The Traffickers (Badge of Honor 9)

Not a gunshot… just a chance to bring him in.

First, because he doesn’t need to be on the street.

And second, because he damn sure knows something.

That’s obvious because he knows Skipper knew something. Why else target him for assassination? That’s what they were calling it at the scene in the ICU.

And that’s exactly what it was-thirteen rounds’ worth of nine-millimeter assassination.

Which means that the sonofabitch may very well know what went on in that motel room. Or, if not what went on in there in the last few minutes, hours, whatever, then who the players in there were.

And it’s damn sure no coincidence that the guy I shot and the two crispy critters from the motel are all Hispanic males.

Payne heard the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of hard rubber wheels rolling over an expansion joint in the tile floor. He turned to find a heavy-duty polymer custodial cart moving in his direction. It had two twenty-gallon plastic garbage cans on either end and the handles of a broom and feather dusters poking up between them. Pushing the cart was a hollow-faced Hispanic female. She looked to be maybe thirty. She stopped at a trash receptacle, and there went about her cleaning job quietly and effortlessly and, Payne noted, more or less completely unnoticed by anyone.

Then he was struck by the fact that that had been the exact same response he’d had to the Hispanic “orderly” at the Burn Unit when he saw him pushing the gurney into the corridor.

I didn’t give him a second thought.

Why is that? And is it good or bad?

I have no idea. But I know there’s something there I can’t put my finger on.

Where is that sonofabitch now?

How badly did I wound him?

There hadn’t been hardly any blood at the scene, either where he went down or where he carjacked that Chevy Caprice.

But maybe that one round did enough damage to get the critter to find an ER.

Payne knew that it did not matter which hospital emergency room. As long as it wasn’t, say, ten states away. But even ten states away there was a chance of catching the guy. It just would take longer.

And the hospitals did report, either officially or quietly, someone coming in with a gunshot wound. Even if-for whatever reason, say, some sanctimonious bastard at the intake desk took offense at the release of the scum’s “personal and privileged information” to the cops-not right away. There were others on staff who knew that almost all gunshot wounds were dirty and eventually would leak the info to the authorities. Not to mention the ones working security, who were either once cops or were cops moonlighting; they didn’t have to be convinced that keeping a critter off the street was all-important. They would call it in right then and there, damn any consequences.

Already the Philly Homicide detectives had begun distributing an Armed and Dangerous Alert to all of the hospital ERs within a fifty-mile radius. The single-page alert had a grainy black-and-white snapshot of the doer that had been pulled from the city-owned surveillance camera video on the exterior of the Temple University Hospital wall. (There had been as yet no luck with the hospital’s interior video equipment.) The Armed and Dangerous Alert also contained, of course, a description of the Hispanic male, including the detail that his wound had been inflicted by a.45-caliber bullet to the left leg at a point believed to be somewhere above the knee. And, of course, there was the directive to first call 911 in the event anyone requesting medical attention came even remotely close to the description on the alert. Then the hospital could contact the Philadelphia Police Department Homicide Unit at the Roundhouse via the information provided, or the responding cops could do so.

Payne then thought about Skipper Olde.

When Payne had gone back into the Temple Burn Unit, he had been surprised at his own reaction to the news that the doer had indeed pumped thirteen rounds into Skipper.

It didn’t really bother me one bit.

Knowing his chance of survival, maybe I had already dealt with the fact he probably wasn’t-what did Tony Harris tell me he thought? — that Skipper wasn’t going to make it to lunch.

And he sure as hell didn’t.

But my being unaffected… something weird about that.

I need to call Amy and ask her.

Amy was Amelia A. Payne, MD. His sister was the Joseph L. Otterby Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Pennsylvania.

If she doesn’t have an opinion, which would be the first time that ever happened, then she’ll find me someone who does.

Then another mental image flashed up, and Payne suddenly grinned.

That and see if someone in Amy’s medical circles can give me background on that gorgeous Dr. Amanda Law.