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“Doesn’t have to. Over-under is the number of homicides and shootings combined. Just has to wing one. Or two. Or if he really wants a sure win, trigger an O.K. Corral shoot-out in the ’hood.”

Payne chuckled, then make a fist with the middle finger extended toward him.

“Matt,” Harris said, “that was The Krow on the phone just now. They couldn’t get anything off Camilla Rose Morgan’s phone. Just too badly damaged from the impact.”

“Great,” Payne said, shaking his head.

“I’ve got good news,” McCrory said, gesturing with the computer. “Found that Future Modular Manufacturing is owned by Austin Capital Ventures, which, of course, has John T. Austin shown as its president, slash, chief executive officer. One of the stories said the plant was built there in Doylestown to supply materials for a Camilla’s Kids camp near the Delaware north of New Hope. Now it’s supplying the high-rise condo project across the street from here and the cancer research addition at Hahnemann’s.”

“Well, that begins to explain the connection,” Payne said.

“I didn’t find a connection with Willie Lane. But did you know he’s got a gig with United Workers paying sixty-large?”

“Yep. And you can blame that on our fine city council members for making it legal to have jobs outside City Hall. Unions, especially Joey Fitz’s, love Lane. And people wonder why this city is a disaster.”

“You said you lost Lane in traffic?” Harris said.

“Yeah, he and Austin were going hammers of hell to get away from the protesters—almost clipped a couple of them who were taking pictures—and then, right as we got back in Philly, I got stuck behind two of the eighteen-wheelers that wound up crossways in an intersection. That was the last I saw of them.”

McCrory said, “And, Matt, that guy you asked about who got bludgeoned by that thug Daniels? He was a non-union carpenter going to work when Daniels, a union plumber, took a pipe to him.”

Payne, rubbing his face, nodded thoughtfully.

Heads turned to the TV as the image on it switched to what they recognized as the Mayor’s Reception Room.

“Here we go,” Kennedy said.

The ornate second-floor room appeared to have changed little since it was completed in 1890. It had rich Honduran mahogany wainscoting. A grand chandelier hung from its two-story-high ceiling. And its walls held gold-leaf-framed oil paintings of former mayors of Philadelphia, who seemed to be looking down upon the proceedings.

Mayor Carlucci stood behind the wide mahogany lectern, on the front of which was a heavy bronze replica of the seal of the City of Philadelphia. Behind him, standing in front of a United States flag, were Police Commissioner Ralph Mariani and First Deputy Police Commissioner Denny Coughlin. On the other side, in front of the blue-and-gold-striped flag bearing the crest of the City of Philadelphia, stood three members of the city council who comprised the Public Safety Committee.

“There’s the Black Budda talking with Coughlin,” Payne said.

Jason Washington had leaned in close to Coughlin and was quietly speaking into ear. He then stepped out of frame.

“And look who just showed up,” Payne said.

Willie Lane could be seen crossing the thick black-and-gold-patterned carpet. Lane joined the council members by the flag, positioning himself as the one closest to the mayor.

“Now you know why he was driving so fast,” Harris said. “He’s never been one to miss a photo op.”

“You know, that’s really one fancy room,” Kennedy announced. “I heard that Carlucci spends the thousand bucks a day they get for renting it out on those slick suits and haircuts of his.”

“Funny, I heard it was on hookers,” McCrory said, snorting at his own joke.

“Well, it ain’t finding its way into my paycheck,” Nasuti chimed in. “I can tell you that for a fact.”

They all chuckled.

“Hey, clam up,” McCrory said as Carlucci reached up and tapped the microphones. “Time for the big address

.”

“Whoopee!” Payne said. “More hot air from Hizzoner.”

Harris looked at him askance.

“Not a fan of his lately, eh?”