“But that kid, his nephew, told Mudd that he didn’t see one. Which of course, as Mudd pointed out, could’ve been a straight-out lie.”
They were quiet a long moment, each in deep thought.
Then Harris said: “You have any idea how many FedEx trucks there are in Philadelphia?”
“But it was on a Sunday, not a normal day for deliveries.”
“I’ll say it again, Matt. You have any idea how many FedEx trucks there are in Philadelphia? And just because they may not be delivering, they’re still moving around the city for logistical and other reasons, like maintenance. And, then again, for all we know, this one was stolen.”
Matt nodded. “Agreed. But it’s a rock to look under. Maybe we’ll find another under it.”
Looking at the image of Marc James, Payne said, “Whoever he is, our mystery shooter’s bright. He’s doing the reverse of a sweepstakes sting.”
“A sweepstakes sting?” Radcliffe repeated.
Payne explained: “You mail out, say, a thousand letters to the LKA of people wanted on outstanding warrants. The letter says the recipient is guaranteed a prize worth up to a couple hundred bucks, and the first fifty people who show up have a chance to win a car. The official-looking but bogus letterhead has the address of some empty store in a strip center you get a civic-minded owner to let you borrow. The day of the ‘event,’ you furnish it with a couple desks and some chairs, then put signs in the window that say ‘Keystone State Sweepstakes Headquarters.’ And you borrow a nice new luxury sports car or SUV to park in front with a sign saying ‘Win This!’ Then, when the wanted ones show up, an undercover posing as a secretary matches the letter to the warrant list to make sure it’s still outstanding, then sends the idiot back to another room for his photograph and prize-a nice shiny pair of handcuffs.”
Radcliffe grinned. “Sounds like it works.”
“Not as good as it used to, but yeah, there’s still plenty of stupid critters out there. One really bright one even brought his court papers as his proof of ID.”
“So,” Radcliffe said, “instead of the guy sending out letters to the LKAs, he went to them individually, saying he was delivering FedEx envelopes containing checks?”
“That appears to be it,” Payne said.
Everyone was silent a moment.
Then Radcliffe went back to his keyboard and stared at the screen, then quickly typed something and smacked the enter key.
“There,” he said, pointing at the screen. “I don’t know if it means anything, but in Nguyen’s file?”
“Yeah?” Payne said.
“The district attorney’s case notes say that William Curtis is employed by FedEx here. Says he lives on Mount Pleasant.”
Payne casually sipped from his Homicide coffee mug, then said, “Who the hell is William Curtis?”
Twenty minutes later, Harris returned the receiver to the cradle of the multiline phone on the conference desk. He looked at Payne.
“This Will Curtis called in sick today. His supervisor”-he looked at his notes-“a guy named Jeff Allan, said he’s in a bad way. Curtis has been out sick most of the month. And he said that, judging by the look of him, it’s the real deal. He guessed it’s something terminal. He asked, but Curtis wouldn’t own up to it.”
Payne and Harris looked at each other.
“And there’s no answer at his house on Mount Pleasant,” Payne said.
Harris’s cell phone started ringing.
He checked the caller ID, then answered the phone with: “Whatcha got, Charley?”
Payne looked at Harris and saw his expression brighten.
“How many?” Harris said. Then: “Okay, got it. Let me know if anything changes. We’re on our way.”
He looked at Matt as he broke off the call.
“Bell says two black males just entered the James place on Richmond carrying a black duffel bag.”
Payne quickly stood up. “Kerry, you and Andy run things here and call me the minute you find anything else on this Curtis guy.”
As Payne pulled on his blazer and dug in his pocket for the Crown Vic keys, he said to Harris, “Let’s roll.”
[THREE]
3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:45 A.M.
Allante Williams saw an open parking spot one block south of 3118. He liked it for two good reasons: It was close enough to reach if the deal went sour and he had to run, and his black Dodge Charger would be well hidden by the old PECO truck right in front of it.
He shut off the car, looked at Kenny Jones sitting in the passenger seat, then reached back and pulled the black duffel from the backseat. He unzipped it and took out a monster of a stainless-steel pistol. Even Kenny appeared impressed at the sight of the Ruger Redhawk, a double-action revolver chambered for. 44 Magnum.
“You ever shoot a wheel gun?” Allante asked. “Any gun?”
“Damn right, Big Al!”
Allante wasn’t sure if he believed him.
“This Redhawk is a cannon,” Allante said, handing it to him. “It’s mine, dude, and I want it back, so don’t get any goddamn ideas.”
“Yeah, sure, man,” Kenny said, wrapping his hand around its big black grip and aiming it out the windshield.
“Keep it down, dammit!”
“Okay,” Kenny said, putting it on his lap and swinging out the cylinder to check if all the bullets were live rounds.
“There ain’t no damn bullets in this gun!” Kenny blurted. “What the hell’s it good for if it ain’t got no bullets?”
“Calm down, dude. You saw how it looked when you first saw it. That’s all you need to do with Cicero. Door opens, you move inside with the bag of money first, then hold the tip of this badass barrel in his face.”
And with no bullets you won’t be able to shoot me later.
“Besides, I’ll be backing you up with this going in,” Allante said, pulling back his jacket to reveal the Ruger 9-millimeter semiautomatic in a holster on his belt.
Kenny clearly looked as if he didn’t like the idea, but then shrugged. He reached in his pocket and pulled out five or six foot-long white zip ties.
“Not gonna shoot the bastard, anyway,” Kenny said, pointing to the zip ties. “Gonna do to him what he did to Reggie.”
With Allante Williams just to the right of the door at 3118 Richmond Street, Kenny Jones banged on the door.
What are the fucking odds that some hothead inside is going to look out the peephole, see this dumbass holding the sack of cash, then drill the door-and him-with lead?
Damn good, that’s what the odds are.
This better be worth forty Gs…
The door opened a crack, and Kenny said, “Cicero, I got it like I said, man.”
He held up the bag with his left hand. The hand cannon was in his right, hidden by the bag.
The door closed, and there was the clanking sound of its two chains being removed, then the door swung open.
And Kenny, surprising the hell out of Allante, did exactly as he’d been told.
Allente went in behind him.
“What’re you doing, Kenny?” Cicero said, staring at the business end of the barrel.
Then Kenny swung the heavy stainless-steel Ruger, fiercely pistol-whipping Cicero’s mostly bald head.
Cicero quickly backed up, shielding his head from the blows with his arms.
“Kenny! Wait!” Allante yelled. “Stop!”
Cicero then turned and tried to run down the basement steps-but Kenny got one last hard swing in.
And Cicero went tumbling down the steps.
In the basement were two small dirty rooms, one with a twin-size bed and a wooden table. There were bags of pills stacked two feet high.
Kenny dragged the limp but breathing body to the bed, then pulled the zip ties from his pocket and cinched them tightly around Cicero’s neck. Cicero’s body began to convulse. But within a minute, it went slack.
Damn, that was fast, Allante thought.
Kenny turned and said, “I’m gonna look for some acid. Be right back.”
And he ran back up the stairs.
After Allante was sure Kenny was out of earshot, he called Rapp Badde.