The Vigilantes

[TWO]

Loft Number 2180 Hops Haus Tower 1100 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:10 P.M.

As Matt Payne looked out of Amanda Law’s penthouse window, thinking about how much damn truth Amanda had written in his would-be obituary, he took a sip from the beer bottle and swallowed hard.

So then why do I feel the pull to be out there running down those animals?

Because of what else Amanda said, long before writing the obit? That it takes cops like me and her dad to keep the city as safe as possible from the bad guys loose on the streets.

Which she’d told me, more than a little ironically, right before those shits snatched her off the street.

At the memory of finding her bound in the gutted kitchen of that abandoned row house, Payne suddenly felt his throat constrict.

That place wasn’t a house. It was a slum, and a fucking prison slum at that.

But there it is: I’ll take the door of any place like that a hundred times over. That may or may not make me a good cop, but bagging bad guys is the right thing to do.

Proof of that being that Amanda is alive.

And further proof being that bastard Jimenez is on the fast track to serving a life sentence in Graterford.

Following his arrest at the row house, Jesus Jimenez had confessed to killing twenty-seven-year-old J. Warren “Skipper” Olde over what Juan Paulo Delgado claimed was a bad drug debt. In exchange for avoiding the death penalty, Jimenez also ratted out everyone in their small band of thugs in a signed confession.

Payne drained the beer bottle, which helped ease the constriction. Then he grinned as he thought:

Too bad the bastard’s about to become somebody’s bitch.

Jimenez will hope he gets thrown alone in an RHU.

The door to the bathroom swung open and Amanda Law, still starkers, stood momentarily backlit in the doorway.

My God, she’s stunning! Matt thought.

“You take my breath away,” he said. “In more ways than one, it would appear.”

She flashed a sly smile. “That, Romeo, is my evil plan.”

She clicked off the bathroom light and said sweetly to the dog, “Good girl, Luna. Lie down.”

Then she smoothly and swiftly moved across the dimly lit bedroom, completely comfortable in her birthday suit. It reminded Matt of the second time he’d met her, just last month in Liberties Bar, when she seemed to float effortlessly across the well-worn wooden floor. Clothed, of course, but even then he’d been mentally undressing her.

As she crawled back into bed, Matt smelled the delicate floral scent of her perfume. It became stronger as she moved in closer to put a hand on his chest and kiss him on the forehead. He smoothly turned his head so that his lips were on hers. She moaned softy and appreciatively, and then-hearing a brief familiar vibrating sound-made an unhappy groan.

Payne’s eyes turned in the direction of the sound, to the bedside table where he’d left his cell phone. It was set to SILENT/VIBRATE. Its color screen was now casting a pulsing bluish-green glow.

Amanda playfully bit his lower lip and held it as she mumbled, “Don’t you dare get…”

Matt, still in her grips, carefully reached for the phone, then held it more or less behind Amanda’s head so he could clearly see its screen.

She bit harder.

Payne grunted as he read the text message on-screen:

– BLOCKED NUMBER -

YO, MATTY. HOPE I’M INTERRUPTING SOMETHING REALLY GOOD AT THIS HOUR! GOT ANOTHER POP-N-DROP AN HOUR AGO. TWO ACTUALLY. COULDN’T HAVE HAPPENED TO NICER GUYS. YOU KNOW ONE. THE BLACK BUDDHA SAID TO GIVE YOU A HEADS-UP. CLICK ON FOX29 NEWS. -TH

Matt sighed, then turned his eyes to meet Amanda’s and raised his hands up, palms out.

“I surrender,” he muttered as best he could.

She let loose his lip and slipped back between the sheets.

Her tone sounding disappointed, Amanda said, “I sure hope that’s not what I’m afraid it is. Especially at this hour. Please tell me it’s not work.”

He held the phone out for her to read its screen.

As she did, Matt thought, Someone I know?

What the hell does that mean?

“TH” was Tony Harris-age thirty-eight, slight of build and starting to bald-who was widely regarded as a really good guy and a really good Homicide detective. He had worked closely with Matt and Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers last month when they’d tracked down Juan Paulo Delgado.

