The Vigilantes

by W. E. B Griffin

  As they started walking along the sidewalk in front of the half-demolished row house, they heard an Italian-accented voice bark, “Aw, what the fuck, youse guys?”

  When they all turned, they saw a frustrated Little Tommie Turco standing with both arms above his head, palms up.

  Detective Harry Mudd held up his right index finger again, this time in a gesture meant to signal Back in a minute.

  They heard Turco then bark, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” and watched as he tore the cigar stub from his mouth and threw it to the dirt.

  [TWO]

  As they rounded the corner from Jefferson to Hancock, Matt Payne saw that there was yellow POLICE LINE tape strung between two boarded-up row houses, blocking the entrance to an alleyway.

  The first thing Payne saw behind the yellow tape was the blood trail. He took another step forward, his eye following the trail up the alleyway until he saw in the shadows the body of a very big black male. On the concrete beside his head was an inverted-V plastic marker with a black numeral “01” on it.

  Parked on the street, blocking off the alleyway, was a Chevy Impala squad car. The right rear door was open, and a young black boy was sitting in the rear seat, turned so his back was to the scene.

  “That’s the deceased’s nephew,” Mudd said. “He says he didn’t see the the shooter, which I doubt. We’re trying to find his mother.”

  Payne nodded.

  Poor kid is probably in shock.

  As he glanced around, he thought, Three dead back there. Another dead—a possible pop-and-drop—here.

  Two crime scenes two blocks apart. Or is it just one big scene?

  And all this is going on just three blocks from The Fortress.

  Then he thought: Oh, shit, Amanda!

  He tugged back his left shirtsleeve cuff and checked his wristwatch.

  Almost six?

  He pulled out his cell phone and pounded out a text message with his thumbs:

  HI, BABY . . .

  SORRY I’M JUST NOW GETTING BACK TO YOU.

  GOOD NEWS & BAD NEWS.

  BAD FIRST: I OBVIOUSLY CAN’T MAKE IT BY 6. JUST GOT TO A SCENE WITH MORE DEAD.

  GOOD (OR MAYBE MORE BAD) NEWS: IT’S ONLY BLOCKS

  FROM THE CONDO.

  REALLY GOOD NEWS: SO, SEE YOU SOON?

  SORRY, BABY . . .

  He hit SEND. As he started to put back his phone, it almost immediately vibrated with the reply:

  AMANDA LAW

  OK. SEE YOU WHEN I SEE YOU

  XOXO -A

  Uh-oh. Do I read between the lines?

  That was a fast reply.

  Like she was waiting.

  Correction: a fast and terse reply.

  Or dismissive?

  On the one hand, she shouldn’t be pissed. She said she understands why I have to do this.

  The damned pop-and-drop body count is probably up to nine. Then there’s the three dead next door. Someone’s got to stop it. . . .

  But on the other hand, Amanda’s emotional because she’s not completely over her abduction—which I can understand—and she’s not happy with my job and the idea of my being in danger.

  Having been shaken to her very core, she’s wisely questioning where things will go for her—for us. And, ultimately, who will I owe my allegiance to in five, ten, twenty years?

  To the police department of a wild city whose crime rate doesn’t seem to be improving?

  Or to the goddess who’s the loving mother of my children?

  His thumb hovered over the REPLY key while he contemplated what he should say.

  I can’t lose this woman.

  I should say something, I just don’t know what’s—

  “Matt, you need to see this,” Harris called.

  Payne looked up, then glanced at the phone—then slipped it back into his pocket.

  Nice job, Matty ol’ boy.

  You just proved once again that you don’t deserve her.

  “What is it, Tony?” Matt said as he walked toward him.

  Harris was pointing in the direction of another evidence marker, this one somewhat obscured by weeds and shadows. It was close to the yellow tape. Next to it was a pair of spent shell casings.

  “Any chance they’re .45 GAP?” Payne asked.

  “They are,” Mudd offered. “Just two of them. But .45-cal. Glock.”

