The Vigilantes

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Seriously?” Jan Harper said, her tone sharp and incredulous. She tried keeping her voice low to avoid being overheard in the five-star restaurant high atop one of Philly’s tallest buildings. “Rapp, I don’t know if you can cover your ass this time. Those guys are dead. And the demolition company is raising hell that we—HUD—said it was clear to take down those condemned buildings. And I don’t know who gave them the go-ahead.”

  Badde heard Jan, but he was paying more attention to how she looked in the posh Vista Fiume restaurant. And thinking how, when they’d walked in, she’d looked like she owned the place. The young bankers and lawyers and other professionals had turned.

  The beautiful people, Badde thought.

  And I’m with one of the prettiest women in the room.

  Not bad for the son of a barber from South Philly.

  This really is a classy joint.

  Maybe after I get through all this, and the fund makes a little more money, I’ll get a condo here. Move on up. I heard Risken bought a six-million-dollar one just before he ran for governor. Not bad company for me to be associated with. . . .

  Taking up half of the entire thirty-seventh floor, “River View” had a high-class international feel, more like a large open-air nightclub than a restaurant. All its gleaming wood-inlaid tables featured undulating lounge seats that faced the windows and their commanding views of the city and the rivers bracketing it. The ambience thrummed with a high energy.

  While Vista Fiume set a new nightlife standard for Philadelphia, it still wasn’t on par with the chicest and toniest restaurants and nightclubs that were offered in New York, the City That Never Sleeps. And the Philly nightlife certainly wasn’t anywhere near that of, say, Buenos Aires, where the Argentines began partying well past ten-thirty and did not slow down until the sun came up.

  But judging by the international clientele, Badde thought, scanning the room, it’s coming.

  Those foreign models are gorgeous—and Jan fits right in.

  When he had driven the Range Rover up to the cobblestone circle drive of the Hops Haus Tower, Jan had been waiting just inside the main glass doors. The bright lights of the lobby made her look like a model. Her curvy body looked stunning in a black velvet dress, her silky light-brown face complemented with an elegant short strand of pearls.

  Although Badde—who had stopped by his City Hall office and changed into a plain dark two-piece suit and open-collared shirt he’d worn two days earlier—would never have admitted to it, he felt far out of her league.

  And that had only become more apparent to him when they’d arrived at Two Liberty Place, a first-class high-rise that was the city’s third-tallest building. It featured executive offices and condominiums costing upward of seven million dollars, among the most expensive in town.

  Then Jan had really proven she owned the place when she told the maître d’: “The reservation is under Harper, and it’s for table eighty-two, please.”

  After they were seated, and Rapp Badde could tell the table had the best view in the place, he said, “You’ve been here before!”

  She smiled. “No, I just made a few calls while getting ready. Then made the reservation. A friend said table eighty-two is supposed to have the best sunset view. And she said I should have crab cakes and lobster, and my date should get either the tenderloin or veal. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, the mini cheesesteaks. Get some before Yuri arrives.”

  Badde then thought: And what the hell does the Russian want to talk about all of a sudden? I’ve been racking my brain over that since Jan said we were coming here.

  He really is an impatient one—an impatient one with a temper.

  Forty-eight-year-old Yuri Tikhonov was an international investor who had earned his first billion dollars between the ages of thirty-five and forty—after, it was rumored, having more or less left the employ of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, Russia’s external spying and intelligence gathering agency, formerly the KGB.

  Tikhonov now had investments in companies around the world, though primarily in Russia, Europe, and the United States. He held forty-nine percent of Diamond Development in Philadelphia, while the other fifty-one percent—the majority of shares—was owned by minority investors or minority-owned companies, including one Urban Ventures LLC.

  Tikhonov was quietly friendly with various members of the Russian mafia, a group viewed as far more merciless than the Italian mob. It was said that the only reason the Russians hadn’t come in and simply wiped out La Cosa Nostra was that they felt the crimes of the Sicilians—petty by comparison—weren’t really competition. The Wops kept the cops plenty busy chasing cheap hookers and sports bookies, and were thus a convenient diversion from the Russians’ own high-dollar illicit activities, everything from corporate fraud to money laundering.

