"Hey, baby," Trey said.
The redhead turned to look at the man, as if noticing him for the first time. She had clearly seen him arrive. Cool indifference was part of the tango. "Hey, yourself," she said, finally, smiling. "You like?"
"Do I like?" Trey stepped back, his eyes roaming her. "Baby, if you was gravy I'd sop ya."
The redhead laughed. "It's all good."
"You and me? We gonna do some bidness."
"Let's go."
Trey glanced at the door to the club, then at his watch: a gold Breitling. "Gimme twenty minutes."
"Gimme a retainer."
Trey Tarver smiled. He was a businessman, forged by the fires of the street, schooled in the bleak and violent Richard Allen projects. He pulled his roll, peeled a Benjamin, held it out. Just as the redhead was about to take it, he snapped it back. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.
The redhead took half a step back, hand on hip. She gave him the twice-over. She had soft brown eyes flecked with gold, full sensuous lips. "Let me guess," she said. "Taye Diggs?"
Trey Tarver laughed. "That's right."
The redhead winked at him. "I know who you are."
"What's your name?"
"Scarlet."
"Damn. For real?"
"For real."
"Like that movie?"
"Yeah, baby."
Trey Tarver considered it all for a moment. "My money better not be gone with the wind, hear'm saying?"
The redhead smiled. "I hear you."
She took the C-note and slipped the bill into her purse. As she did this, D'Shante put a hand on Trey's arm. Trey nodded. They had business to attend to in the club. They were just about to turn and enter when something caught the headlights of a passing car, something that seemed to wink and glimmer from the area near the homeless man's right shoe. Something metallic and shiny.
D'Shante followed the light. He saw the source.
It was a pistol in an ankle holster.
"The fuck is this?" D'Shante said.
Time spun on a crazy axis, the air suddenly electric with the promise of violence. Eyes met, and understanding flowed like a raging current of water.
It was on.
The redhead in the black dress-Detective Jessica Balzano of the Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Unit-took a step back and in one smooth, practiced motion, pulled the badge on a lanyard from inside her dress, and slipped her Glock 17 out of her purse.
Trey Tarver was wanted in connection with the murder of two men. Detectives had staked out Club Vibe-as well as three other clubs-for four straight nights, hoping for Tarver to surface. It was well known that he did business in Club Vibe. It was well known he had a weakness for tall redheads. Trey Tarver thought he was untouchable.
Tonight he got touched.
"Police!" Jessica yelled. "Let me see your hands!"
For Jessica, everything began to move in a measured montage of sound and color. She saw the homeless man stir. Felt the weight of the Glock in her hand. Saw a flutter of bright blue-D'Shante's arm in motion. A weapon in D'Shante's hand. A Tec-9. Long magazine. Fifty rounds.
No, Jessica thought. Not my life. Not this night.
No.
The world uncoiled, shot back to speed.
"Gun!" Jessica yelled.
By this time Detective John Shepherd, the homeless man on the stoop, was on his feet. But before he could clear his weapon, D'Shante spun and slammed the butt of the Tec into his forehead, stunning him, flaying the skin over his right eye. Shepherd collapsed to the ground. Blood spurted, cascaded into his eyes, blinding him.
D'Shante raised his weapon.
"Drop it!" Jessica yelled, Glock leveled. D'Shante showed no sign of compliance.
"Drop it, now!" she repeated.
D'Shante drew down. Aimed.
Jessica fired.
The bullet slammed into D'Shante Jackson's right shoulder, exploding the muscle and flesh and bone into a thick, pink spray. The Tec flew from his hands as he spun 360 and collapsed to the ground, shrieking in surprise and agony. Jessica inched forward and kicked the Tec over to Shepherd, still training her weapon on Trey Tarver. Tarver, hands up, stood near the mouth of an alley that cut between the buildings. If their intel was accurate, he carried his.32 semi-auto in a holster at the small of his back.
Jessica looked over at John Shepherd. He was stunned, but not out. She took her eyes off Trey Tarver for only a second, but that was long enough. Tarver bolted up the alley.
"You all right?" Jessica asked Shepherd.
Shepherd wiped the blood from his eyes. "I'm good." "You sure?" "Go."
As Jessica sidled up to the alley entrance, peering into the shadows, back on the street corner D'Shante pulled himself into a sitting position. His shoulder oozed blood between his fingers. He eyed the Tec.
Shepherd cocked his.38 Smith amp; Wesson, aiming it at D'Shante's forehead. He said: "Give me a fucking reason."
With his free hand, Shepherd reached into his coat pocket for his two-way. Four detectives were sitting in a van, half a block away, waiting for the call. When Shepherd saw the casing on the rover, he knew they would not be coming. When he had fallen to the ground, he smashed the radio. He keyed it. It was dead.
John Shepherd grimaced, glanced up the alley, into the darkness.
Until he could get D'Shante Jackson frisked and cuffed, Jessica was on her own. THE ALLEY WAS littered with derelict furniture, tires, rusting appliances. Halfway to the end was a T-junction, leading to the right. Her gun low, Jessica still-hunted down the alley, hugging the wall. She tore the wig from her head; her newly cut short hair was spiky and wet. A slight breeze cooled her a few degrees, clearing her thoughts.
She peered around the corner. No movement. No Trey Tarver.
Halfway down the alley, on the right, the window of an all-night Chinese takeout poured out dense steam, pungent with ginger, garlic, and green onions. Beyond, the clutter formed ominous shapes in the gloom.
Good news. The alley dead-ended. Trey Tarver was trapped.
Bad news. He could be any one of those shapes. And he was armed.
Where the hell is my backup?
Jessica decided to wait.
Then a shadow lurched, darted. Jessica saw the muzzle flash an instant before she heard the report. The bullet slammed into the wall just a foot or so over her head. Fine brick dust fell.
Oh God, no. Jessica thought about her daughter, Sophie, sitting in some bright hospital waiting room. She thought about her father, a retired officer himself. But mostly she thought about the wall in the lobby of the police administration building, the wall dedicated to the department's fallen officers.
More movement. Tarver ran, low, toward the end of the alley. Jessica had a shot. She stepped into the open.
"Don't move!"
Tarver stopped, hands out to his side.
"Drop your weapon!" Jessica shouted.
The back door to the Chinese restaurant suddenly flew open. A bus- boy stepped between her and her target. He brought a pair of huge plastic garbage bags out of the restaurant, obscuring her line of sight.
"Police! Get out of the way!"
The kid froze, confused. He looked both ways up the alley. Beyond him, Trey Tarver spun and fired again. The second shot smashed into the wall over Jessica's head-closer this time. The Chinese kid dove to the ground. He was pinned down. Jessica could no longer wait for backup.
Trey Tarver disappeared behind the Dumpster. Jessica hugged the wall, heart pounding, Glock out front. Her back was soaking wet. Well trained for this moment, she ran through the checklist in her mind. Then she threw the checklist out. There was no training for this moment. She edged toward the man with the gun.
"It's over, Trey," she yelled. "SWAT's on the roof. Give it up."