  Kerry Rapier said, “Number nine? Our mystery shooter strikes again?”

  Payne exhaled audibly, then looked at Mudd.

  “Well, hell, Harry, let me guess,” he said, gesturing toward the alleyway. “The guy’s got a history of sex crimes.”

  Mudd stepped over to the Impala, reached in, and from the front seat picked up a plastic evidence bag. He handed it to Payne.

  Payne looked through the clear plastic at the Wanted sheet and its mug shot of the huge, goateed, droopy-eyed LeRoi Cheatham.

  “You got it, Matt,” Mudd said. “Cheatham served time for rape and was out on early release. Then, because he thought he could make only one visit with his parole agent, he got on the Megan’s Law list.”

  “There’s just no damned end to these perps,” Payne said.

  He read the back of the sheet. Handwritten in blue ink was: “Lex Talionis, Third & Arch, Old City, $10,000 reward.”

  “Check out the back,” Payne said, handing the bag to Harris. “I’d say Kerry’s right: number nine for our mystery shooter. Or ten, if Reggie Jones turns out to be his handiwork, too.”

  Harris held up the bag, then passed it to Rapier and said: “And, as Kerry likes to say, I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that we’ll find the same doer’s prints on that sheet. Looks like the same cheap gray paper stock as the others.”

  Mudd said, “The kid said the doer told him to give that to his mother.”

  “Well, that’s evidence, so it’s not going to Mama. She’ll have to figure out how to convince Five-Eff to cough up the ten large without it.”

  Mudd looked at him, clearly confused.

  After Payne explained that Five-Eff was Francis Fuller, Mudd made the connection to the reward.

  Mudd then went on: “Cheatham had a hundred twenty-two bucks cash on him. A rusty switchblade knife that didn’t really switch itself open. And two eight-balls of what we suspect is crystal meth. Which the Wanted sheet tends to confirm, as he has a history of doing meth, too.”

  Payne glanced at the young boy in the back of the squad car.

  “And what about him, Harry?”

  “The kid’s name is Michael Floyd, age twelve or age four, depending on the direction the wind’s blowing.”

  Now Payne, Harris, and Rapier looked confused.

  Payne held out his right hand, palm up, and wagged his fingers in a Let’s have it gesture.

  Mudd made a sour face. “He’s a simpleton. Backward, you know? May even have a bit of brain damage. He isn’t saying much. But even if he did say something we might be able to run with, I’d be very skeptical of it.”

  Payne glanced at the kid and said, “Well, he’s got to be in shock seeing his uncle dead.”

  Mudd shrugged. “Then again,” he said, “it could all be an act, at least the backwardness. Just playing dumb, you know? Reason I say that is, one of the blue shirts, who was directing traffic at the first scene”—he pointed eastward, toward Mascher Street—“saw a white minivan with FedEx logos roll past a minute before he heard the two gunshots. We asked the kid about that, and”—he flipped a couple pages on his notepad and read from it—“he said, quote, What be a FedEx, motherfucker? end quote.”

  Payne raised his eyebrows, looking at Michael for a moment before turning back to Mudd.

  Rapier handed Mudd the evidence bag with the Wanted sheet.

  Mudd said, “He pointed at Cheatham’s Last Known Address on here and said that’s where he and his mother live, not Cheatham. He said his uncle lived in this abandoned house here.”

  “Maybe the kid’s mama got sick of her brother’s bullshit,” Payne said. “Must be difficult eno
ugh raising a kid with a mental disability.”

  Payne then bent over to look at the spent shell casings.

  They’re damn near still warm.

  We were that close!

  Harris said, “What’re you thinking, Matt?

  Payne looked up at him and said, “How close we were.”

  “And now,” Harris said, “how close we’re not again.”

  Payne stood erect and, clearly in thought, stared at Tony a long moment.

  “Nothing personal, Detective Harris, but you look like shit. And I’m beginning to feel like it. We’ve been banging away at this”—he glanced as his wristwatch—“hell, I can’t even do the math. I think we need to take a break. Clear our heads. As a very wise person once told me, ‘These guys will still be dead in the morning. You don’t need to make a mistake and join them.’”

