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Only a fool would try something now.

Trouble with that is, this city proves itself to be full of fools with nothing to lose.

He saw that smoldering mounds of debris, including one topped with a charred lectern and what was left of the poster of Public Enemy Number One, were in every direction. And there were broken beer bottles, the glass shards scorched by intense heat, indicating Molotov cocktails.

And some of those same fools came prepared to cause trouble.

And—big surprise—did . . .

At the curb on the corner, there was a vile-looking heap of muck that had been left beside a storm sewer opening. Indistinguishable bits and chunks of trash poked out of the crude sludge.

Looks like the Crime Scene crew checked the storm sewers for evidence.

God-knows-what all winds up down that drain.

That’s some really foul-looking stuff . . . almost like it could be hell’s version of a Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Flavor of the Month.

He stepped carefully, making a wide arc around the pile.

Ahead, a half-dozen plainclothes officers were standing in front of the red door of the former row house turned Chinese restaurant turned church.

Payne recognized most of them, some by face and others by name, including Harvey Simpson. The thirty-two-year-old detective had been in the old PECO van running surveillance when Payne tapped him to coordinate the operation to grab Tyrone Hooks after the rally—before anyone else could, if Sully O’Sullivan’s warning held true.

Simpson wore a faded blue winter coat with diamond-shaped stitching. An oval white patch with red cursive lettering was on each breast, the left one reading Carlos and the right one Doylestown Moving Co.

It was the polar opposite of what Payne was wearing.

For cops wanting to blend in with crowds, outfits like Simpson’s were common—the average civilian tended to take things at face value—although at this moment Simpson had intentionally blown his cover. His jacket was unzipped and his holstered Glock 9-millimeter pistol and police department shield next to it were clearly visible on his right hip.

The small group began to disperse, the men greeting Payne as they went.

“Hey, Sarge,” Simpson then said. “Let me say again I’m sorry we let that bastard Hooks slip away. The team was in place, ready to grab him right after the rally, and now they’re really damn disappointed—”

Payne held up his hand.

“Don’t sweat it, Carlos,” Payne said with a smile. “How the hell could you know that shooting would start? I sure didn’t.”

After a moment, Simpson said, “I guess you’re right.”

“Keep the faith, Harvey. We’ll get the bastard. So, what’s the latest?”

Simpson took out a small spiral notepad from the pocket under the Doylestown Moving Co. patch. He flipped a few pages, then read his notes.

“So far,” he then said, “there’s been exactly twenty-seven arrested for the usual—disorderly conduct, resisting arrest—and, surprisingly, a handful of charges—six, to be precise—for assault on a police officer, including the miserable prick who assaulted the horse with that piece of concrete. All those miscreants filled up three paddy wagons fast—”

“You’re not supposed to say that,” Payne interrupted.

He looked up from his notepad.

“Miserable prick? Or miscreants?”

“Neither. You can’t say paddy wagon. It offends our Irish friends.”

Simpson let loose a Bronx cheer as he tucked the notepad back in his shirt pocket.

“You know I’m part Irish, right, Sarge?”

“As am I—and, it sometimes seems, half the department,” Payne said, and grinned, then in a serious tone added, “How is our Mounted Patrol guy?”