“He went to Carlucci?” Payne said.
“Not directly. He sent an intermediary,” Wolter said. “Fuller and Carlucci are polar opposites. Plus, Carlucci, as police commissioner, had the reputation as a law-and-order hardass and couldn’t be perceived as being bought.”
“Perceived?” Payne parroted.
“Matt,” Wohl said evenly, “every damn politician owes somebody something. You should write that down. It’s simply a matter of how they pay that debt.”
“Which is what got Bailey in trouble,” Wolter said. “He put too many operatives in state jobs, and the kickbacks and bribes went off the charts. Bailey would have moved on to Washington, but there simply was too much stink sticking to him. He’s lucky he didn’t go to jail. So he crawled back to his law firm and now plays the wise elder statesman as he quietly works the machine, facilitating for Fuller and friends, doing their bidding.”
Aimee nodded toward the corner of the room.
“And with the primaries coming,” she said, “you can expect to see a lot more of that.”
They all looked and saw Bailey having a quiet conversation with Carlucci.
Wolter added, “I give you the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania’s former governor speaking with its presumed soon-to-be governor.”
“My God,” Payne said.
“Well, you can always come up with your own candidate,” Wolter said, and brightened and smiled. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you run, Matt? If you do, I’ll be your campaign manager.”
“Hey, now, that’s not a bad idea,” Wohl said. “You got my vote.”
“Mine, too, baby brother,” Amy Payne said a little too quickly.
“No way. Not no but hell no,” Payne said. “The whole political mind-set is alien to me. I can’t lie like they can, for starters. And what Peter said about being indebted to someone for his support, I refuse. I like having a clear conscience and being able to sleep at night.”
“I expected you to say that,” Wolter said. “But it’s part of my job to test the waters. See who might be looking to do whatever.”
“Really?” Payne said.
“Oh, not just for political office,” she said. “I have powerful clients of all stripes who are always looking for select new people.”
Payne nodded.
“But don’t worry about not running for office,” she went on. “There are plenty who are willing.” She nodded across the room again. “There’s Rapp Badde, for example. He is attending tonight not only because Camilla Rose supported his PEGI, which, in turn, introduced him to new investors for those urban-renewal projects, he’s also here mostly because he had been pitching her to back his run for mayor after Carlucci has moved up the political food chain. He’s been terrified she would back Willie Lane.”
“Jesus,” Payne said. “He’s exactly what this city doesn’t need. His father was a disaster as mayor. Almost as bad as Willie Lane’s old man. Why in hell would she consider supporting either of them?”
“But those two disasters made it easy for Carlucci to get elected,” Wohl said. “Were they bright enough, they might call it a case of unintended consequences.”
“True,” Wolter said. “And it will flip. After eight years of Jerry Carlucci, with the memory of the average Philly voter having a half-life of maybe six months, if not six minutes, another Badde or Lane will slide right in. So, they’re both here because it just looks good for them to be part of this. It gives them a little cachet, and eventually, they hope, a lot of campaign cash, thanks to this chance to network—”
The lights flickered and dimmed.
“Damn,” Payne said. “I was hoping for another explosion.”
“That’s bad, Matt,” his sister said.
“Here comes the big sales pitch,” Aimee Wolter said. “Cross your fingers.”
On a half-dozen projection screens around the big room, Camilla Rose Morgan appeared. The murmuring crowd quieted.
“I’ve seen this video,” Payne said, then added, “I think. Looks a little different. That looks like Pennsylvania.”
“It’s the New Hope camp,” Aimee said. “We just opened it.”
Camilla Rose was clad in the same crisp khaki shorts and white T-shirt, and ball cap with the logotype CAMILLA’S KIDS CAMPS on it, and smiling at the camera. Behind her, a dozen helmet-wearing kids were riding horses along a wide river. Camilla Rose waved as her voice filled the ballroom:
“Hi, I’m Camilla Rose. Welcome to New Hope, the aptly named home to one of my four ACC-accredited camps for children with extreme medical challenges. At each of these twenty-million-dollar wonderlands, sixty kids come every week to experience the excitement of the unexpected.
“Our superb staff counselors, one staffer for every three campers, are rigorously vetted. Our state-of-the-art medical facility features a full-time physician and nurse, plus volunteer doctors and nurses, who specialize in the disease of each week’s group of kids.
“Campers’ needs are constantly monitored. They’re provided their daily medications and procedures—from chemo to dialysis—then they head out for a full day of sun and fun. Here in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, for example, there’s horseback riding, fishing in the Delaware River, crafts workshops, and much more. After dinners, we gather round the campfire for singing and skits and laughs. Lots and lots of the latter, as laughter is the best medicine. Just ask the campers themselves.”
“Similar script to the one I saw on her Florida camp,” Payne said to Wohl. “As I said last time, reminds me a great deal of Scout camp . . . with sick kids. Wait until you see what comes next.”
The image of Camilla Rose was replaced with a young girl with a sweet, engaging smile and very bright eyes and a very bald head.
