The Vigilantes

[FOUR]

3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:59 A.M.

Flying up the Delaware Expressway in the gray unmarked Crown Victoria, Matt Payne killed the siren over Ann Street-where this part of I-95 went from being elevated to ground level-then caught the next exit. The off-ramp actually went over Allegheny, and he had to go up a block to Westmoreland, then double back around a park.

As he did so, he listened to Tony Harris talking on his cell phone with Charley Bell, the hefty thirty-year-old detective who was sitting undercover in the old Philadelphia Electric Company van.

“Okay, got it,” Harris said into the phone. He broke the connection and looked at Payne. “He said nobody’s come or gone since the last two went in. And that it’d be a good idea to go around the back and check that first. Said it’s the house with the black Cadillac Escalade in the drive.”

Payne nodded.

Harris then said, “Give me your phone.”

Payne did, and he saw Harris key in a number, then call it.

“It’s Harris,” Tony said. “Just making sure you have Matt Payne’s number. Now you both have each other’s number ready to speed-dial in your LAST CALL list.”

He ended the call without another word, then handed the phone back to Payne.

Because the Crown Vics had been on loan from Homeland Security and no one knew for sure how long the loan program would last-What the Fed Giveth, the Fed Can Taketh Away at Any Damn Time-the police department had had no intention of spending the money to buy more of its police radios and installing them in the cars when they’d have to uninstall them at the end of the loan. It had been decided that the portable handheld police radio units could be used. And, failing that, a cell phone.

As Matt made the right turn onto westbound Allegheny, he reached down and tugged the plug for the light bar out of the cigarette lighter receptacle. Harris then flipped the two sun visors up, concealing the light bar and the POLICE sticker.

Payne turned left onto Richmond, then left again at the next street, which provided access to the rear of the properties. It was next to the interstate highway, and there was plenty of traffic noise along the back side of the buildings.

Some of the row house backyards still had grass, but it wasn’t well kept. Others were cluttered with anything from storage buildings to busted aboveground swimming pools to junk cars.

And one had a shiny black luxury SUV.

“There’s the ride,” Payne said as he pulled out his Colt Officer’s Model. 45 from inside his waistband. With the muzzle pointed at the floorboard, he thumbed back the hammer to cock it, then thumbed up the lever at the back of the slide to lock it. Then, as he continued to scan the area, he held it on his right thigh. “But I don’t see anything happening at the house-or any of the others, for that matter.”

“Me neither. Go up a couple more drives past it, and I’ll get out and cover this back here while you and Charley take the front.”

Just before making the right turn to get back to Richmond, Matt saw in his rearview mirror that Tony was rolling two rusty drums from the yard next door and putting them behind the Escalade.

That probably won’t stop someone trying to get away, but it ought to slow them.

Then Matt saw ahead of him, at the corner of Richmond, the nose of Charley Bell’s PECO van. It was parked against the right curb.

The row houses here were mostly identical, all three-story and faced with red brick, the front door right at the sidewalk. And many of them had plastic garbage bags stacked at the curb.

As Matt rolled toward Richmond, he saw a late-model plain white Ford minivan going up Richmond. Its brake lights were lit. In the split second when it passed, Payne saw a white male at the wheel, and he thought that the driver wore some kind of uniform shirt.

He stopped the Crown Vic just shy of Richmond, nosing it up on the sidewalk. He shut off the car. Then he put in his left ear a wireless speaker-microphone device for his phone, speed-dialed Charley Bell, and slipped the live phone into his pocket.

Matt heard Bell’s voice in the earbud: “Hey, Matt, that white minivan that just went by has pulled up to our house.”

“No shit?” Payne said, opening his door. “Can you make out the driver?”

“Just that he’s a white male, older. He’s getting out now. Moving slowly.”

Payne closed the door of the Crown Vic. He quickly went to the corner, near the front door of an abandoned storefront. He held his Colt along his right leg as he peered around the brick edge of the wall and up the street. He thumbed down the pistol’s lock lever. Now when he went to squeeze the trigger, the hammer could freely fall to fire the round in the chamber.

Matt could clearly see the man.

That is a FedEx uniform, and he’s carrying an envelope.

But he is moving really slow. Almost like he’s not going to make it to the door.

No doubt whatsoever that’s Will Curtis…

Bell said: “What do you want to do, Matt?”

“Let’s hold and see what happens. Be ready to move. Tony’s covering the back door.”

They watched as the man banged on the faded maroon metal door, then waited for an answer.

Then he banged again, and after a moment the door opened.

“Charley, I can’t see who opened the door.”

“Shit, Matt. Me neither.”

They watched as Will Curtis held up the envelope in his left hand. Curtis said something, but he was too far away for them to hear it.

Then suddenly they watched as he surged at the open door-and disappeared inside.

“Oh, shit! Let’s go!” Payne said. He started up the sidewalk in a crouch.

After a few strides, Payne glanced over his left shoulder and saw the hefty Bell lumbering after him. Like Matt, Charley had his police badge clearly visible, its leather holder hanging from a chain around his neck. Charley had his service Glock out of the belt holster on his right hip.

