“Captain, whoever did this to Herr Friedler might well be a deviate, but he was neither a ‘good friend’ of Friedler nor a male whore.”
“How can you know—”
“A senior BKA investigator,” Görner said quickly, shutting him off, “is on his way here to assist you in your investigation. Until he gets here, I strongly suggest that you do whatever you have to do to protect the corpse and the scene of the crime.”
“Polizeidirektor Achter told me about the BKA getting involved when he told me you would be coming, Herr Görner.”
“Good.”
“Can you tell me what this is all about?”
“Friedler worked for me. He was in Marburg working on a story. There is no question in my mind that he was killed because he had—or was about to have—come upon something that would likely send someone to prison and/or embarrass someone very prominent.”
“Have you a name? Names?”
“As far as I know, Polizeirat Lumm, you are a paradigm of an honest police officer, but on the other hand, I don’t know that, and I never laid eyes on you until tonight, so I’m not going to give you any names.”
“With all respect, Herr Görner, that could be interpreted as refusing to cooperate with a police investigation.”
“Yes, I suppose it could. Are you thinking of arresting me?”
“I didn’t say that, sir.”
“I almost wish you would. If you did, I wouldn’t have to do what I must do next: go to Günther Friedler’s home on Christmas Eve and tell his widow that her thoroughly decent husband—they have four children, Lumm, two at school here at Phillips, two a little older with families of their own—will not be coming home late on Christmas Eve because he has been murdered by these bastards.”
[THREE]
3690 Churchill Lane
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
1610 24 December 2005
After carefully checking his rearview mirror, John M. “Jack” Britton, a somewhat soberly dressed thirty-two-year-old black man, turned his silver Mazda MX-5 Miata right off Morrell Avenue onto West Crown Avenue, then almost immediately made another right onto Churchill Lane.
Churchill Lane—lined with clusters of two-story row houses, five to eight houses per cluster—made an almost ninety-degree turn to the left after the second cluster of homes. Britton followed the turn, then pulled the two-door convertible (he had the optional hardtop on it for the winter) to the curb in front of the center cluster. He was now nearly right in front of his home.
Britton got out of the car, looked down the street, and then, seeing nothing, walked around the nose of the Miata, pulled open the passenger door, and accepted an armload of packages from his wife, Sandra, a slim, tall, sharp-featured woman who was six days his senior in age.
They had come from a Bring One Present Christmas party held in a nearby restaurant by and for co-workers. Jack Britton had changed jobs, but he and his wife had been invited anyway. They came home with the two presents they had received in exchange for each of theirs, plus the door prize, an electric mixer for the kitchen that seemed to be made of lead and for which they had no use. On the way home, they had discussed giving it to Sandra’s brother, El-wood, who was getting married.
Knowing that her husband couldn’t unlock the front door with his arms full, Sandra preceded him past the three-foot-high brick wall that was topped with a four-foot-high aluminum rail fence—one that Britton bitterly complained had cost a bundle yet had done absolutely nothing to keep the local dogs from doing their business on his small but meticulously kept lawn.
Sandra was just inside the fence when Jack looked down the street again.
This time he saw what he was afraid he was going to see: a pale green Chrysler Town & Country minivan. It was slowly turning the ninety-degree bend in Churchill Lane. Then it rapidly accelerated.
“Sandy, get down behind the wall!” Britton ordered.
“What?”
He rushed to his wife, pushed her off the walkway and down onto the ground behind the wall, then covered her body with his.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, half angrily, half fearfully.
There came the sound of squealing tires.
Britton reached inside his jacket and pulled a Smith & Wesson Model 29 .357 Magnum revolver from his shoulder holster. He rolled off of his wife and onto his back, bringing up the pistol with both hands and aiming at the top of the wall in case someone came over it.
There then came the sound of automatic-weapons fire—Kalashnikovs, he thought, two of them—and of a few ricochets and glass shattering, and the tinkle of ejected cartridge cases bouncing on the macadam pavement of Churchill Lane.
And then squealing tires and a revved-up engine.
Britton crawled to where he could look out the gate to the street. He saw the Town & Country turn onto Wessex Lane but knew there wasn’t time for a shot at the minivan. And he realized he couldn’t have fired if there had been time; another cluster of houses was in the line of fire.
He stood up, put the pistol back in the shoulder holster, then went to Sandra and pulled her to her feet.
“What the hell was that, Jack?” she asked, her voice faint.
“Let’s get you in the house,” he said, avoiding the question. “Into the cellar.”
He took her arm and led her up the walk to the door.
“I dropped the goddamn keys,” Sandra said.
He ran back to the fence, drawing the pistol again as he ran, found the keys, and then ran back to his front door.
There were half a dozen neat little holes in the door, and one of the small panes of glass in the door had been shattered.
He got the door unlocked and propelled Sandra through the living room to the door of the cellar, which he had finished out with a big-screen TV, a sectional couch, and a wet bar.
“Honey,” he said, his tone forceful, “stay down there until I tell you. If you want to be useful, make us a drink while I call the cavalry.”
“I don’t think this is funny, Jack, goddamn you!”
“I’ll be right outside. And when the cops get here, I’m going to need a drink.”
He closed the cellar door after she started down the stairs. Then he went quickly to the front door, took up a position where he could safely see out onto the street, and looked. He saw nothing alarming.
He took his cellular telephone from its belt clip and punched 9-1-1.
He didn’t even hear the phone ring a single time before a voice said: “Nine-one-one Emergency. Operator four-seven-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Assist officer! Shots fired! Thirty-six ninety Churchill Lane. Thirty-six ninety Churchill Lane.” He’d repeated the address, making sure the police dispatcher got it correct. “Two or more shooters in a pale green Chrysler Town & Country minivan. They went westbound on Wessex from Churchill. They used automatic weapons, possibly Kalashnikov rifles.”
He broke the connection, then looked out the window again, this time seeing something he hadn’t noticed before.
The MX-5 had bullet holes in the passenger door. The metal was torn outward, meaning that the bullets had passed through the driver’s door first.
If we had been in the car, they would’ve gotten us.
Goddamn! The car’s not two months old.
When he heard the howl of sirens, he went outside. He looked up and down the street, and then, taking the revolver out of its holster again, walked down to the sidewalk to see what else had happened to the Miata.
The first unit to respond to the call was DJ 811, a rather rough-looking Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor patrol car assigned to the Eighth District. The howl of its siren died as it turned onto Churchill Lane, and when Britton saw it coming around the curve, he noticed that the overhead lights were not flashing.