The Traffickers boh-9, page 12
part #9 of Badge of Honor Series
The two slaps were enough to get Rosario’s attention-and more important, to get her to shut up and listen to reason. He had then been able to convince her to get in the Ford minivan, and that it was safer for her in the backseat, lying on the floor under a pile of bedsheets.
El Nariz then had gone back inside the laundromat.
Considering what had just happened, he thought that the scene did not look that bad. Or certainly not as bad as it could have.
El Nariz looked at the arch of bullet holes in the brick wall.
That crazy bastard!
What if he’d shot me-shot us all-instead of just leaving?
The wire baskets between the walls of washer and dryer machines were scattered wildly, a few toppled on their side. The severed head lay where it had slid to a stop, down by the table along the wall used for folding. He walked to it, afraid he might throw up, and quickly covered it with a white bath towel. The bloody slime trail it had left was becoming more and more dry, and he grabbed a damp towel from a wire basket and quickly wiped up what he could.
Then he found a box of plastic garbage bags, pulled two from the roll, and went back to the towel-covered head.
I still do not know who this is, may God rest her tortured soul.
Or how she is connected to Rosario.
But I do not question that she is.
He crossed himself, then carefully gathered the white towel around the head, lifting it all at once. He placed the severed head and its towel in one of the plastic garbage bags, then placed that bag inside the other. He added the bloody towel that he had used to wipe the floor, then knotted the bags closed.
He scanned the room and shook his head in resignation.
Nothing more to do right now.
Nothing but get the hell out of here.
Then, carrying the bag, he quickly moved to the steel double doors of the loading dock. He pulled them closed from the outside, locked them, then went to the minivan.
As the rear door of the minivan swung upward, he could hear the muffled sobbing coming from under the small pile of bedsheets.
“It is okay, Rosario,” he said softly. “It is only me.”
El Nariz carefully placed the garbage bag inside the rear storage area of the minivan-If she knows this is here, it will not be good for either of us; but it is not right to just leave it-and pulled the door down and closed it as gently as he could.
Rosario had sobbed uncontrollably on the drive to the South Philly row house.
And she was still inconsolable after Se?ora Esteban sat with both arms around her on the well-worn couch in the back-room parlor.
El Nariz had gone to clean up his head wound. He then took the double-bagged head down to the basement and, not sure what the hell else could immediately be done with it, he put it in the Deepfreeze, buried under plastic zipper-top bags of frozen vegetables.
Back upstairs, he’d stood watching from the doorway to the kitchen, taking an occasional pull from a liter bottle of agave liquor he held by his hip.
As Rosario continued sobbing, he’d finally gone back into the kitchen and poured two fingers of the tequila into a plastic cup. He’d then added twice as much orange juice to that and taken the drink into the parlor. With some effort, they got the girl to drink it.
After a short while, the alcohol had the desired effect. Rosario became somewhat calmer. She still trembled at times, but at least she no longer wailed.
Rosario now sat on the back-room parlor couch as Paco and Salma Esteban came back into the room. She had her knees pressed to her breasts and both arms wrapped tightly around the outside of her knees. She slowly rocked to and fro as she tried to hold back the sobs that seemed to rise from deep down inside.
“Rosario,” Salma Esteban began softly, “you do not have to do this thing now. You have been through very much.”
She shook her head vigorously.
“No,” she said. “It must be done.”
She sobbed.
“And I must go to church,” she added, “to confession.”
Paco and Salma Esteban exchanged glances.
Paco Esteban said, “Who’s the girl?”
His wife glared at him for asking such a question at such a delicate time.
He shrugged, in effect saying, What did I say?
Rosario buried her face in her knees and breasts. Then she looked up and between them.
She wailed, “I killed my cousin!”
Paco and Salma Esteban again exchanged glances, this time ones of deep shock.
TWO
The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 8:15 A.M.
Lieutenant Jason Washington was in his glass-walled office in the Homicide Unit. Minutes earlier, he had decided to deal with the matter of Detective Bari at a later time, if not date, and felt a twinge of guilt for having more or less brushed off Denny Coughlin’s question by saying the “administrative problem” had been taken care of.
Now he turned to reviewing the notes Tony Harris had taken so far in the Philly Inn job. He noticed the sound of voices growing louder in the outer office.
Washington looked up and saw Sergeant Matthew M. Payne being welcomed by a small crowd of detectives. They shook Payne’s hand and patted him on the back as he slowly but certainly moved through them and toward Washington’s office.
Washington heard Payne say, “I’d better check in with the boss.” A moment later, Payne rapped a knuckle on the edge of the doorway.
“Matthew,” Jason Washington said warmly. “I had heard a rumor that you were on your way back to the Roundhouse.”
“How are you, Jason?”
They shook hands.
“Very well, Matthew. Thank you for asking.”
“Mind if I ask where you came across this rumor? I was really afraid that the rumor circulating was the one that painted me as having turned in my gun and badge and gone off to take art classes in the south of France.”
Washington chuckled. He motioned with his hand, waving Payne into one of the two metal-framed chairs across from his desk.