  “That was me, Matt,” Harris said.

  Payne smiled. “I know.”

  He turned to Mudd and handed him his business card. “That’s got my cell number, Harry. Let me know if you find something.”

  “Will do.”

  As they walked back to the gray Crown Vic, Payne thumbed out a text message:

  HEY, BABY . . .

  ON MY WAY. BE THERE SHORTLY.

  He hit SEND and thought, Hope you’re still there—and still talking to me. . . .

  [THREE]

  Hops Haus Tower 1100 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 7:01 P.M.

  It was well past dusk as Matt Payne drove up the cobblestone drive to the circle entrance of the high-rise condominiums. After dropping Harris and Rapier at the Roundhouse, he’d run by his tiny apartment on Rittenhouse Square, grabbed a fast shower and shave, and changed into an old comfortable pair of clean khakis, a long-sleeve navy cotton polo shirt, and boater’s deck shoes. His shirttail was out, concealing the Colt Officer’s Model .45 tucked under his belt on his right hip.

  Parking in a slot across from the massive water fountain on the circle drive, he looked up and marveled at the impressive main entrance. The soaring three-story, stainless-steel-framed wall of thick clear glass gave a fantastic view of the lobby, all the more striking at night with its brightly lit gleaming marble floors and walls.

  Payne walked through the main entrance doors and waved to the concierge on duty behind the main marble-topped desk. David Suder was a dark-haired, dark-eyed twenty-eight-year-old with a muscular frame that looked as if it had been forged from hardened steel. He wore a nice two-piece dark woolen suit, a starched white shirt, and a dark necktie that almost looked out of place on him.

  “How you doin’, David?” Payne called out.

  “Good,” he replied, smiling. “How goes it with you, Sarge, I mean, Mr. Payne? You look like you’ve had a rough one.”

  “It’s ‘Matt,’ David. And indeed I have. But it’s getting better by the moment.”

  “Glad to hear it. Check six, Matt.”

  “You, too, David,” Payne called back as he reached the heavy sliding glass door that led to the elevator bank.

  He punched in the unique code for Unit 2180 on the keypad. In mid-October, Amanda had changed it to 0-9-1-0 for September 10, the day she said her life had been profoundly changed—the day when Matt had saved her from her murderous abductors.

  The glass door whooshed open sideways. Inside the elevator, he entered the code again and hit the 21 button on the panel for the penthouse floor.

  As he rode up, he thought about the day that he’d met David Suder, who he knew wasn’t really a concierge. As a general rule of thumb, concierges didn’t address guests as “sergeant” and caution them to watch their back for bad guys—“check six” being good-guy jargon that meant for them to be wary of who might be sneaking up behind them, also known as their “six o’clock.”

  Suder now worked for Andy Hardwick, and Hardwick had introduced them when he’d told Matt there’d be extra protective eyes watching the penthouse floor and the owner of Unit 2180. But until recently, David had been Philadelphia Police Department Officer Suder, a rising star assigned to the elite Narcotics Strike Force. Earlier in the year he had taken the corporal’s exam and passed both oral and written parts with scores high enough to put him in the top ten percent, and on “The List.” Only those on The List got immediate promotions; everyone else would have to wait for a slot to open, which could take weeks, months—or maybe never even happen. After The List expired in two years, those not promoted would have to retake the exam with a new group of candidates.

  But there was one caveat: funding. And because of severe budgetary cutbacks this year, there were fewer corporal slots, and only the top five percent had been immediately promoted.

  Officer Suder had not been happy about that, to put it mildly.

  Shortly thereafter, Andy Hardwick had been buying a few rounds down the street at Liberties Bar, catching up on Roundhouse scuttlebutt with old buddies still on the force, and he’d heard all about Suder’s displeasure at getting the shaft thanks to City Hall bean counters.

