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Fuller shrugged.

“I will grant you that. But I can guarantee that whoever I back will win the primary election, with great odds of winning it all.” He paused to let that sink in, then finished: “And I can guarantee that those who fail to win their second term as mayor, as history has proven, never find themselves going on to win higher office in Harrisburg or Washington.”

Carlucci looked off in the distance. He had not risen to police commissioner and then mayor by being easily intimidated. He was from South Philly and enjoyed a good fight. But long ago he also had learned to be pragmatic.

I may not like the mes

sage worth a damn, but I can appreciate its frank delivery.

His candidate, no matter if the guy won or lost in the general election, would leave me out of office.

Forget not being a lame duck—politically I’d be a dead duck.

On the other hand, if I have his backing for mayor, then I probably could bank on it for governor.

What the hell. One step at a time.

I only have to put up with him until my victory speech on election night.

“I’m listening,” Carlucci said, after a moment.

Fuller nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Here’s what I’m going to do. I have a fine young man, another product of our city, who graduated at the top of his class at Penn Law. I like to hire our hometown people, and he is an outstanding example of why. I lured him—Edward Stein is his name—away from Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo, and Lester.”

Carlucci’s eyebrows rose. He was well-acquainted with what was arguably Philadelphia’s most prestigious law firm, particularly founding partner Brewster Cortland Payne II.

“I imagine Brew Payne was not happy with that,” Carlucci said.

“Perhaps. But as his firm represents a great deal of my business, you might say it’s all in the family. Much like Stein working for you. Presently, Stein is one of my senior vice presidents. He will be your executive counsel, or whatever you wish to call him, and will provide counsel to you. He will also report to me.”

Carlucci watched as Fuller then stood, nodded once, and, without another word, walked out of the office.

[ THREE ]

Chief Executive Adviser Ed Stein tapped his pen on his legal pad again.

“The media coverage from those murders will have a direct impact on revenues,” he said.

James Finley added: “Do I have to remind you, Mr. Mayor, that this city will implode without the revenue from tourism? Kiss some four billion—or potentially more—dollars good-bye. That’s how much the thirty-five million leisure visitors spent last year in Philly, generating for the city almost five hundred million—a half-billion—in tax revenue. And that’s not counting convention business. It’s long been on the decline, and the fewer people who come for business translates into fewer who will return with their families.”

“I would not characterize it as imploding,” Stein offered, earning him a glare from Finley. “But it certainly is the tip of the financial iceberg, and that has to improve or else Center City’s shiny towers, high-end retail spaces, and hotels and restaurants could slowly empty and eventually falter. If people see Philly as a place of crumbling buildings and slain tourists—which is today’s reality—they will take their money elsewhere.” He paused, and then added, “When was the last time you heard someone say, ‘Hey, how about we take the family for a vacation in Detroit!’?”

First Deputy Police Commissioner Coughlin chuckled, and immediately felt Finley staring at him. He looked at Stein.

“Sorry. I take your point.”

Stein went on: “When the tourists don’t show, everyone suffers. Especially now. For many businesses, how well holiday sales go makes or breaks them for the year. And no sales means no sales tax. It’s lose-lose.”

“Something is going to have to be done about stopping these murders!” Finley said. “Something different that works. And now. It’s only ten days until Christmas . . .”

“Listen,” Carlucci said, “I like to think I know a thing or two about police work—”

“I know, I know,” Finley interrupted, his tone clearly one of frustration. “You’ve ‘held every job but meter maid’—”

“Every job but policewoman,” Carlucci snapped, and was immediately sorry he’d lost his temper.

Did that bastard just goad me into that?