“Oh, no,” Washington said, smiling. “That rumor-and it had you in Gay Paree, emphasis on the Gay-died a slow death weeks ago. This new one I got from far up the chain of command.”
Payne figured that one out-From my call to Hollaran-right when Washington confirmed it.
“I just enjoyed a visit to Commissioner Coughlin’s office,” Washington said.
Payne nodded but didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.
“The commissioner had brought me and my boss and his boss in,” Washington went on, “to discuss the situation of the Philly Inn.”
Payne nodded. “I was just out there at the scene.”
“So I understand.” He pointed at the notes on his desk. “I’ve been speaking with Tony.”
Payne nodded again. “Does that mean Tony’s got the job? And not Bari?”
Washington considered his reply for a long moment, then said, “It’s now Tony’s. The answer to the other part of your query is-how do I put this? — that it’s on the back burner for now.”
“As long as Tony’s got it, I don’t care about the how or why. I want in on this, too, Jason. It’s important to me.”
Washington’s eyebrows went up.
“Matthew, it would never cross my mind that you had anything other than a strictly professional interest in this case.” He paused. “Would it?”
“My interest is to find out-professionally-what the hell happened out there. And why.”
Washington did not immediately reply. He looked at the notes on his desk. “Tony tells me you have a history with”-he glanced at the notes to refresh his memory-“with this Warren Olde and Rebecca Benjamin.”
“And with Chad Nesbitt,” Payne said, then went on and gave Washington all the background he’d given Tony Harris.
“Matthew, you didn’t hear this from me.”
“Yessir,” Payne said, but it was more of a question.
“Denny Coughlin is of course going to welcome you back with open arms-”
“Great! I didn’t want this to be difficult.”
Washington gave him a hard look. “Kindly allow me to complete my thoughts, Matthew.”
“Sorry.”
“Thank you. And what the commissioner has in mind-and, again, you did not hear it from me-is that you’re welcome back to your desk.” He nodded to the outer office of Homicide. “You’ll work out of here.”
“I’m tied to a desk? What is that about, Jason?”
“He’s concerned for you, Matthew. We all are. You went through a lot.”
“Which was why I took the thirty days. Now I’m back. I’m well. And I want to work.”
Both Lieutenant Jason Washington and Sergeant Matt Payne knew there never was any real chance that Payne would be denied his job if and when he said that he wanted it.
After all, it was a fact that the shooting had been declared a good one; thus, the department could not use that against him. And it was a fact that the psychiatrist, Dr. Aaron Stein, had said that Payne had suffered only from emotional exhaustion-“The treatment is rest,” Stein said, “and don’t push yourself so hard again”-which sure as hell was not cause for suspension or termination.
Finally, while it had been the Number Two man in the police department hierarchy, Denny Coughlin, who’d strongly suggested to Payne that he take off the deserved time, it also was a fact that it had been exactly that-a suggestion.
And now Uncle Denny is probably going to throw Dr. Stein’s “Don’t push yourself so hard again” line in my face.
Which translates to running in low gear while driving a goddamn desk.
Had anyone hinted at denying Sergeant Payne his job, Payne knew that technically he could have created one helluva stink. Starting with the Fraternal Order of Police getting its lawyers to file grievances against the department to reinstate Sergeant Payne, and on up to a team of big-gun litigators from the prestigious firm of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester dragging the City of Philadelphia to the Supreme Court of the United States of America for whatever unlawful action they could muster.
But that was technically. Realistically, of course, no one wanted it to come to blows. And it wouldn’t, because that would not have served either side’s best interests.
“I don’t agree with the order, Matthew, but the commissioner has his reasons. And he’s the boss. I’ll make it as best I can for you. You know that.”
Payne nodded thoughtfully.
And Jason will.
But it’ll still be a personal purgatory.
Payne then said, “Thank you, Jason.”
“You should go upstairs and make your manners. The sooner you start to meet whatever threshold the commissioner has in mind, the sooner everything will be back the way you want it.”
A detective walked up to Washington’s office.
“Sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant.”
“No interruption. Sergeant Payne here was just leaving. What is it?”
“Just got word of a shooting at the Reading Terminal Market. At least two dead.”
“What the hell is going on with today?” Washington said disgustedly.
First Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin was leaning back in his high-back leather chair, feet on the desk, and in deep thought, when Captain Francis X. Hollaran stuck his head in the half-open doorway.
“Chief, Matt’s here. And more info is coming in on the market shooting.”
Coughlin nodded, then slid his feet off the desk and onto the floor.
“Thanks, Frank. Give it to me when it’s solid. And send him on in, please.”
The door opened more and Payne came through it.
“Matty!” Coughlin said, his tone genuinely pleased.
Coughlin stood and came around the desk. He affectionately put his arms around Payne and patted him on the back as Payne returned the gesture.
“Have a seat, Matty,” he said, pointing to one of the pair of upholstered armchairs.
As Payne did, he watched Coughlin go back to his leather chair. Coughlin wasn’t wearing the double-breasted jacket of his suit, and Payne noticed that he also wasn’t wearing his Smith amp; Wesson snub-nosed.38 Special revolver. Nor did he have the well-worn holster threaded on his belt on the right side.