  The next day, Hardwick had taken Suder to lunch. Before they’d even been served their desserts, Hardwick had effectively poached him from the Philadelphia Police Department with the offer of a salary that was almost twice what any corporal could ever dream of earning.

  But I simply could never do residential security, Payne thought.

  Fortunately, I don’t need the damn money. That’s moot.

  But more to the point: Where the hell’s the thrill in private security? The satisfaction?

  What’d be the equivalent of what I’m doing now?

  Heading up Task Force Operation Poolhouse Clogged Toilet?

  “Ma’am, the sign clearly states that no personal sanitary items are to be flushed. I’m afraid we’re going to have to write you a ticket on this one.”

  He snorted as the elevator made a ding, stopped, and the doors parted on the twenty-first floor.

  Then again, Marshal Earp, no one would be shooting at you.

  And you’re not exactly going gangbusters with collaring the doers in Op Clean Sweep.

  As he put the key in 2180’s heavy brass deadbolt lock, Matt could hear Luna softly whining on the other side of the door. Her wagging tail was thumping against the door.

  Having her so happy to see me is a nice welcome after a long lousy day.

  Now I only hope that I can get Amanda to wag her lovely tail, too.

  When he turned the knob and pushed the door inward, Luna stuck her black nose and curly-haired muzzle around its edge. Matt reached down to scratch her head as he opened the door.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Now take me to your gorgeous master.”

  As he stepped inside the doorway, Matt heard Amanda’s sultry voice: “She already has.”

  He looked up from Luna and saw Amanda standing there. She was barefoot, but wearing a stunning gold sequined cocktail dress. It clung flawlessly to her well-toned body, as if it was almost a second skin. And it shimmered miraculously. The front was cut low and wide, generously enough to show a great deal of incredible suntanned cleavage while not revealing more than a sexy suggestion of her marvelous bosom. Her thick wavy blond hair, hanging free and full, was silky and luminous.

  Wow! Payne thought. The goddess glows!

  She looks so full of life, her eyes so warm and inviting.

  And that dress! It radiates like a sea at sunset.

  Sorry, Luna. Your greeting just got bested.

  Far, far and away . . .

  And he saw that Amanda—Perhaps even better, though it’d be the absolute last damn thing I’d ever admit to—was holding a cocktail napkin wrapped around a squat, heavy crystal glass that was dark with what had to be an intoxicant.

  “Glad you could make it,” she said, her tone warm, genuinely meaning it. “I was beginning to worry.”

  As she turned her head slightly to the right, offering her left cheek, Matt said, “Sorry, baby, crazy day,” and kissed her affectionately.

  She held out the glass
and flashed her dazzling smile.

  “Macallan Eighteen, half water, two ice cubes.”

  He took it and grinned. “You not only have an incredible mind, but also a very dangerous memory.”

  She smiled again. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you.”

  “That said, you’re not only an angel but a lifesaver. I’ve been longing for one of these all day.”

  As he took a big sip, she reached for his other hand and tugged him toward the interior of the condominium.

  “Come on and sit down. Relax.”

  With Luna leading the way, they went into the living room and sat on the big, soft, black leather couch. It faced the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the lights of the city twinkled far into the distance. From the high-fidelity digital music player that Matt had bought Amanda when she started spending so much time at home came the soft, soothing voice of Diana Krall singing “Besame Mucho.”

  Matt looked at Amanda, thought, Kiss me much, indeed—then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek again.

  She smiled almost shyly.

  He sat back and suddenly said, “You’re not having anything?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear and glancing back toward the kitchen.

  She pushed herself up off the couch and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  “How was your day, baby?” Payne asked as she went.

  Amanda called back, “Interesting. Thanks for asking. I was going to tell you about it. But first enjoy your drink.”

  Uh-oh.

  Was that a red flag, or maybe a yellow caution one, that just went up?

  Matt watched over his shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen. As he looked back at the lights outside, he could hear the sounds of her getting something out of the refrigerator and unwrapping it.

  Oh, shit. She’s had food prepared.

  So she was waiting for me to reply when I sent that text.