  Badde had learned that it didn’t take a mathematical whiz to put two and two together and figure out that a lot of the investment money going into the Diamond Development projects was dirty cash getting cleansed.

  But no one—particularly a politician hoping to run for mayor of Philadelphia in the next election—was ever going to question the minority lead investors (brought together by Tikhonov) about where their funds had been borrowed from (venture capital firms serving as shells for the Russian mob).

  If that happened, the money—and the “multipurpose professional entertainment venue” and other major projects—would find a city not so inquisitive and unfriendly to capital investment.

  Jan Harper took a bite of her crab cake appetizer, then carefully picked up her martini glass and sipped the bright green appletini.

  “Seriously,” Badde said, nodding after taking a swallow of his vodka-and-tonic cocktail. “Who’s anyone going to believe more? The office of a city councilman or a bunch of Dago dirt movers? I’ve got that possible liability—”

  “Plausible deniability, Rapp,” she interrupted, her tone now slightly disgusted. “I told you that it’s called plausible deniability. What you deny is believable. And to that point, I’m not sure that’s the case here. Three people are dead, and it looks like HUD sent a crew out to do it.”

  She looked at him as she went to sip her martini.

  He looks pissed. And he is.

  But it’s not because I corrected him.

  It’s because I interrupted.

  Badde then shrugged. “I don’t know. If we didn’t do it, then we didn’t do it.”

  “It’s perception,” Jan said. “People believe what they see, not necessarily what the facts are.”

  “Then maybe we can blame it on miscommunications. Throw some poor campaign volunteer under the bus.” He paused in thought. “Actually, that might be a really good idea. An extra diversion.”

  Jan Harper didn’t say anything, but she was coming to realize that the more she knew H. Rapp Badde, Jr., the more she found that he wasn’t at all shy about making people sacrificial lambs for his purposes.

  Sure, it’s not unusual in politics, where the rule is always to protect the politician.

  But he almost does it for blood sport.

  And who’s to say he wouldn’t do it to me?

  Jan glanced around the room, then looked at Badde, who she saw was also scanning the crowd. Suddenly, his eyes went wide.

  “Don’t look now,” he said, looking behind her toward the entrance. “Wait till I tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Yuri just walked in.”

  She turned. When she saw him, she smiled and waved once, then turned back toward Badde.

  Yuri Tikhonov had a slender, compact, five-foot-five frame. His dark hair was cut stylishly long, the back touching his collar. He had a narrow face with piercing blue-gray eyes. He wore a custom-made dark two-piece suit and ice-blue shirt with French cuffs.

  Tikhonov was making a direct line for the table, stopping only to shake hands with a few of the well-dressed men and kiss the cheeks of many more ladies.

  Badde, still looking in his direction, was starting to s
tand. He said somewhat disgustedly, “The bastard acts like he owns the place.”

  Jan said simply, “He does, Rapp. I thought you knew.”

  When she saw him standing, she suddenly said in a loud whisper: “Badde!”

  He looked at her with an annoyed expression that was meant to say What now?

  She nodded toward his crotch and waved her hand over hers. “Your napkin!”

  He looked down, said, “Shit,” then removed the black linen napkin from where he’d tucked it into his belt.

  He tossed the napkin onto the lounge seat just in time to hold out his right hand. He turned on his best politician’s charm. “Yuri! How very good to see you again.”

  The Russian ignored Badde’s hand and, instead, first leaned over and lightly kissed Jan on both cheeks.

  “It is a pleasure to see you, Janelle,” he said, taking a step back and spreading his arms. “You look fabulous! A movie star!”

  Then he turned to Badde and offered his hand.

  “We do need to talk,” he said by way of greeting.

  Badde motioned for him to have a seat, and he took it.

