The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor 10)

apartment manager didn’t seem particularly upset with his demise, except for the fact he owed three months’ back rent. Anyway, the manager let us in. There was no apparent sign of anything having happened in the apartment.”

“And the office?” Payne asked. “Where is it?”

“Over on Callowhill, not far from the ICE office.”

“Really?” Payne said, mentally picturing the building that housed the local office of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the federal agency that was under the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. “Was Gartner into immigration law, too?”

“I doubt it. I don’t think he was that smart.”

“You know, those guys can be real lowlifes,” O’Hara put in. “Some poor immigrant, wanting to do the right thing and become a legal citizen of the United States, willingly goes through all the hoops, including hiring an immigration attorney to help him understand all the legalese. The immigrant gives the lawyer his five-grand cash retainer, then the lawyer doesn’t do shit and the poor immigrant, who probably drove a cab to hell and back to earn that five large, and now is even poorer, winds up deported. And the lawyer keeps the retainer, never again to see the client for whom he’s done nothing.”

Payne shook his head. “Nice.”

Mickey looked furious. “If I ever find a way to put stuff like that on CrimeFreePhilly, those guys are toast, too.”

John Sullivan delivered their drinks, and after they’d all had a sip, Harris continued.

“Gartner’s office was a mess. But it appeared to be just a normal office mess. There was no sign of a struggle there. And no forced entry. Curiously, both the front and back main exterior doors of the building had been left unlocked, as had the interior door to Gartner’s office. We found drugs on one of the desks, what looked like coke or crank in one zip-top bag, and another bag with roofies. There was even a line of powder on the desktop that hadn’t been snorted.”

“That’s strange,” Payne said. “Like someone had to leave fast. But no signs that either he or his punk client was popped there?”

Harris shrugged. “The CSU boys were still working it when I stopped by on the way here. But, for now, it appears the answer is no. And Jay-Cee’s motorcycle was parked on the sidewalk.” He paused, sipped his beer, then said, “Something did happen there, though—something really weird.”

He looked between Matt and Mickey, whose curiosity clearly was piqued.

After a moment, they said in unison: “What?”

“Piss.”

“Piss?” they repeated in unison.

Harris nodded.

“There was piss everywhere,” he said. “And I mean everywhere. You’d think gallons.”

“Animal urine? Like some dog got loose in there?” Payne asked. “You said the doors were unlocked. Maybe they’d been open, too.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Judging by the amount, though, something bigger. I mean, who has that large of a bladder?”

Mickey glanced over at a couple at the bar in a two-part cow costume.

“Cows?” he offered. Then he looked back at Harris and said, “Or maybe the doer is a deer hunter. Once, when I was up in Bucks County, I found a place where they were selling bottles of animal piss—I think it was doe urine—that hunters poured on themselves to mask their human scent in the woods. Or maybe it was meant as an attractant to draw out horny males. Or something.”

Payne looked at O’Hara, raised his eyebrows, and said, “So you’re thinking that fucking Bambi is the doer?”

O’Hara and Harris laughed.

Payne then looked at Harris and said, “I’m assuming there’s enough piss to run a DNA analysis?”

Harris snorted.

“Enough to float a boat. There was a pool of piss in the plastic bag alone. The dope that hadn’t dissolved just floated in it!”

“Was there piss at the scene at Francis Fuller’s office in Old City?”

Harris nodded. “Yeah. On Jay-Cee’s pants crotch. But that was more like he’d just pissed himself. Nothing like the pools of it in the office.”

“Anything else out of the ordinary?”