Deadly Assets

XI
[ONE]

Clementine and F Streets

Kensington, Philadelphia

Sunday, December 16, 2:35 P.M.

Matt Payne shoved the last bite of his cheesesteak sandwich into his mouth as Tony Harris turned onto Clementine, wound his way around various vehicles belonging to the news media, and then parked the Crown Victoria with two right tires up on the sidewalk.

“Try not to rub your greasy fingers all over,” Harris said, taking a drink of his coffee as he handed Payne a small stack of paper napkins, then put the gearshift in park. “You’ve already ruined one set of clothes this weekend. And you’ll want to look your best for the media when you give them the silent treatment.”

“What would I do without you, Detective Harris?”

As Payne wiped his hands, he looked out the windshield.

Just beyond the nose of the Police Interceptor was the perimeter of yellow police tape that was keeping the reporters and onlookers at a distance. Inside it, Dick McCrory and Hal Kennedy were standing at the foot of a row house’s cracked concrete steps.

Payne chuckled.

“What?” Harris said.

“Even in plainclothes, those two look like cops.”

Payne then pointed at the small group of five black teenagers, four males and a female, milling on the corner down at the other end of Clementine, near the intersection of E Street.

“And that crowd of knuckleheads doesn’t seem happy to see The Man on their turf,” Payne added. “Again.”

The crowd, standing in front of Dante Holmes’s grandmother’s row house, were within feet of the faded bloodstain on the sidewalk that crudely marked where the nineteen-year-old had been gunned down thirty-nine hours earlier.

There was an irregular pattern of some twenty holes in the front of the house where the Crime Scene Unit techs had dug out bullets. And, in the house next door, a square of cardboard replaced the windowpane that had been shattered by the stray round that had struck and killed the young girl watching TV beside her brother.

–

As Payne and Harris walked up to the yellow tape in front of the row house, the group of five teenagers watched, their young faces cold and hard beyond their years.

Then suddenly the tallest male, a burly teenager wearing a heavy black North Face goose down parka, began moving in an aggressive manner toward them.

McCrory saw it and started taking steps to cut off the tall, burly teenager.

A news cameraman saw it, too, and turned his lens toward the action.

“Do not come any closer,” McCrory said, using his command voice while holding out his left palm.

Once in front of the teenaged male, McCrory stood with his hands on his hips, his right hand close to his holstered pistol. Payne and Harris were just behind him.

The teenager stopped, then jabbed in Payne’s direction with his right index finger as he practically spat, “Fuck the police! I know who you are!”

Payne’s eyebrows rose.

“Look,” he said evenly, “the last thing I want to do is hurt you. But with that attitude, that damn sure doesn’t mean it’s not on the list.”

Payne flashed a big smile, said in a louder voice, “And you have a nice day, too,” then turned and continued toward the row house.

“You wanna know what we think of the police?” the teenaged male went on loudly, glancing over his shoulder at his buddies, who were nodding their encouragement-the girl making it obvious with her cell phone that she was making a video recording-then looking back at Payne. “We say you’re the enemy! You’re the biggest gang out here.” He then grinned. “And you know what? You’re afraid of us. So fuck you!”

He’s high, McCrory thought. Punk reeks of pot.

McCrory, crossing his arms, made a stern face as he cocked his head to one side.

“So, you about finished?” he said. “If not, I could probably see if you’ve got outstanding warrants or something else you might want to clear up. Pot’s still illegal, you know.”

The teenager puffed his chest.

“Fuck you,” he said.

After a long moment, the teenager then marched triumphantly back to his buddies. They greeted him with high fives and fist bumps.

McCrory turned and caught up to Payne and Harris and Kennedy.

“That bastard is all noise,” McCrory said. “And stoned.”

“Let him back-talk all he wants,” Payne said. “He’s just baiting, hoping he can push buttons and get me to respond. Then he can boast to his buddies that he was the one who pissed off the police and took down that Wyatt Earp Public Enemy Number One guy.”

Payne glanced back at the group.

He smiled broadly, and, his right hand high over his head, waved, as he said: “Dick, a wise man named Anthony once cautioned me to be very wary of wrestling with a pig. .”

“Because you can get very dirty,” Harris finished. “And the pig likes it.”

McCrory grunted.

“Hey, Killer Cop!” the tall teenager yelled, then leaned forward and with both hands gave Payne the bird.

“That’s just his way of saying the police are Number One,” Payne said, ignoring the teenager.

