Deadly Assets (Badge of Honor 12)

I know that laugh . . .

“That was pretty much my first thought,” she said. “But it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s on the ground, on its keel, listing to one side.”

“What’s it doing there?” Harris said, hoping the more she talked, the better his chances of confirming he recognized the voice.

“The goats use it as a makeshift barn,” she said, and laughed again, “when the chickens let them. Welcome to 19133, poorest ZIP code in town. For the record, I had no part of what was done there or getting the girl to talk; I just connected the dots. Anyway, I’ll check back if I learn more. Later . . .”

Payne raised his eyebrows as he watched the phone screen light up and CALL ENDED appear onscreen.

Payne looked at Harris.

“Nice source,” Payne said.

“Yeah. That was Webber. That laugh of hers is hard to miss.”

“Is she credible?”

“Oh yeah. Quite.”

“She’s working for Sully, right?”

“Maybe he told her to give us that.”

“What do you think she meant by she had ‘no part of what was done there’?”

Harris grunted.

“Good question. Which may be why her first words were that we didn’t hear it from her. Not sure we want to know.”

“Well, then, let’s go find out,” Payne said. “We can sleep when we’re dead.”

Harris put the car in gear.

“Or when Tyrone Hooks is . . .” he said.

[ THREE ]

Monmouth and Hancock Streets

Fairhill, Philadelphia

Sunday, December 16, 1:25 A.M.

It took not quite ten minutes to drive from the Word of Brotherly Love Ministry at North Twenty-ninth and Arizona to Monmouth and Hancock in Fairhill, a distance of a little under three miles.

The “small cabin cruiser” was about twenty-five feet long and right where Lynda Webber had said, sitting on the ground on its side next to the row house and behind a patched-together chain-link fence. Ragged-looking chickens were scattered around the yard.

As Payne and Harris started up the sidewalk, Payne saw that the birds were pecking around trash that littered the ground—cigarette butts, empty plastic baggies stamped with street names for heroin, even a discarded condom.

At the front door, which appeared to have been kicked in and now was slightly ajar, a dim light burned just inside.

They heard a woman sobbing softly on the other side.

Harris and Payne pulled their pistols out.

Harris then rapped hard with his knuckles on the door, announced, “Police!” and then cautiously pushed on the door.

Hinges groaned as the battered wooden door swung inward.