As luck would have it, someone happened to recognize the publicity-happy councilman during the trip. And when a photograph appeared in the news media of the councilman and his tremendously attractive assistant on the beach-wearing, as one TV news wag said, "nothing that could be considered business attire, unless they were employed in a strip club at SeaWorld"-citizens of Philadelphia were furious, perhaps the least happy being Badde's wife of seven years.
Of course, the councilman, drawing on both his charisma and arrogance, repeatedly stated that it was all being misinterpreted, that the trip had cost the city not one red cent-his excess campaign contributions covered it. Then he spun the subject to what he and his able assistant had learned on advancing urban renewal and how H. Rapp Badde, Jr., was going to change Philly's fortunes.
The behavior stemmed from the same sort of above-reproach attitude-from the hanky-panky to the deny-and-spin-that he'd learned from his father, Horatio R. Badde, Sr., who'd once held the office Junior now so desperately desired, that of mayor.
To Matt and countless others in Philadelphia, the good news in all this was that there was a genuine first-class person serving as Hizzonor. The Honorable Jerome H. "Jerry" Carlucci was no-nonsense to the point that his detractors-and quite a few admirers-claimed he governed with an iron fist. Unapologetic, Carlucci fought the culture of corruption in City Hall just as he had fought crime in the city before being elected to public office.
Carlucci had risen through the ranks of the Philadelphia Police Department, and he bragged that he'd held every rank but that of policewoman.
Payne said: "Or maybe, more appropriately, that dollar sign is also supposed to represent a scarlet letter for Badde?"
These days it's easier finding a virgin in a whorehouse than an honest politician. He grunted to himself. An honest pol in or out of a whorehouse. With or without a scarlet letter.
Fuller could be heard speaking again, and the camera cut back to him:
"So, to all you out there who commit crimes, or you who are considering doing so, I share with you further wisdom of Benjamin Franklin: 'Fear to do ill, and you need fear nought else.'"
There was more applause. Fuller paused, waved briefly to acknowledge it, then looked back into the camera.
His face turned stern, and he wagged the stubby fat index finger of his right hand as he went on dramatically: "Evildoers, know that you are being watched. Know that eventually you will be caught"-with all his right hand's stubby fat fingers, he gestured behind himself, where the bodies had been dumped, never taking his eyes off the camera-"and know that you will be brought to justice. By God's grace and by God's words: As it says in Exodus 23:24, 'Then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, foot for foot.' Lex Talionis. Thank you."
There was more applause, this time accompanied by whistles and cheers.
Matt sighed.
"'Evildoers.' Jesus! I've heard enough of that," he said, thumbing the MUTE button on the remote.
After a moment, Amanda said, "Well, I can't say I am opposed to what he's trying to accomplish."
Matt looked at her with an eyebrow raised. "But, baby, people just can't take the law into their own hands. And that's what he's basically encouraging."
She shrugged. "Sorry. I can't…"
Of course she can't.
Damn sure not after what she's gone through…
He nodded thoughtfully and kissed her on the forehead.
The news camera now followed Francis Fuller as he walked inside the office building. Then it panned the cheering crowd, and in the process captured some of the news media.
Payne said: "Hey, there's Mickey O'Hara. He's working the story?"
A young-looking Philadelphia Police Department patrolman was going back under the yellow police tape next to O'Hara, who Matt noted was standing apart from the pack of reporters quickly scribbling on their pads. O'Hara had a camera of some type hanging from his right shoulder by a thin black strap. He held in both hands what looked like a cell phone, and he was tapping it with both of his thumbs.
Then Payne felt his phone vibrate again, and a new text message appeared in a box on its screen:
MICKEY O'HARA
"Old source" my ass-it was that wet-behind-the-ears uniform.
The kid's probably starstruck with Mickey and thought he'd show off how important he already is by sharing what's supposed to be kept quiet.
Hell, Mickey will keep his mouth shut if I ask, and if he's on the scene he probably has something good that I can use.
But Amanda is going to be pissed if I leave now to go work.
He heard her sigh, and when Matt looked to her, he saw that she'd read the screen.
He began to apologize: "I'm-"
"No," she interrupted. "It's okay. Really, it is. I can't agree that bad guys should be off the streets and then expect you not to do your job."
He kissed her forehead again.
"I'm sorry," he said, finishing the apology.
Then Payne texted "Liberties in 20" back to O'Hara.
Payne's phone vibrated once, then again. The first message was from O'Hara, who'd simply texted "OK." The second was from Tony Harris: -blocked number-
YOU JUST SEE 5-F?
"My," Amanda said, "aren't you the popular one at this hour. Should I be jealous?"
Payne thought, What the hell, may as well kill two birds with one stone, and texted back: "Liberties in 20."
She rolled over and began to slowly rub his belly.
Matt looked at her and began, "Speaking of killings-"
"You should go?" Amanda finished his sentence.
"No. What I was going to say is: I don't see the rush."
As she made another slow circle with her palm, she asked, "What do you mean?"
"Well, as far as I can tell, there's no reason to jump up and race anywhere. Mick can cool his heels with Tony at Liberties for ten minutes. And even if I do get a call about those pop-and-drops"-he reached for his cell phone and pressed a button to turn it off-"which will now go directly into voice mail, it's my professional opinion that those guys who got popped will probably still be dead ten minutes from now."
Amanda's hand stopped. Matt looked deeply in her eyes.
" 'Just ten minutes'?" she said, her tone suggestive.
As he smiled and nodded, she pursed her lips.
After a moment, he felt her warm hand slide down his belly.
"I know a Ben Franklin saying, too," she said.
"Yeah? I'm afraid to ask. Something to do with moderation or saving for a rainy day, or-worse-abstinence?"
Her warm palm moved smoothly and excitingly slowly until it was just below his belly button, then a bit farther down. He grunted appreciatively in anticipation-until her fingers suddenly gripped him by the short hairs.
"Ouch!" he cried out a bit dramatically when she pulled them. "What was that for?"
"Ben said, 'Love, and be lov'd.'" [FOUR] 5550 Ridgewood Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:45 P.M. Mrs. Joelle Bazelon long had lived with the dark fear, deep in her big bones, that such a terrible day would come. The dark-skinned, sixty-two-year-old widow-she was of Jamaican descent, five-foot-eight tall, and after a decade of battling diabetes, clinically obese-had prayed literally every night, down on arthritic knees, her Bible before her on the bedspread, that somehow she could figure out a way to run from it. Some way to pack up everything in time and move to a better place for her and Sasha, her just-turned-eighteen-year-old granddaughter.