“But, for christsake, this is not a police problem,” McCrory said. “It’s a society problem. We’re just sent in to clean up the messes. How the hell is it the fault of cops that there’re no jobs for these delinquents? That they can’t fucking read or write?”

“You’re right, Dick,” Payne said.

“It’s like Jamal the Junkie. He got booted from Mansion. And that fine eighth-grade education of his? You can bet he stopped learning anything around maybe fourth, fifth grade. The schools-ones like those with teachers who get caught changing test answers-just kept bumping him to the next level. Until it all caught up with him in high school. Then he went to the streets.” He nodded toward the row house. “And Pookie here. Another fine example. He’s-what? — murder victim number 370.”

“It’s all way above our pay grade,” Payne said. “They should be protesting at City Hall, blaming the crooked city council members they elected over the last forty years.”

Payne looked at McCrory. He put his hand on McCrory’s shoulder.

“Dick, you really think we have it bad being cops? Let me tell you, it could be worse.”

McCrory was quiet a moment. Then he grunted again.

“Okay, I’ll bite. How could it be worse, Sarge?”

“Could be Santa at an Eagles game.”

“Not that one,” Harris said.

Kennedy was shaking his head.

“What are you guys talking about?” McCrory said.

“You never heard that heartwarming Philly tale?” Payne said. “From back in, maybe, 1968? It’s legend.”

McCrory pointed to his New England Patriots knit cap. “I ain’t from around here, you know.”

Payne went on: “Made national news after the football game was televised. Anyway, it was halftime and the Eagles were losing-”

“Of course they were,” McCrory said, smirking. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“And the weather was miserable, bitter cold and snowing. And of course everyone’s been sucking down the brandy and whatever else rotgut they’d snuck into the stadium. So, out comes Santa Claus-actually, the drunk who was supposed to do it was a no-show, so some poor schmuck actually volunteered at the last moment-and the minute he walks out onto the sidelines, waving to the crowd and doing his Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas! schtick-Wham! — he gets pelted by a snowball. Then the others in the stands, all in Eagles gear, join in. Wham! Wham! Wham! And Santa has to haul ass off the field.”

“That’s terrible,” McCrory said, but he was grinning.

“Became one of those things that shored up Philly’s tough reputation with the rest of the country,” Harris said.

“Nice,” Kennedy said. “Real point of pride right there.”

“You know our motto,” Payne added, “Philly, Kicking Ass Since 1776.”

Payne saw that the group of teenagers had walked down the street.

“Notice they don’t leave their sidewalk,” Payne said, as he grandly waved again at them. “Tough guy’s not so tough-he’s a dead guy if he doesn’t stay on his corner and out of someone else’s turf.”

A woman who looked to be in her late thirties stood at the police tape. Over her gray sweatshirt she wore a white T-shirt silkscreened with a photograph of a smiling, very young black male in a coat and bow tie and the words DANTE HOLMES, AT PEACE AT LAST.

She said, just loud enough for Payne and the others inside the yellow tape to hear, “I have to apologize for him. Rayvorris, he don’t speak for all of us.”

–

While watching the body bag that contained Antwan “Pookie” Parker get loaded in the back doors of the white panel van with medical examiner’s office markings, Payne’s phone vibrated and a text from Chuck Whaley read: “Got one! Can you talk?”

Payne glanced at Harris, hit the CALL key, and said, “Looks like Whaley has finally found his ass with both hands-or, at least, a doer’s ass.”

–

“That’s right,” Whaley reported, “it was a Transit Police officer, one Thelonious Clarke, who brought in Ruben Mora.

“The guy was unconscious and had no ID. Just a cell phone, which was dead, and a wad of cash and receipts in a pocket. The gas pump printout read Richard Moss on the credit card, and there was a Marion High School detention note with Dan Moss’s name. Theo-that’s what Thelonious goes by-he had seen the SEPTA alert about Moss getting nabbed for jumping the turnstile, then about Moss’s buddy getting killed, and got ahold of me.”

Whaley caught his breath, then went on: “When I told Mora that he was going to get charged for the murder, he rolled over on this Reggie Mabry character. He didn’t seem to care about Mabry, something about bad blood between them-hard to understand with him rattling off in Spanish-and when I asked for a description and where he lived, it matched exactly what the Moss kid had said the shooter looked like. Undercover car wasn’t in there looking for him two hours and he popped up.”

“Good job, Chuck. I now need you to come help us work this murder scene. Looks like it’s going to be another long night.”