He squatted beside Jamal.
Hell, Pookie or someone else may have set this bastard up just by giving him the gun.
Only thing we know for sure: Jamal’s a junkie, and high as a kite, and figuring out the truth is going to be a bitch.
“You’re under arrest,” McCrory said loudly, and pulled a playing card-sized paper and a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket.
He held the card so that Jamal could see it.
“‘You have the right to remain silent. .’” McCrory began, reading from the card despite being able to recite every word of the Miranda Rights from memory.
When McCrory finished not thirty seconds later, he turned Hayward and put his knee in his back, unlocked the right handcuff, and waved the card and pen in front of his face.
“Sign this,” McCrory said.
“I ain’t signing nothing.”
“Just sign the damn card.”
“Why?”
“It acknowledges that I read you your Miranda Rights. That’s all. But it’s okay, I guess you enjoy lying in this nasty snow. Figure anyone’s dumped one of those piss buckets on it lately?”
After a moment Michael Hayward sighed, grabbed the pen, then scribbled some semblance of his name across the card.
Kennedy knelt beside Hayward as McCrory clicked the right handcuff back on Hayward’s wrist.
“Jesus, you stink,” Kennedy said, grabbing Hayward’s left bicep. He looked at McCrory, who had grabbed his other arm. “On two. . a one and a. .”
They yanked Hayward from the ground and marched him to the back door of the Chevy.
McCrory, scanning the neighborhood as he slipped his pistol into its holster, then squatted and retrieved his knit cap from the sidewalk.
Kennedy watched him carefully brush snow from it, then hold it close to his nose and gently sniff.
Kennedy laughed loudly.
McCrory met his eyes as he tugged the cap on his head, smirked, and said, “Fuck you, partner.”
V
[ONE]
Owen Roberts International Airport
George Town, Grand Cayman Islands
Saturday, December 15, 2:35 P.M.
A smiling H. Rapp Badde Jr.-wearing sunglasses of Italian design, a white silk shirt, tan linen shorts, and brown leather sandals-had just stepped down to the sunbaked tarmac from the glistening white Gulfstream IV jet aircraft when he heard his Go To Hell cell phone start ringing.
He grimaced as he pulled it from an outer pocket of his leather backpack.
Badde carried two cell phones, one a smartphone that had what he considered his general use number and the other a more basic folding phone with his closely held private number. The latter he shared with only his small circle of legal and political advisers, and so when it rang, it was not unusual that something was about to go to hell.
He looked up at the doorway to the aircraft. A curvy twenty-five-year-old woman with silky light brown skin was stepping through it. Five-foot-six and wearing a low-cut white linen sundress, Janelle Harper was Badde’s executive assistant.
From the beginning, many had suspected that there was far more to his relationship with the young lawyer than strictly city business. And so it had come as little surprise when at least a dozen salacious photographs of them in Bermuda wound up splashed all over the local news.
Now Badde, his wife having banned him from their home, was cohabitating with Jan Harper in the luxury two-bedroom condominium in which he’d originally set her up. And as convenient as that certainly had seemed at first, both quietly found that spending so much time together-working and traveling and now living-was putting a strain on their relationship.
Badde looked at the telephone. The caller ID read PHILA MAYOR’S OFFICE.
What the hell? Carlucci?
Why would that Wop be calling me-and on a Saturday?
And why should I answer?
As Jan approached, he held up the ringing device and said, “It’s Carlucci.”
“Then answer it.”
“You sure? Why?”
She shrugged. “Then don’t.”
He made a look of disapproval as he flipped open the phone and put it to his ear.
“Rapp Badde,” he said, affecting a bored tone.
“Councilman, this is Edward Stein calling. How are you?”
Oh, I’m just peachy keen, Badde thought.
And you’re not Carlucci.
Who the hell are you and how did you get this number?
“What can I do for you?” Badde said. “I’m rather busy, what with the constant demands of my office. I’m sure you understand.”
Badde felt himself beginning to sweat in the bright tropical sun, and stepped into the shade of the aircraft.
“I do understand,” Stein said. “Councilman, we haven’t met. Do you know who I am?”
Edward Stein, he said?
Sounds familiar. But then Carlucci’s probably got at least fifty on his staff.
Thank God for caller ID. .
“Of course,” Badde said. “Carlucci’s office. What can I do for you?”
“We have a serious problem. And by ‘we,’ I mean you.”
What the hell?
“What do you mean I have a serious problem?” Badde said, a sharp edge to his tone. “Does Carlucci know about this?”
“As you know, I’m the mayor’s new chief executive adviser. I am specifically authorized to speak for him.”
Badde was quiet a moment, then said, “What sort of problem?”
“It’s about Josiah Cross.”
“And what about the good reverend?” Badde said, his tone defensive. “He’s an outstanding pillar of the community.”
There was a pause, and then Stein, his voice incredulous, said, “Have you not seen the news?”
Oh, hell-now what happened? Badde thought, looking as Janelle Harper stepped into the shade. She was making a stern face while rapidly tapping on the screen of her cellular phone.
“I saw the news first thing this morning,” Badde said. “Since then, as I said, I’ve been busy with other demands.”
“Then you’re telling me that you’re unaware of today’s murders. .”
That’s it? Just more murders?
Unless it’s a real bad one, they barely even make the news anymore.
“. . and that Reverend Cross and his followers are calling the police killers? In particular, that they have declared highly decorated Homicide Sergeant Payne as ‘Public Enemy Number One’?”
Badde thought: What is that all about? That would definitely make the news.
He did not respond.
“Hello?” Stein said.
“I’m here. Look-”
“What about Cross,” Stein went on, “recklessly telling a TV reporter that Sergeant Payne is ‘a trigger-happy cop’ and that his ‘contributing to the bloodshed of citizens in the city was despicable’?” He paused, then added, “Would you say that’s what one expects to hear from ‘an outstanding pillar of the community’?”
“Look,” Badde said, “I hadn’t heard that. But I don’t see how it could be my problem. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the last I heard, it’s your boss, the mayor, who hires the police commissioner, who reports directly to him.”
“Actually, the city managing director does the hiring, with the mayor’s approval.”
“Same difference. That makes Payne the mayor’s problem.”
“But we’re not talking about Sergeant Payne,” Stein said, hearing his voice rise. He paused, collected himself, and added, “Who, incidentally, Mayor Carlucci doesn’t consider a problem. It’s Reverend Cross.”
“And?”
“And you’re on the Public Safety Committee-”
“Yes,” Badde interrupted, “but I’m not a senior member. I have much greater responsibilities on other committees, which, actually, are what I’m dealing with today. So, can we get to the point of this?”