The girl then said, her voice squeaking with emotion, “I just had to say thank you for the best time I have ever had in my whole life! I didn’t know it was possible to do all the fun things you taught me. I learned so much about staying strong and getting better. Thanks to you, no matter what, I’ll always be a Camilla’s Can-Do Kid forever!”
Camilla Rose came back on-screen.
“Little Heather fought her cancer for four brave years. Then, a month after she became, as she said, a Camilla’s Can-Do Kid forever, she passed away.”
There were gasps as well as soft moans from the crowd. A man two tables over blew his nose.
“Jesus Christ!” Payne muttered. “That part was left out of the version I saw.”
Camilla Rose came back on screen.
“And so you have some small idea of the impact that you can have on a child who may have lost all hope in life.
“Coming from a business background, I understand it is important for our corporation to be good neighbors, to give back to our community. Yet, while we are all very good at what we produce, we may have limited ability to vet the many charities that ask for support.
“In selecting a charity—which, essentially, will be viewed as an extension of your company—it is extremely important to align with one that will protect your company’s image, its brand. You want something that will make your employees to say not only do they support something they’re proud of but that they’re excited to do it.
“Here at Camilla’s Kids Camps, our organization is completely open. We’re ethical. Fiscally responsible. Transparent.
“And as to how we do, our campers say it all.”
Camilla Rose held up a small note card, and, her voice on the verge of cracking, said it was one of many she received from parents. She read from it: “Cassidy cried all the way home. She did not want to leave camp. She told us proudly that she wanted to always be a Camilla’s Can-Do Kid. Thank you and your supporters who make the miracle camp possible.”
Camilla Rose looked at the camera, and said, “Yes, thank you, supporters, for your generosity tonight. We could not do it without you. Thank y
ou for coming. Good night.”
As the houselights in the ballroom came up, Payne heard Aimee Wolter and his sister sniffling.
“Rough, huh?” Payne said, pulling a white handkerchief from the inside of his coat pocket and offering it to Aimee. His sister already had a cocktail napkin to her nose.
She waved, declining the handkerchief.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be okay. That just gets me every time. Camilla Rose was such a kindhearted person.”
Payne scanned the room. People, pulling out checkbooks and credit cards, were beginning to crowd tables along the red carpet.
Payne quickly scanned the room again until he found Willie Lane. He saw him moving toward a back exit door. Payne’s eyes went to the waiter, who he saw watching Lane. The waiter then put down the tray of water glasses, pulled out the flip phone, and discreetly thumbed its keypad.
“I’ll be right back,” Payne said, and walked over to one of the undercover officers.
“Hey, Marshal, some video, huh? Got me choked up—”
“Yeah. See that kid over there, the waiter with the ponytail . . . ?”
“Sure.”
“Take him aside and hold him till I get back. Don’t let him touch his cell phone.”
“Detain him? You got it.”
Payne moved quickly to the exit.
—
Willie Lane was in the lobby, headed for the revolving front doors. Payne followed.
Outside, Payne stopped at the top of the stairs. He saw Lane down by the valet kiosk next to a heavy stone pillar. He was handing the valet a paper parking stub and pointing past the row of sparkling Highway Patrol Harley-Davidsons to his Mercedes-Benz parked nearby.
The valet grabbed the vehicle’s keys from the kiosk’s lockbox, then trotted to the SUV as Lane waited beside the pillar.
Payne scanned the immediate area, saw nothing unusual—then heard the racing of an engine coming south down Broad. He looked that direction and saw a dark blue Chrysler minivan flying up, the right-side door sliding wide open.
“Get down!” Payne shouted as he ran down the flight of ten steps.
Payne saw an arm extend from the open door of the van, a large black pistol in its hand.
Payne pushed Lane to the ground behind the heavy stone pillar, then pulled his Colt .45 from his shoulder holster.
As the gunman in the minivan began firing rapidly, Payne went down to one knee beside the pillar and took aim. He had a clear view of the driver and squeezed off two shots, then, as the van passed, finally had a full view of the shooter in the back—and emptied the magazine.
The horn of the minivan began blowing steadily, and the van swerved, striking a light pole. The impact crushed the front end, the sudden stop causing the sliding door to slam shut.
Payne, running at a crouch toward the van, kept focused on it while automatically ejecting and pocketing the magazine from the Colt, inserting a fresh one, then dropping the locked-open slide to chamber a round.
As he approached the minivan, he saw a pistol laying in the shadows at the curb—and, a few feet from it, a severed hand.
Payne went to the driver’s side, scanning the interior of the vehicle as he went. There was no movement.
He threw open the driver’s door—and found a middle-aged male slumped over the console, blood and gray matter from his head wound soaking the front seats.
Payne fought back his gag reflex and looked in the backseat. The shooter wasn’t moving, either.
Payne heard the thunderous sound of multiple heavy footfalls. He looked and saw a small army of officers running toward him.
He thumbed the hammer lock upward on his Colt and slid the weapon back in his shoulder holster.
A young blue shirt came around the rear of the minivan.
“You gonna need a paramedic?” he said. When Payne looked at him, the officer added, “An ambulance?”
“Driver’s dead. Check the shooter in back.”
