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“Look, Denny, I don’t like it one damn bit. But sometimes we all have to swallow things we don’t like.” He paused to let that sink in, then added, “I knew Jack and Dutch, and I would bet they are looking down through those pearly gates, nodding, saying, ‘Yeah, we paid enough of a price. And Matty’s come close to paying the ultimate price. Get our boy out of harm’s way.’”

“Yeah, maybe . . .” Coughlin began, then sighed again. “Well, I know for certain that parts, if not all, of Matty’s family won’t be disappointed.”

“See? And it could be worse. Payne does have options. A lot of cops who find themselves off the force are lost.”

Coughlin looked off in thought.

“Maybe I’ll get Peter Wohl involved,” he said. “Payne respects him. As his rabbi. And more.”

“I suggest the first thing to do is rein him in, make him unhappy, let him figure out what’s going on. The sooner he does that, the sooner he can make the right decision. With or without Wohl’s help.”

“I’m going to have to think about all this, but I will be shooting straight with him—”

“Not sure that’s the best,” Carlucci interrupted.

Coughlin stared at him, and said, “Maybe in someone’s view. But I want to be able to look myself in the mirror when this is all over.”

Coughlin grasped his armchair and stood up suddenly.

“I’ve had enough here,” he said.

“It’s the right thing, Denny,” Carlucci said, also getting to his feet. “Just make sure it’s done.”

Coughlin met his eyes, then turned and left without another word.

[ TWO ]

Palmer and Beach Streets

Fishtown

Philadelphia

Friday, January 6, 4:35 P.M.

Two district patrol officers in their early twenties stood beside a marked police Ford Explorer, its light bar flashing red and blue, at the parking lot entrance of the deserted PECO Richmond Power Station. The blue shirts, their breath visible in the cold air, stopped talking and studied the approaching Crown Victoria.

Tony Harris, at the wheel of the unmarked Police Interceptor, hit the switch to light up its wigwags. The officers, in a casual, almost bored manner, motioned for the vehicle to pass through the gate, then crossed their arms over their chest and returned to their conversation.

The old, coal-fired plant—built in 1925 and shut down six decades later—covered more than eight acres on the bank of the Delaware River, adjacent to Penn Treaty Park.

“Did Kennedy give you any background on the scene?” Matt Payne said, looking up at the main plant as they drove toward the river.

“Only that we needed to see it for ourselves,” Harris said. “When I pressed, he said, ‘Words fail me.’”

“And two victims?”

“Uh-huh. Said they found the two dead males where I told him the nine-one-one caller had said. Then they checked the main plant in case there were others. Victims had no ID on the

m. But one did have a burner phone. Hal checked with Krow and confirmed that one of the numbers on the recent-called list belonged to the phone recovered in the shooter’s van.”

“The cell tower dump can show if that phone was at The Rittenhouse at the time of the shooting,” Payne said, adding idly, “I thought that someone had plans to make something out of this place. That Romanesque architecture, even in its run-down state, is still pretty impressive.”

“And maybe a bit spooky.”

“Yeah, but the photos of it back in the day show that the place was really something. You know the enormous area that held the four huge steam turbines? It was designed to resemble the ancient Roman baths.”

“I did not know that, and, frankly, wonder why you do,” Harris said, and pointed out the windshield. “Fresh-cut pipes there. Looks like the metal salvage thieves have been busy again. Steel and copper.”