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“I learned you well, Young Matthew,” Washington said mock-seriously.

Payne looked at Shauna Mays through the window and parroted her: “‘I want my reward.’”

Washington chuckled, but then in a serious tone said, “And she should get it, considering the hell she went through.”

Payne looked at him, then back at her.

After a long moment he said, “Jason, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“She didn’t do it,” Washington immediately answered. “She’s arguably guilty of a whole host of other mistakes in life. But murder isn’t one of them. And after one look at her physical condition, the DA isn’t going to go after her for harboring a fugitive.”

Payne nodded. “We could throw tampering with evidence charges at her, or even accessory to murder. But why?”

“I doubt the DA would press charges if they caught her jaywalking,” Washington said. “We’ll hold her till we see what, if anything, they find at the scene. Then let her loose to collect her reward.”

They looked at her again.

After a moment Payne said coldly, “I’m betting this won’t be the last we hear of Shauna Mays. And not alive.”

“Great minds follow similar paths, Matthew. I agree. There’re ten thousand reasons why.”

“The whole ’hood will be after her money.”

Matt Payne then felt his phone vibrating again. When he pulled it out, he saw the call was from the same number as the call he’d ignored earlier.

He looked at Washington, shrugged, and said, “Excuse me.” He answered it: “Payne.”

After a moment he said, “Hold on,” then hit the SPEAKERPHONE key.

“You still there, Sergeant Payne?” Javier Iglesia’s voice came over the speaker.

“Yeah, Javier,” Payne said. “I’m here with Lieutenant Jason Washington—”

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Javier interrupted. “Haven’t seen you in quite a while.”

“How are you, Jav

ier?” Washington asked.

“Not real good. I was just telling Sergeant Payne that I’m near my home in Kingsessing—southwest Philadelphia?”

“We know it,” Payne said. “What’s this you just said about a Principal Bazelon being murdered?”

“We got the call from Twelfth District this morning that she’d died in her sleep,” Iglesia began. “But I just found out she really died during a home invasion by a really bad dude named Xpress Jones . . .”

“. . . and now part of that crowd is taking Xpress down to collect that ten-grand reward,” Iglesia finished some five minutes later. “It being a homicide and all, I thought you’d want to be the ones who grabbed him.”

“Give me this animal’s name again, Javier,” Payne said, pulling out his notepad and flipping to a clean page.

“Xpress Smith. Xavier Smith, aka Xpress. Black male, twenty-four.”

Payne wrote it down. “Okay. Got it. Any unusual features to look for to ID him?”

Javier snorted. “Other than being attached to an angry mob of wannabe gangbangers? And the ten-g price tag on his head? Don’t worry, Sergeant. You can’t miss him. Xpress is pretty messed up.”

“Thanks, Javier. We’ve already got someone down there. I’ll give him a heads-up.”

“Later,” Javier said.