“No, I mean for you,” he said, gesturing toward Payne’s midsection.
Payne looked down and saw a circle of blood.
“Shit,” he said, and as he pulled back his jacket he realized that his hands were shaking. He now felt an ache from under his bandage, but there were no new holes in his clothing. “I’m good.”
“I’ll say,” the blue shirt said, opening the sliding door on the left side, then reaching in to feel for a pulse. “Man, you’re really good. Two for two.”
—
“Well, I think I just signed, sealed, and delivered my departure, Peter,” Matt said as they stood watching yellow police tape being strung up. “It’s not been twelve hours since Uncle Denny said to keep my nose clean. Carlucci is going to blow his cork.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. Carlucci is busy putting out other fires.”
“Yeah, and the clever sonofabitch will use this to deflect from the pay for play. ‘Today, I fired Wyatt Earp.’”
The undercover officer came out with the teenage waiter in handcuffs.
“He had a flip phone,” Payne said.
The undercover officer handed it to Payne, who scrolled to the most recent texts.
“I needed the money,” the teenager said. “I didn’t know this was going to happen.”
“What did you think was going to happen?” Payne said.
The kid shrugged. “They said they were going to have a surprise for Councilman Lane.”
Payne snorted. “And, boy, did they.”
Payne hit the key that dialed the number. A telephone began ringing on the floorboard of the front seat.
The kid lost all color in his face.
ONE WEEK LATER
X
[ ONE ]
Police Administration Building
Eighth and Race Streets
Philadelphia
Monday, January 16, 1:21 P.M.
There was a double knock at the inner door of the office.
“What is it?” First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin said without looking up from the report he was reading at his desk.
“Inspector Wohl’s here.”
“Well, send him in.”
The volume on the television across the room was low, and Coughlin heard the Philly News Now anchor announce: “A visibly angry Mayor Carlucci today denied allegations of so-called influence peddling in his office. He has ordered an outside independent investigation into those allegations. And he dismissed as ridiculous the calls for his resignation.”
Coughlin heard Carlucci’s voice and looked up at the TV.
The mayor, standing outside City Hall, was speaking into a half-dozen foam-ball-covered microphones that were held up to his face. “And this is nothing but petty partisan politics. I brought to this office a long history of law and order and can assure you that all accusations will be found to be completely without merit. My good name and that of this office will be cleared of any wrongdoing.”
Edward Stein appeared in the shot as he put a hand on Carlucci’s shoulder and began guiding him away.
“Thank you all very much,” Stein said, leaning into the microphones. “That’s it for questions today. The mayor’s office will release a press release shortly. Thank you.”
Coughlin thumbed the MUTE button on the remote control as the office door opened and Peter Wohl entered.
Wohl was wearing a well-tailored, two-piece dark gray woolen suit—and, Coughlin noted, an unusual expression. He carried a white No. 10 envelope in a somewhat delicate manner, as if he did not want any part of it.
Coughlin got to his feet and came out from behind his desk.
“Everything okay, Peter?” Coughlin said. “You look like somebody died.”
“It’s nothing quite that dire.”
Coughlin tapped the report he had been reading. “I
f it hadn’t been for Matty, Willie Lane would not be able to say the same.”
Wohl gestured for him to continue.
“The two Matty shot who were trying to whack Willie Lane were union guys angry about their coworkers in the coal tower. When the photographs got circulated showing Lane almost running down the protesters in Doylestown, it got worse. Joey Fitz said the two in the minivan were out for revenge.”
Wohl shook his head. “Makes you wonder about what happened with the explosion across the street. Gas Works said it was simply substandard iron gas pipe. Blamed it on China. Convenient . . .”
Coughlin looked at him with an eyebrow raised.
Wohl held out the envelope to Coughlin.
“I tried to dissuade him,” Wohl said, “telling him to take time to think it over, maybe reconsider.”
Coughlin saw that the envelope had been hand-addressed to him with his official title, FIRST DEPUTY POLICE COMMISSIONER COUGHLIN, not Uncle Denny, and that it was sealed.
He tore back an edge of the flap, poked his index finger in the hole, and ripped open the end. He extracted the single sheet of paper that was inside and unfolded it with a flick of his wrist.
“Jesus,” Coughlin said after a time, then raised his eyes to Wohl as he refolded the sheet. “He finally did it.”
Wohl nodded.
“Apparently so. He said he was adamant about his decision. Said he wasn’t going to give in to Carlucci’s henchmen. You know who he’s referring to?”
Coughlin nodded. “And so do you, if you think about it. That’s why I had him temporarily transferred to your unit before he could have been put . . . elsewhere.”
Wohl nodded, then went on. “He didn’t want to give these henchmen the satisfaction of seeing him given thirty days with intent to dismiss. He gave me a similar letter”—Wohl reached into his pocket and produced the opened envelope—“said he had a plane to catch, and asked that I give you yours, with his apology for not doing it himself.”
“Why don’t you believe him?”
“I think he thinks he’s failed the police department, in general, and you and me, in particular, and is willing to nobly fall on his sword.”
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