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“Since I have served both as your police commissioner and now as your mayor, crimes have declined in our fair city. Major crimes, such as homicides, by as much as half. While we are not where we would like to be—one robbery or murder or rape is one too many—we are committed to crime prevention and criminal apprehension. It is what we are well trained to do. And I believe the statistics prove that we do it exceptionally well.

“Now, in response to last night’s criminal activity, today I am pleased to announce that Police Commissioner Mariana has formed a special task force to capture the armed and dangerous perpetrator. Operation Clean Sweep will be led by Homicide Unit Sergeant M. M. Payne—”

Carlucci paused as his image was replaced for a three-second count by one of Matt Payne and Carlucci. Payne, in a crisp Brooks Brothers two-piece suit and tie, was shaking hands with Carlucci. Their left hands held up a plaque that at the top was emblazoned with the words VALOR IN THE LINE OF DUTY.

“—whose name you may recognize as one of our highly decorated officers. He could not be here in person, as he already is fully immersed in the investigation.”

Carlucci now gestured to the white shirts behind him and went on: “Sergeant Payne will be fully supported not only by the Philadelphia PD, but by any other state and federal agencies whom we partner with in such initiatives as the FBI Violent Crimes Task Force.

“And of course Operation Clean Sweep will have the full force of all departmental assets, which are legion.”

He motioned to the panel of TVs.

Corporal Rapier worked the control panel, and each screen instantly was replaced with images of nearly everything in the department’s arsenal. There was a pair of the Aviation Unit’s Bell 206 L-4 helicopters hovering over a grassy field, their floodlight beams lighting up a suspect, his hands up, as uniforms on the ground converged. Members of the Special Weapons and Tactical (SWAT) Unit were rescuing a hostage. A Marine Unit’s twenty-four-foot-long Boston Whaler, its light bar on the aluminum tower pulsing red and blue, was screaming up the Delaware River. And more dramatic imagery of the police department in action.

“You have my word that our dedicated police department will apprehend the perpetrator, and soon.

“Again, thank you for your time and for your confidence. May God bless you and keep you safe.”

At least long enough for us to catch the damned murderer, Carlucci thought as he stared somber-faced at the camera as the boom swung, pulling back from him.

Payne was standing with Harris and Walker behind Corporal Rapier and the control panel.

As he heard Corporal Rapier say, “And . . . we’re clear, off the air,” Payne felt his telephone vibrate.

He looked at its screen and saw the call was from the uniform he’d stationed in the unmarked in Old City.

He answered it: “Payne.”

Then, after a moment, he said loudly: “What? Oh, shit!”

He felt eyes on him and looked up to see that everyone was indeed looking at him. Particularly Carlucci.

Payne was shaking his head as he listened to the phone, then after another moment he said, “What’s the CCTV ID number there?”

He took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and, not quickly locating any paper, awkwardly held the phone to his ear with his shoulder while he wrote the code on his left palm.

“Thanks. I’ll get right back to you.”

He held out his left hand in front of Corporal Rapier.

“Kerry, please punch up the feed from this CCTV on the main screen.”

Payne nodded at that bank of TVs, which had a real-time feed of the front façade of City Hall.

As Corporal Rapier’s fingers flew across the keyboard, the main screen went to snowlike gray pixels.

“What is it, Matt?” Carlucci asked.

“You are not going to believe this. Looks like Five-Eff has received another charitable donation at his doorstep.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Matty?” Coughlin blurted.

“Not ten minutes ago, a woman arrived at the offices of Lex Talionis in a gypsy cab. It was a minivan—an older-model tan Toyota—and when the side door opened onto the curb, the woman got out. She met the driver at the rear door of the van, and together they wrestled a rolled-up carpet out of the back. They rolled it onto the sidewalk. Then the woman handed the driver his fare like it was something she did every day, and he sped away.”

Gypsy cabs—their drivers unlicensed, unregistered, and usually uninsured—were illegal. But they were plentiful because they charged far less than legit cabbies. And they were everywhere, making them hard as hell to crack down on.

The TV screen came alive with the all-too-familiar view in Old City: the office building at Arch and North Third that housed Lex Talionis. Everyone looked to it.