Coughlin had slipped the five-shot revolver, butt forward, into that same holster every morning for thirty-seven years, since the day he reported on the job as a rookie detective. Payne knew that it was the same standard sidearm that Philadelphia Police Department cops had carried for damn near forever, including his father and his uncle when they were killed.
Then Payne saw, sitting on top of a copy of The Peace Officer, the official publication of the Fraternal Order of Police Lodge #5, a new black molded plastic clamshell box. It had the logotype GLOCK-the big G circling the smaller LOCK-molded into its top and bottom.
“That’s not a new pistol, is it, Uncle Denny?”
Coughlin looked at it with a sour face.
“Yours?” Payne pursued.
“Mariani insisted.”
Payne raised his eyebrows at the mention of the police commissioner.
“Since the department now is issuing the Glock 17,” Coughlin went on in explanation, “he said that I needed to set an example.”
Payne nodded, then said, “Why not one of the other Glocks, the optional models?”
Police Commissioner Mariani had lobbied-and, remarkably, won the battle-for the city to allow the police to carry more firepower. The Philadelphia Police Department issued to every officer on the force a Glock Model 17-at no cost, after they of course had qualified with the weapon at the department gun range. The 17 was a semiautomatic pistol chambered for the nine-millimeter round. It could hold eighteen rounds, one in the throat and seventeen in the magazine.
The commissioner, even more remarkably, had also lobbied for and, beyond belief, gotten approval for four Alternative Service Weapons. These were also Glock models, two of the models chambered in.40-caliber and two in.45-caliber.
It had been remarkable because there were those of the mind-set-said mind-set more often than not being of one’s head being deeply stuck in the sand, or firmly up one’s ass-that it was a danger to the very public they were sworn to protect for the police to carry such powerful weapons.
All sorts of wild-eyed hysteria surfaced during the debates as to just how powerful a firearm a police officer should have. There had even been a troop of protesters who-perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not-looked like they might rob a bank at any moment. They had marched on City Hall carrying posters bearing a red circle with a diagonal bar across photos of Clint Eastwood as “Dirty Harry,” the movie character cop who’d terrorized the sensibilities of San Franciscans.
But in the streets of Philly, as more and more gun battles with bad guys-and gun battles between the bad guys themselves-showed that damn near none of the thugs carried a.38-caliber or similar-size weapon, cooler heads successfully argued that the cops were being outgunned.
For a Philly cop to carry one of the larger-caliber pistols as his duty weapon, there were rules, of course. Chief among them: The officer had to buy the larger-caliber gun with personal funds. The department would issue only the Model 17 at no cost. Second, the alternative weapon had to be inspected. Which meant undergoing a mandatory inspection by a department armorist at the police department firing range.
Then there was the actual qualification test. If the officer successfully completed this, she or he was given a certification card that had to be carried on their person at all times. There was also the rule that the pistols could be loaded only with department-issued ammunition-165-grain tactical rounds in.40-caliber and 230-grain tactical rounds in.45-caliber. That ammo had to be used exclusively, whether the officer was on duty or off duty. Finally, upon meeting all the requirements to carry one of the larger-bore Glocks, the officer had to give the department-issued Model 17 back to the department.
There were absolutely no exceptions to the rules-except, of course, one.
The Special Operations Bureau was tasked, as its name suggested, to perform particularly extraordinary ops. Emphasis on extraordinary. And it was in that environment that Matt Payne, before the police force even began issuing Glocks, began carrying his Colt Officer’s Model.45-caliber semiautomatic. Even after leaving Special Operations (and its commander, Peter Wohl, his rabbi) for Homicide, he continued carrying it, having successfully argued that (a) it had been grandfathered in as an approved weapon, and (b) it could be considered not as powerful as the Glock.45 because it held fewer of the 230-grain tactical rounds that he fed it.
Payne devoutly believed that his Colt, a smaller version of the dependable John Browning-designed Model 1911 semiautomatic that many argued damn near single-handedly won the Second World War, was superior to the Glock in almost every way. And its size sure as hell made it better for concealed carry.
Matt motioned toward the pistol box. “May I?”
Coughlin snorted. “Go ahead. But be damned careful, Matty. When you’re around guns, they tend to go off.”
Matt looked quickly at him and saw that Coughlin was smiling.
Matt unsnapped the two silver latches, opened the box, and removed the weapon. He automatically took care to keep the muzzle pointed down, then ejected the magazine and pulled back the slide enough to see that no round was in the chamber.
“Nice,” he said.
“Damn thing’s a monster compared to my.38.” He paused. “Which, I might add, served me just fine.”
“You never had to use it, Uncle Denny.”
“Precisely.”
“So why the nine-millimeter?”
“You’re not listening, Matty. I’m supposed to be setting an example. Besides, my.38 was fine. Why carry around an elephant gun? And I sure as hell didn’t want to have to buy a damned gun. If Mariani is forcing me to take one, it’d damn well better be a free one.”
Payne put the pistol back in the box, closed the lid, and snapped the latches shut.
