Deadly Assets (Badge of Honor 12)

“When we were questioning one of the crackheads,” Nasuti said, “the guy was wearing a hoodie that was, like, three sizes too big. I asked where he got it and he said he found it on the ground. He showed me the spot up by the library. After he emptied his pockets, we found the crackhead had—along with a couple empty plastic capsules that look like they had held synthetic meth, maybe that alpha-PVP—Buress’s ID and his EBT card.”

The Electronic Benfits Transfer card, which looked like a credit card, was issued by the federal government’s Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, previously called food stamps.

Harris and Payne exchanged glances.

Payne then looked at the Prius sitting on the flatbed wrecker.

“That alpha-PVP,” he said, “would explain his choice of running clothes—or lack thereof—right before he lost his game of chicken with that glorified go-cart. His body was overheating.”

“We ran his ID,” Nasuti said. “Buress has got a long list of priors, most drug-related, but a few recent robberies and assaults, going back to when he was thirteen. One of the Twenty-fourth District guys—Manny Lopez, who had the Wanted flyer and called me after responding to the scene of this accident—said Buress had major anger issues. Was always flying off the handle. Which explains the assault raps, if not yesterday’s random murders.”

“Well, then, congrats, Hank,” Payne said. “Another crazy off the streets. And you and Lucke get a couple cleared-case boxes to check off. Where is Lucke?”

Nasuti gestured to the other side of the white panel van.

“In the car. Doing paperwork. We were here for hours waiting for the techs from the medical examiner’s office. Things are just now getting back to what passes for quote normal unquote

after that Killadelphia Rally blew up. Anyway, we’re going to finish up here, swing by the Roundhouse, then that should put us at around seven o’clock, and we can call the parents of Lauren Childs and Jimmy Sanchez, asking if we can stop by and speak to them briefly.”

The Sanchez family lived in South Philly. The Childses were from Bethlehem, up in northern Bucks County, and had checked into a hotel in Center City, whose skyline twinkled peacefully in the distance.

Payne nodded solemnly.

“That works,” he said. “No reason to wake them at this ungodly hour. But telling them in person that you found the doer is best. After that, you guys go home. You’ve earned your rest. And it’s not like there won’t be plenty of work waiting.”

“Thanks. Getting home early should be a nice surprise for Natalie. Although she might rather have the overtime than my presence.”

Payne grunted.

With overtime pay, from working the gruesome scenes all night, then showing up during the day to testify in court cases, top detectives could double—or more—their base salary of $75,000. Payne could count on one hand those he knew who racked up close to a hundred grand in overtime.

But there was no question in his mind that they more than earned it, particularly those like Nasuti working Last Out—the busy midnight-to-eight shift, which got half of Homicide’s jobs.

There was also no question that, while the money was good, the difficult toll the hours took on a detective—and particularly his family—was one helluva price to pay.

Payne knew that Hank had returned from his honeymoon only a month earlier, and he smiled and said, “Give your bride my best regards.”

“Will do.”

[ FOUR ]

Over Runway 33

Northeast Philadelphia Airport

Sunday, December 16, 9:10 A.M.

“Thanks for finally taking my call, Lenny!” H. Rapp Badde Jr. barked into his Go To Hell cellular telephone and then continued without pause: “What the hell are you doing? I thought that we had an understanding! You were going to tell Carlucci’s guy that you were backing off from attacking the cops! Right?”

Finally, he paused, looked across the aircraft at Janelle Harper, rolled his eyes when there was no reply, and added, “Well . . . ?”

—

As soon as his cell phone had showed that he had service, Badde had been constantly redialing the two numbers he had for Skinny Lenny as the Gulfstream came in on final to the general aviation field.

Right before landing, as the aircraft had descended beneath the thick layer of gray clouds, Badde had glanced out the window. They were flying along the Delaware River, and just upstream from the casinos the property where his $300 million multitower project was going to be built came into sight.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the architect’s rendering.