It was the polar opposite of what Payne was wearing.
For cops wanting to blend in with crowds, outfits like Simpson’s were common-the average civilian tended to take things at face value-although at this moment Simpson had intentionally blown his cover. His jacket was unzipped and his holstered Glock 9-millimeter pistol and police department shield next to it were clearly visible on his right hip.
The small group began to disperse, the men greeting Payne as they went.
“Hey, Sarge,” Simpson then said. “Let me say again I’m sorry we let that bastard Hooks slip away. The team was in place, ready to grab him right after the rally, and now they’re really damn disappointed-”
Payne held up his hand.
“Don’t sweat it, Carlos,” Payne said with a smile. “How the hell could you know that shooting would start? I sure didn’t.”
After a moment, Simpson said, “I guess you’re right.”
“Keep the faith, Harvey. We’ll get the bastard. So, what’s the latest?”
Simpson took out a small spiral notepad from the pocket under the Doylestown Moving Co. patch. He flipped a few pages, then read his notes.
“So far,” he then said, “there’s been exactly twenty-seven arrested for the usual-disorderly conduct, resisting arrest-and, surprisingly, a handful of charges-six, to be precise-for assault on a police officer, including the miserable prick who assaulted the horse with that piece of concrete. All those miscreants filled up three paddy wagons fast-”
“You’re not supposed to say that,” Payne interrupted.
He looked up from his notepad.
“Miserable prick? Or miscreants?”
“Neither. You can’t say paddy wagon. It offends our Irish friends.”
Simpson let loose a Bronx cheer as he tucked the notepad back in his shirt pocket.
“You know I’m part Irish, right, Sarge?”
“As am I-and, it sometimes seems, half the department,” Payne said, and grinned, then in a serious tone added, “How is our Mounted Patrol guy?”
“Hampton is ten kinds of pissed-off. He ain’t happy he got a broken leg from the fall. But he’s really furious about his partner-the four-legged one-getting hurt. Other than that, he’s okay, I guess.”
“And what about the horse?” Payne said.
“His name’s Wyatt-”
“As in. .?” Payne interrupted.
“Yeah. As in Earp.”
“You’re not pulling my chain. .”
“You’re an Eagle Scout, right?”
Payne nodded. “Proud of it.”
“Then Scout’s Honor-I made it to Life rank-it’s meant as an honor, like they say yours is. But no direct connection to you. Anyway, they had to tranquilize Wyatt. The vet came and carried him back to his shop. They’re saying he should be okay.”
Tony Harris walked up.
“Hey, Harv,” he said.
“Just in time, Tony. I was about to tell Matt the interesting-”
“Hold that thought,” Payne interrupted, holding up his index finger. He looked at Harris. “What did you say to Wonder Woman Ace Reporter back there?”
He gestured toward Raychell Meadow, who was doing a live shot with the cameraman back at the yellow police tape. Nearby, more bright lights illuminated another five television reporters and camera crews as they jockeyed for their angles.
“Not a damn thing. I followed your lead, Sergeant Payne. . Fearless leader, sir.”
“Good,” Payne said, and looked at Harvey. “For future reference, Detective, should you find yourself so confronted, that is how one effectively handles the media.”
“Don’t say a damn thing?”
“Exactly. Now, Carlos, you were saying. .?”
Detective Harvey Simpson, grinning, shook his head.
“Okay, so, here’s the deal,” he said. “The Crime Scene guys were unable to find any weapons-”
“And they clearly made a damn thorough search,” Payne interrupted, tilting his head toward the pile of filth that had been dredged from the storm drain.
Simpson went on: “They did collect the usual spent casings on the street in the general area where the shooter-make that shooters, plural-”
“Plural?” Payne said.
Simpson nodded. “Plural. That’s what I meant by interesting. There were live rounds and blanks fired.”
“Blanks?” Harris parroted.
Simpson nodded.
“I’ll get to that in a moment. I say general area of where the shooters would have been in the crowd because who the hell knows how many times the casings were kicked as people fled. All were flattened in some way, both from the.38 cal live rounds and from the nine-mil blanks. But the only bullet holes that were in what we gauged to be the field of fire, which is to say the row houses here”-he made a sweeping motion in the direction of the red pagoda roof-“were not from today.”
“Old ones, huh?” Payne said. “I’m shocked-shocked-there’s been gunplay in the hood.”
Simpson pointed at a spot on the exterior wall under the red pagoda roof.
“There’s one we found. They’re all like that-painted over. No telling how old they are.”
“Actually,” Payne said, “I’m more shocked there really aren’t any fresh ones.”
“So,” Harris said, “if we know there were live rounds, but no evidence of them, then the bullets had to go up and over the roof?”
Payne nodded, adding: “And the trajectory of those bullets going up and over the roof would also go up and over anyone standing on the stage.”
“So, then, no one got shot,” Harris said.
Simpson raised his eyebrows.
“That’s my bet,” he said. “At least no one onstage got shot. Depending on the angle, a round could have gone a couple hundred yards thataway”-he pointed to the north-“or even farther. And then have landed god-knows-where-what goes up must come down-maybe in the street, in the side of a building, the roof of a row house.”
“Same old story,” Harris said. “Unless the round actually strikes something that someone notices-say, a bedroom window, a car door-”
“A person,” Payne interjected.
“Or even a person,” Harris repeated, shaking his head, “then fat chance recovering it.”
“What about the blanks, Harvey? How do you know for sure that they were blanks?”
“The brass casings on blanks are crimped differently, because they don’t have a lead bullet.”
“Tell me more,” Harris said.
“You know that there has to be a seal on a round of ammo,” Simpson said, “or else there’s no explosion.”
“Yeah,” Payne said. “Otherwise, when the gunpowder ignited, it would just burn in the brass casing but make no sound.”
“Right,” Simpson went on. “So, instead of a lead bullet, blanks either have some type of plastic cap, which disperses more or less harmlessly after leaving the muzzle, or the top of the casing is crimped tightly closed, which is instantly obvious. No question whatever that both live and blank rounds were fired.”
Payne looked at Harris. “The question is, why both?”
“I’m beginning to think Sully’s people, or at least the ones he says are doing the casino’s dirty work, actually did do it,” Harris said, “which is why he called and denied it.”
“But, again, why? He-along with everyone else who does not know that blanks were fired-assumes the rounds were lethal ones.” He paused, scanned the area, then added, “Which may be exactly what Skinny Lenny wants.”
“You think Cross staged this, Matt?”
“I think anything is possible with that false prophet sonofabitch, who I think doesn’t really give a rat’s ass about the killings so much as how he can leverage them to his own advantage.”
Payne turned to Simpson.
“Who’s in here?” Payne said, gesturing toward the red door.
“Not Cross or Banks. They let us search it and the Fellowship Hall.”
“Who’s they?”