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Carlucci had risen through the ranks of the Philadelphia Police Department, and he bragged that he’d held every rank but that of policewoman.

Payne said: “Or maybe, more appropriately, that dollar sign is also supposed to represent a scarlet letter for Badde?”

These days it’s easier finding a virgin in a whorehouse than an honest politician. He grunted to himself. An honest pol in or out of a whorehouse. With or without a scarlet letter.

Fuller could be heard speaking again, and the camera cut back to him:

“So, to all you out there who commit crimes, or you who are considering doing so, I share with you further wisdom of Benjamin Franklin: ‘Fear to do ill, and you need fear nought else.’”

There was more applause. Fuller paused, waved briefly to acknowledge it, then looked back into the camera.

His face turned stern, and he wagged the stubby fat index finger of his right hand as he went on dramatically: “Evildoers, know that you are being watched. Know that eventually you will be caught”—with all his right hand’s stubby fat fingers, he gestured behind himself, where the bodies had been dumped, never taking his eyes off the camera—“and know that you will be brought to justice. By God’s grace and by God’s words: As it says in Exodus 23:24, ‘Then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, foot for foot.’ Lex Talionis. Thank you.”

There was more applause, this time accompanied by whistles and cheers.

Matt sighed.

“‘Evildoers.’ Jesus! I’ve heard enough of that,” he said, thumbing the MUTE button on the remote.

After a moment, Amanda said, “Well, I can’t say I am opposed to what he’s trying to accomplish.”

Matt looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “But, baby, people just can’t take the law into their own hands. And that’s what he’s basically encouraging.”

She shrugged. “Sorry. I can’t. . . .”

Of course she can’t.

Damn sure not after what she’s gone through. . . .

He nodded thoughtfully and kissed her on the forehead.

The news camera now followed Francis Fuller as he walked inside the office building. Then it panned the cheering crowd, and in the process captured some of the news media.

Payne said: “Hey, there’s Mickey O’Hara. He’s working the story?”

A young-looking Philadelphia Police Department patrolman was going back under the yellow police tape next to O’Hara, who Matt noted was standing apart from the pack of reporters quickly scribbling on their pads. O’Hara had a camera of some type hanging from his right shoulder by a thin black strap. He held in both hands what looked like a cell phone, and he was tapping it with both of his thumbs.

Then Payne felt his phone vibrate again, and a new text message appeared in a box on its screen: MICKEY O’HARA

AN OLD SOURCE JUST MENTIONED “POP-N-DROPS”

TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW, DAMN IT, AND I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I DO . . .

MEET ME AT LIBERTIES?

“Old source” my ass—it was that wet-behind-the-ears uniform.

The kid’s probably starstruck with Mickey and thought he’d show off how important he already is by sharing what’s supposed to be kept quiet.

Hell, Mickey will keep his mouth shut if I ask, and if he

’s on the scene he probably has something good that I can use.

But Amanda is going to be pissed if I leave now to go work.

He heard her sigh, and when Matt looked to her, he saw that she’d read the screen.

He began to apologize: “I’m—”