  “This won’t take long,” the Russian said, all businesslike. A waiter arrived and delivered to him a glass of ice water. “How soon does the project move forward, now that the holdouts have left the property?”

  Rapp looked to Jan.

  She said, “Theoretically, crews could start tomorrow. Realistically? Probably a month.”

  They watched as Tikhonov sipped his ice water and considered that.

  “Not good enough,” he then said. “Sooner. Too much time has been wasted.”

  Ever the politician, Badde smiled and lied, “Of course, Yuri. Sooner.”

  He looked at Jan and said, “Sooner, right?”

  “Rapp, I’m not sure—”

  “Sooner,” Badde repeated, almost as if it were an order, then looked at Tikhonov.

  Tikhonov locked eyes with him.

  “No promises,” the Russian said. “I want it done.”

  Badde then said, “Just so you know, there may be a small delay. We first have to manage a misunderstanding that we killed one of the holdouts by sending the wrecking crew and—”

  Tikhonov interrupted him: “It will be no problem. That will be found to be nothing more than an unfortunate accident—”

  Rapp interrupted: “That’s what I thought,” he said, giving Jan a glance.

  “—and they will find that the others died of natural causes unknown,” Tikhonov concluded.

  “How can you be so sure?” Badde asked, clearly surprised.

  Tikhonov considered his reply a long moment, then simply said: “Succinylcholine.”

  “What?”

  “A muscle relaxant,” Tikhonov said conversationally, “sometimes called suxamethonium. Injected, it causes the heart muscle to relax till it stops. Has a very short half-life. Undetectable after perhaps an hour.”

  Badde again glanced at Jan, then at Tikhonov. “You did it?”

  Tikhonov, stone-faced, took a sip of his ice water, then said, “Of course not. Friends.”

  Badde thought, Ice water is fitting. Just like the blood in his veins.

  Badde said, “So then you called the demolition crew?”

  Tikhonov shook his head. “Dimitri.”

  His assistant passed himself off as the new HUD expediter!

  Yuri Tikhonov sighed. “Time is money, and it is time for the development to move forward.” He paused and locked eyes with Badde. “Just make sure it continues to do so.”

  Tikhonov suddenly stood and said, “You’ll please excuse me.” Then he leaned over and kissed Janelle Harper once on the cheek, and left.

  As Jan and Rapp looked at each other wordlessly, his business cell phone vibrated in his pocket. In the dim light under the table, its glowing screen read: ROGER WYNNE.

  Badde slipped it back into his pocket, then looked at Jan, who was downing her martini.

  “I need to visit the men’s room.”

  He stood and made his way toward the bar, then to the windows on the other side. He called Wynne back as he looked out at the grand view the thirty-seventh floor offered.

  “Found him, Rapp,” Wynne said when he answered. “Well, where Kenny’s been, anyway. A nice old woman by the name of Irma Graham just called here looking for Kenny. Said she missed him tonight at Fernwood Manor’s bingo, and that she hadn’t seen him since he put a bunch of boxes in the storage room of their Community Activity Center.”

  That was bingo I heard in the background!

  “Get someone over there to whatever you said—”

  “Fernwood Manor at Cobbs Creek,” Wynne furnished. “And I’m already on my way.”

  “Destroy every goddamn shred of paper. I don’t care if we ever have those votes again.”

  Badde ended the call. Looking out the window over the city, he thought, Well, at least that’ll get rid of the absentee-voter stuff. Now Kenny can’t squeal—who’s going to believe him without proof?

  I may again have just dodged going to jail. . . .

  On the way back to the table, Badde paused at the magnificent bar.

  There was a muted large flat-screen television tuned to the Eagles- Broncos National Football League game. Badde, acting as if he’d stopped to catch the score—Philadelphia was just barely beating Denver—took in the crowd, particularly all the attractive women.

  Well, I’ll damn sure be coming back here.

  The TV broadcast went to a commercial break.

