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They saw that on the sidewalk by the front door four uniforms had formed a perimeter of sorts around a blood-soaked ratty carpet. It had been unrolled—and on top of it was the motionless body of a naked black male.

Just to the left of the carpet and its perimeter of cops was a frail-looking black woman. She was gesturing wildly with a sheet of paper at the office building’s front door while another uniform, both hands shoulder high with palms out, tried calming her.

Payne, to no one in particular, announced: “Well, that makes pop-and-drop number nine. Shall we assume the old lady is our doer?”

Harris said, “You can’t be serious. You don’t really think—”

Payne turned and looked at him.

“Hell no, Tony. Not all nine, anyway. All I know is that my uniform in the unmarked just now said that that paper she’s waving is a Wanted sheet, and she’s screaming at that uniform on the sidewalk, ‘I want my reward!’”

“Is that Mickey?” Jason Washington suddenly asked.

Matt and Tony turned and saw the wiry Irishman with a video camera in his hands. He was holding it high above his head, clearly recording the confrontation between the uniform and the woman. He now wore the blue T-shirt with the white handcuffs and MAKE HIS DAY: KISS A COP AT CRIMEFREEPHILLY.COM.

Payne grinned.

Sonofabitch must have been staking out the place, too.

Going to take some doing to get him to sit on that video—if that’s even likely.

Then he felt his cell phone vibrate, and he looked at the text message on its screen: AMANDA LAW

“ARMED & DANGEROUS”?

WHEN WERE YOU PLANNING ON TELLING ME, MATT?

LAST I HEARD WAS THAT YOU WERE GOING TO LIBERTIES TO “TALK” ABOUT THE POP-AND-DROPS.

NOW I HAVE TO FIND OUT FROM THE MAYOR ON THE NOON NEWSCAST THAT YOU’RE NOT ONLY BACK ON THE STREET, BUT IN CHARGE OF A TASK FORCE? -A

“Oh, shit!” Matt said again.

“I have to agree with Matt,” Carlucci said. “‘I want my reward’? Oh, shit!”

[FIVE]

Loft Number 2055 Hops Haus Tower 1100 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 12:14 P.M.

H. Rapp Badde, Jr., wearing baggy blue jeans and a red sweatshirt with TEMPLE LAW across the chest in white lettering, was seated at the large, rectangular, marble-topped table in the breakfast area adjacent to the gourmet kitchen. He had the television remote control in his right hand and was aiming it at the flat-screen that was mounted to the living room wall. He stabbed at the MUTE button as he looked with some disgust at the image of a solemn-faced Mayor Jerome Carlucci.

Keep it up, Jerry, and you’ll make it even easier for me to kick your Italian ass out of office.

Badde turned his attention to Janelle Harper, who stood across the table from him, skimming a mass-produced flyer titled “Pennsylvania’s Property Rights Protection Act & You.” She was wearing a spandex sport outfit, black with purple accents, that clung to her curvy frame like a second skin, and athletic shoes. She had her hair pulled back and wore a pair of black-framed Gucci designer eyeglasses.

“More murders,” he said almost happily. “I can probably run on the crime issue alone and get elected mayor.”

She looked away from the flyer and at him. “You’re not really taking any joy out of those people being killed, are you?”

“Sorry, honey. But only because they’re already dead. Hell, if nothing else, I’ve probably lost a voter.”

Or not, if whoever takes over for Kenny can register their names to vote absentee.

Speaking of Kenny, I wonder what the hell happened to him.

He glanced back at the television, and there was now a live shot from Old City showing policemen stringing up yellow crime-scene tape. The text at the bottom of the screen read: FOURTH HALLOWEEN HOMICIDE . . . MOTHER TURNS IN FUGITIVE SON’S DEAD BODY AT LEX TALIONIS OFFICES FOR $10,000 REWARD . . . MOTHER SAYS SON’S DEATH WAS DRUG-RELATED . . .

“Jesus Christ!” Badde said.