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 & 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.