The Vigilantes

[TWO]

As they rounded the corner from Jefferson to Hancock, Matt Payne saw that there was yellow POLICE LINE tape strung between two boarded-up row houses, blocking the entrance to an alleyway.

The first thing Payne saw behind the yellow tape was the blood trail. He took another step forward, his eye following the trail up the alleyway until he saw in the shadows the body of a very big black male. On the concrete beside his head was an inverted-V plastic marker with a black numeral “01” on it.

Parked on the street, blocking off the alleyway, was a Chevy Impala squad car. The right rear door was open, and a young black boy was sitting in the rear seat, turned so his back was to the scene.

“That’s the deceased’s nephew,” Mudd said. “He says he didn’t see the the shooter, which I doubt. We’re trying to find his mother.”

Payne nodded.

Poor kid is probably in shock.

As he glanced around, he thought, Three dead back there. Another dead-a possible pop-and-drop-here.

Two crime scenes two blocks apart. Or is it just one big scene?

And all this is going on just three blocks from The Fortress.

Then he thought: Oh, shit, Amanda!

He tugged back his left shirtsleeve cuff and checked his wristwatch.

Almost six?

He pulled out his cell phone and pounded out a text message with his thumbs:

HI, BABY… SORRY I’M JUST NOW GETTING BACK TO YOU. GOOD NEWS amp; BAD NEWS. BAD FIRST: I OBVIOUSLY CAN’T MAKE IT BY 6. JUST GOT TO A SCENE WITH MORE DEAD. GOOD (OR MAYBE MORE BAD) NEWS: IT’S ONLY BLOCKS FROM THE CONDO. REALLY GOOD NEWS: SO, SEE YOU SOON? SORRY, BABY…

He hit SEND. As he started to put back his phone, it almost immediately vibrated with the reply:

AMANDA LAW OK. SEE YOU WHEN I SEE YOU XOXO -A

Uh-oh. Do I read between the lines?

That was a fast reply.

Like she was waiting.

Correction: a fast and terse reply.

Or dismissive?

On the one hand, she shouldn’t be pissed. She said she understands why I have to do this.

The damned pop-and-drop body count is probably up to nine. Then there’s the three dead next door. Someone’s got to stop it…

But on the other hand, Amanda’s emotional because she’s not completely over her abduction-which I can understand-and she’s not happy with my job and the idea of my being in danger.

Having been shaken to her very core, she’s wisely questioning where things will go for her-for us. And, ultimately, who will I owe my allegiance to in five, ten, twenty years?

To the police department of a wild city whose crime rate doesn’t seem to be improving?

Or to the goddess who’s the loving mother of my children?

His thumb hovered over the REPLY key while he contemplated what he should say.

I can’t lose this woman.

I should say something, I just don’t know what’s-

“Matt, you need to see this,” Harris called.

Payne looked up, then glanced at the phone-then slipped it back into his pocket.

Nice job, Matty ol’ boy.

You just proved once again that you don’t deserve her.

“What is it, Tony?” Matt said as he walked toward him.

Harris was pointing in the direction of another evidence marker, this one somewhat obscured by weeds and shadows. It was close to the yellow tape. Next to it was a pair of spent shell casings.

“Any chance they’re. 45 GAP?” Payne asked.

“They are,” Mudd offered. “Just two of them. But. 45-cal. Glock.”

Kerry Rapier said, “Number nine? Our mystery shooter strikes again?”

Payne exhaled audibly, then looked at Mudd.

“Well, hell, Harry, let me guess,” he said, gesturing toward the alleyway. “The guy’s got a history of sex crimes.”

Mudd stepped over to the Impala, reached in, and from the front seat picked up a plastic evidence bag. He handed it to Payne.

Payne looked through the clear plastic at the Wanted sheet and its mug shot of the huge, goateed, droopy-eyed LeRoi Cheatham.