  One of the TV news talking heads came on with a tease for the eleven P.M. newscast. The box that popped up next to the news anchor’s head showed Francis Fuller awarding at least three ceremonial ten-thousand-dollar reward checks. The text below the pop-up box said HALLOWEEN HOMICIDES: COLD-BLOODED MURDER TURNS INTO COLD CASH.

  And Kenny—and that drug dealer Cicero—are going to be next.

  X

  [ONE]

  The Roundhouse, Third Floor Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 9:12 A.M.

  The Executive Command Center’s main bank of monitors—all nine sixty-inch flat-screen televisions—was filled with the beet-red, angry face of the Honorable Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

  He stared right into the camera with a searing fire in his intense brown eyes as he said with great force: “And never in all my years in this city—both during my years in the Philadelphia Police Department and my time in elected office as your mayor—never have I witnessed such careless disregard for our laws. And I am here to tell you that this is lawless chaos of the worst sort”—his fist could be heard pounding the lectern—“and I will not let it stand! There will be law and order in the great city of Philadelphia if I have to bring in the state police and our National Guard troops.

  “And I am also telling you again that if you have information about any crime, you are to call our police department or the tips hotline—and no one else—and the police department will respond appropriately. This will not in any way cause anyone to be ineligible for any possible reward. It will, however, restore decorum to our fine city and dignity to its citizens.

  “Now, to show how absolutely serious I am in this regard, just this morning four people who went to Lex Talionis in Old City—”

  The image on the screen then cut to a shot of what had become the familiar scene at Third and Arch. Except this time there was a sea of dark blue—uniformed police lining the sidewalks shoulder to shoulder as far as the eye could see. And there were police cruisers parked bumper to bumper all along the curbs. There was a Medical Examiner’s Office van parked on the sidewalk, its rear doors open and a gurney with a full body bag being pushed inside.

  And in front of the van were four people, their hands cuffed behind their backs, being led by blue shirts to the open rear doors of two Chevy Impala police cars parked at the curb. The first was a tiny, ancient, gray-haired black woman in a sacklike dress, then a skinny young tee
nage black girl in a white sleeveless jacket, and two teenage black males in jeans and hoodie sweatshirts.

  A Tow Squad wrecker rolled past on Arch Street, a rusted-out mid- 1970s AMC Gremlin hanging backward behind it.

  “—were each arrested on multiple counts of suspicion of murder, tampering with evidence at the scene of a crime, and various other criminal charges in connection with the murder last night of one Jossiah Miffin. Arrested were his grandmother and three teenagers, two boys who identified themselves as Miffin’s neighbors, and a girl who said she was his niece.”

  The image went back to Carlucci’s face.

  He went on pointedly: “If these people had followed the proper procedure and called 911 for the police to handle the case of Miffin’s murder—and not brought the deceased to Lex Talionis—certain charges would never have been brought against them.” He paused, exhaled audibly, and in a calmer manner added, “So, in conclusion, let there be no mistake that, as I swore to do when I took my oath of office, I will see that the laws of this fine and just city are enforced to the letter. And, together, you and I will see Philadelphia return to normalcy. Thank you for your time. And may God bless you and the great city of Philadelphia.”

  Corporal Kerry Rapier was in his wheeled nylon-mesh-fabric chair at the control panel, manipulating the images on the three banks of monitors. He rewound the recording back to where Carlucci was forcefully saying: “And never in all my years in this city . . .”

  “I think three times is enough, Kerry,” Sergeant Matthew Payne said. “It was difficult enough to watch live the first time. I was convinced that his anger was being directed at the head of Task Force Operation Clean Sweep, who has accomplished exactly zero in his appointed duty.”

  Payne was sitting at Conference Table One. Detective Anthony Harris sat beside him. Each had a commanding view of the three banks of TV monitors, all brightly lit with various images, ones that now included the new pop-and-drops. Before them on the table, each had a notebook computer wired into the communications network. Matt’s screensaver image showed a hundred tiny .45 ACP rounds continually ricocheting across the screen, looking like a copper-jacketed hollow-point meteor shower.