“I think I saw him pull something from his waist, Matt. Maybe a pistol.”

Before they reached the front door, which was still open, Matt could hear angry voices inside.

“I told you I ain’t him, old man!” a male voice said. “Put down the fucking gun!”

Curtis, in a weak voice, said, “Then where’s this James?”

“Put down the gun, old man!” the other male repeated.

Matt got to the edge of the doorway and carefully looked inside.

There were only the two males visible, Will Curtis in the FedEx uniform and a black-skinned man with scraggly long hair and a full beard. They were in the large front room of the row house. Curtis was to the left and had a Glock aimed at the chest of the black male, who held up his hands shoulder high, the FedEx envelope in his right one.

Payne saw that a wood-floored hallway led to the back of the house and to the flight of stairs leading to the second floor. Under that flight, just barely visible, was the entrance for the flight that went downstairs to the basement.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see that Charley Bell was now right behind him. Payne reached into his pocket and broke the connection for their call, then speed-dialed Harris. Charley listened in as Matt told Tony what he’d seen inside, ending with, “Going to take it now.”

Payne then yelled around the corner of the doorway: “Police! Put down your weapons!”

When he peered around the corner, he was amazed that Will Curtis had actually complied with the order on the first shout. He was looking with tired eyes toward the front door.

Sergeant Matt Payne, with his Colt. 45 raised in both hands close to his chest, smoothly rushed through the doorway, Detective Charley Bell lumbering on his heels.

Payne was shouting, “Police! Nobody move! Hands on your head!”

The black male still had his hands raised and now moved them to his head.

Will Curtis, as quickly as he could, complied, too.

They could hear Detective Tony Harris kicking in the back door.

Matt motioned for Charley to go let Tony in, and he hustled down the hall.

Just as Payne said to the black male, “Where’s the other guy?” the old man pointed under the stairs and yelled, “Coming out of the basement!”

Payne looked toward the basement entrance in time to see the head of a black male-whose hand was bringing up a black semiautomatic pistol.

The shooter swung the pistol at Payne. But before Matt could squeeze off a shot, Will Curtis stepped between them-and then came three shots from the black male.

Two of the bullets hit Curtis in the left shoulder, the third in his left chest.

As Matt dove for cover at the foot of the steps leading upstairs, he thought, Did he step in the way on purpose?

He did! He took those damn bullets for me!

Matt saw Charley Bell peering around a corner at the back end of the hall. The shooter did, too, and fired three shots at him. Two struck the wall at the corner, sending Sheetrock flying. The third found Bell’s forearm.

“Fuck! I’m hit!” he shouted.

Curtis fell forward and grabbed the Glock he’d been told to drop, then remarkably squeezed off five shots in the direction of the shooter.

Then Will Curtis finally collapsed, blood from his wounds beginning to pool around him.

The long-haired black male was now cowering behind Payne, lying flat on the floor against the wall.

Payne carefully looked past the edge of the stairs toward the basement entrance, trying to get a clear line of fire on the shooter.

He saw the entrance but not the shooter.

Sonofabitch!

Keeping low, he stepped into the hallway and moved toward the basement entrance. The worn wooden flooring squeaked under his weight.

“You okay, Charley?” Payne called out.

“Get that sonofabitch, Matt!”

Payne looked back at the black male. He was still cowering against the wall, but now he stared wide-eyed at the old man lying in the pool of blood.

As Payne moved closer to the basement entrance, Tony Harris appeared from around the bullet-pocked corner. He motioned toward the basement, then motioned that he’d cover Matt. Matt nodded.

When Payne got to the top of the stairs, he saw a heavy blood trail leading down the wooden treads.

Will Curtis hit the bastard.

“Police!” Matt yelled down the steps. “Drop your weapons!”

Payne and Harris slowly descended the stairs.

When they reached the bottom, there were two rooms. They cleared the first, then followed the blood trail to the door of the second. A light was on inside it, and when Payne looked around the edge of the door frame, he saw two black males-both dead.

One was on the floor at the end of the heavy blood trail. The shooter had at least one enormous hole through his neck. The semiautomatic 9-millimeter Baretta was still in his right hand. The other dead male was lying on an old twin bed. He had been strangled. Two foot-long plastic zip ties strung end-to-end cut deeply into his bruised neck.

A black duffel bag with stacks of banded cash and clear plastic bags full of pills was on the floor.

Matt and Tony then heard fast footfalls on the wooden flooring above their heads.

Then they heard Charley Bell yell, “Stop! Police!”

Payne exchanged a fast glance with Harris, then bolted up the steps.

At the top, Payne turned toward the open front door as he heard the minivan starting and then its tires spinning as it squealed away.

He looked toward the back of the house and saw Bell standing with what looked like a dirty dish towel wrapped around his left forearm. It was blood-soaked.

“The sonofabitch grabbed the old man’s keys,” Bell said. “And got his Glock, too!”

Matt looked at the towel.

“I’m okay,” Bell said. “Go! Go! Go!”

Matt pointed down the basement stairs.

“Clear the house with Tony,” he said.

Then, stepping around the dead body of the old man who’d sacrificed his life for Matt’s, Payne was out the door.