And the Black Buddha was their boss, Lieutenant Jason Washington, head of the Homicide Unit. He was a great big bear of a man-six-foot-three and two hundred twenty-five pounds, with very dark skin. Washington, well-spoken, superbly tailored, and highly respected, did not consider the nickname unflattering. “I’m damn sure black, Matthew,” he said in his deep, sonorous voice. “And Buddha, the ‘enlightened one,’ surely is a wise man. I have no problem wearing that badge with pride.”

“So,” Amanda said softly, “I guess since you’ve been working the pop-and-drops, we’re done for the evening?”

Someone in the city was shooting fugitives. These particular ones were wanted on outstanding arrest warrants for crimes against women and children. He had not told Amanda that their crimes were sexual in nature.

After “popping” a sex offender at point-blank range, the shooter then transported the body to the nearest police district headquarters, “dropping” it off in the parking lot with a copy of the perp’s Wanted information-a computer printout downloaded from one of various Internet websites listing fugitives-stapled to some part of his clothing.

Thus, “pop-and-drop.”

Not that anyone’s complaining that the scum of society is being swept from the streets for good, Payne had thought.

But as Jason Washington said, “Murder’s murder, Matthew. And who knows what the shooter might escalate to next?”

Matt Payne hadn’t figured out how in hell the shooter had been able to get so close to any of the district HQ buildings without being caught in the act of dumping a body. So far it had happened five times in about as many weeks, and the department had been able to keep the incidents quiet-which meant away from the news media-while the brass finally found someone who was available to take the cases and try to piece together who the hell the doer or doers might be. A lucky Sergeant Payne, stuck at his desk assignment, had been chosen.

Matt turned, kissed Amanda on the forehead, and said, “Hold on, baby.”

Matt reached back over to the side table and fished around in its drawer until he came up with a remote control. He thumbed the ON button and the sixty-inch flat-screen television mounted on the wall made a humming sound and its screen began to glow.

He punched in from memory the channel of the local Fox station, and it was clear a live news report was being broadcast. In the bottom left-hand corner was confirmation: A small box alternately blinked the FOX29 logotype and the phrase “News Now, News You Can Use.” A white bar also ran diagonally over the left top corner of the image, and it flashed red text: “REPORTING LIVE at 11:21 P.M. from Old City.”

As the red and blue emergency lights from the police vehicles flashed, the news camera panned down the narrow tree-lined street. On the red brick sidewalk were curious bystanders-Payne noticed more than a few in Halloween costumes-held back by a length of yellow crime-scene tape.

Payne’s eyes went to the ticker of text scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen: BREAKING NEWS… TWO MEN FOUND BOUND AND SHOT DEAD… ONE IS A 25-YEAR-OLD WANTED ON AN OUTSTANDING BENCH WARRANT… ARREST WARRANT WAS FOR FAILURE TO APPEAR IN MUNICIPAL COURT ON TWO COUNTS OF INTENT TO DELIVER A CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE… THE OTHER DEAD MAN IS A CRIMINAL DEFENSE LAWYER, ABOUT AGE 50… BOTH BODIES DUMPED AT LEX TALIONIS OFFICES… POLICE WITHHOLDING NAMES PENDING NOTIFICATION OF FAMILIES OF THE DECEASED… BREAKING NEWS…

Then the camera cut away from the shot of the sidewalk and the TV screen suddenly filled with an awkwardly tight shot. It showed the jowly face of an almost bald man wearing a dark rumpled suit coat and a wrinkled white shirt with no necktie. The emergency lights bathed him in pulses of red and blue.

“Oh, hell!” Matt said. “That’s a bit more of good ole Five-Eff than I’d care to see.”

Then, in a jerky motion, the camera lens pulled back.

Amanda looked at the TV screen. She recognized the man, who now was shown head-to-toe in front of a nice but old brick building. He was in his mid-forties, short and stout with a small defined gut. He had a round face and wore, perched at the end of his bulbous nose, tiny round reading eyeglasses.

He stood addressing a small crowd of news media types. Reporters held microphones to the portly man’s face, almost touching his big nose, as well as camera lenses, both still and video.

“‘Five-Eff ’?” she repeated. “I thought Frank Fuller was ‘Four-Eff.’”

Payne turned to her and smiled. He said, “Fucking Frances Franklin Fuller the Fifth. That makes five.”