“You got it, Matt,” Mudd said. “Cheatham served time for rape and was out on early release. Then, because he thought he could make only one visit with his parole agent, he got on the Megan’s Law list.”

“There’s just no damned end to these perps,” Payne said.

He read the back of the sheet. Handwritten in blue ink was: “Lex Talionis, Third amp; Arch, Old City, $10,000 reward.”

“Check out the back,” Payne said, handing the bag to Harris. “I’d say Kerry’s right: number nine for our mystery shooter. Or ten, if Reggie Jones turns out to be his handiwork, too.”

Harris held up the bag, then passed it to Rapier and said: “And, as Kerry likes to say, I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that we’ll find the same doer’s prints on that sheet. Looks like the same cheap gray paper stock as the others.”

Mudd said, “The kid said the doer told him to give that to his mother.”

“Well, that’s evidence, so it’s not going to Mama. She’ll have to figure out how to convince Five-Eff to cough up the ten large without it.”

Mudd looked at him, clearly confused.

After Payne explained that Five-Eff was Francis Fuller, Mudd made the connection to the reward.

Mudd then went on: “Cheatham had a hundred twenty-two bucks cash on him. A rusty switchblade knife that didn’t really switch itself open. And two eight-balls of what we suspect is crystal meth. Which the Wanted sheet tends to confirm, as he has a history of doing meth, too.”

Payne glanced at the young boy in the back of the squad car.

“And what about him, Harry?”

“The kid’s name is Michael Floyd, age twelve or age four, depending on the direction the wind’s blowing.”

Now Payne, Harris, and Rapier looked confused.

Payne held out his right hand, palm up, and wagged his fingers in a Let’s have it gesture.

Mudd made a sour face. “He’s a simpleton. Backward, you know? May even have a bit of brain damage. He isn’t saying much. But even if he did say something we might be able to run with, I’d be very skeptical of it.”

Payne glanced at the kid and said, “Well, he’s got to be in shock seeing his uncle dead.”

Mudd shrugged. “Then again,” he said, “it could all be an act, at least the backwardness. Just playing dumb, you know? Reason I say that is, one of the blue shirts, who was directing traffic at the first scene”-he pointed eastward, toward Mascher Street-“saw a white minivan with FedEx logos roll past a minute before he heard the two gunshots. We asked the kid about that, and”-he flipped a couple pages on his notepad and read from it-“he said, quote, What be a FedEx, motherfucker? end quote.”

Payne raised his eyebrows, looking at Michael for a moment before turning back to Mudd.

Rapier handed Mudd the evidence bag with the Wanted sheet.

Mudd said, “He pointed at Cheatham’s Last Known Address on here and said that’s where he and his mother live, not Cheatham. He said his uncle lived in this abandoned house here.”

“Maybe the kid’s mama got sick of her brother’s bullshit,” Payne said. “Must be difficult enough raising a kid with a mental disability.”

Payne then bent over to look at the spent shell casings.

They’re damn near still warm.

We were that close!

Harris said, “What’re you thinking, Matt?

Payne looked up at him and said, “How close we were.”

“And now,” Harris said, “how close we’re not again.”

Payne stood erect and, clearly in thought, stared at Tony a long moment.

“Nothing personal, Detective Harris, but you look like shit. And I’m beginning to feel like it. We’ve been banging away at this”-he glanced as his wristwatch-“hell, I can’t even do the math. I think we need to take a break. Clear our heads. As a very wise person once told me, ‘These guys will still be dead in the morning. You don’t need to make a mistake and join them.’”

“That was me, Matt,” Harris said.

Payne smiled. “I know.”

He turned to Mudd and handed him his business card. “That’s got my cell number, Harry. Let me know if you find something.”

“Will do.”

As they walked back to the gray Crown Vic, Payne thumbed out a text message:

HEY, BABY… ON MY WAY. BE THERE SHORTLY.

He hit SEND and thought, Hope you’re still there-and still talking to me…