t want to be in the Marine Unit fishing them out.”

  “Yeah. Let me know when there’s a positive ID, Kerry, and anything else,” Payne said, then broke off the call.

  Looking absently at the phone, Payne thought
: I wonder if there could be any connection with Cross and Hooks and O’Brien’s story about the ring of Mexican nationals pushing black tar heroin in Kensington and Strawberry Mansion?

  Or is it simply a case of the streets being flooded with cheap smack?

  They just took down a couple cartel guys in the Bronx with almost a hundred keys, all uncut, some of it headed for here.

  It’s everywhere . . .

  Payne then texted Mickey O’Hara: “Just got word that the body of a Hispanic male was found on the shore of the Schuylkill. He had Tim O’Brien’s credit cards in his pocket. More info when I know more. How are you doing?”

  He hit SEND, looked a long moment at his phone to see if he would reply, and then put it back on the shelf and finally grabbed a shower.

  —

  Fifteen minutes later, Payne stepped around boxes in the apartment while pulling on a Temple University sweatshirt. He yawned deeply. He glanced at the couch.

  I can get a coffee and be okay, he thought.

  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!”