The Killing Room (Richard Montanari) - By Richard Montanari Page 0,69
said.
‘I’m calm, motherfucker. I’m JB fuckin’ Smoove. What you need to do is to get the fuck out my house.’
At this Wilson put his hand into the pocket of his shorts. Byrne couldn’t take the chance. Before Wilson could pull out his hand Byrne exploded across the hallway and threw one of his massive shoulders into Wilson’s chest, all but putting the man through the wall. The drywall split, raining gypsum dust onto the floor. It was as loud as a shotgun blast.
From his not-too-intimidating perch on the floor, Wilson shook it off, yelled, ‘I’m gonna own you for this, motherfucker.’
Byrne grabbed Wilson by the front of the shirt and yanked him to his feet.
‘You’re gonna own me?’ Byrne drew his Glock, put it to the center of Wilson’s forehead. ‘I might as well buy the whole loaf then, right? How many do you want? Let’s negotiate. Give me a fucking number.’
DeRon Wilson closed his eyes, waited for the pain.
‘This is how it’s going to be,’ Byrne said. ‘You come near that kid again, you even look his way, and I will make it my personal fucking mission in life to make sure you never sleep again. You feel me?’
Wilson remained silent. Byrne pushed the weapon harder into the man’s forehead.
‘Answer me or I will drop you where you stand.’
Wilson opened his eyes and said, ‘Yes.’
Byrne took a few moments, backed off. DeRon Wilson sagged to the floor.
Byrne held his weapon at his side and slowly walked down the hallway, accompanied by shouts of ‘police brutality’ and the like.
A few minutes later, as Byrne walked out the front door of the apartment building, he turned to look at the second floor. Every window was filled with a tenant, leaning out, each with a camera cell phone in hand.
TWENTY-FOUR
Shane had followed Kevin Byrne at a discreet distance, watched as he left his apartment in South Philly, then to the Roundhouse, then down to the river in Port Richmond. He watched him sit in the parking lot for what seemed like an hour.
Shane had felt himself drifting off, until he heard the screech of tires, and looked up to see Byrne’s car fishtailing out of the lot. He headed up Allegheny.
As he tailed the detective, Shane checked his rearview mirror and side mirrors every few seconds. He saw no one else from another TV station, at least anyone in a car with the station logo on the side. Shane had learned long ago that, if you were going to work in a television market – especially a top ten market – the first thing to find out was what kind of cars the police department used, then get that same make and color. More than once he had been able to park among a group of departmental vehicles unnoticed. If you didn’t check the plates, you would think they all belonged to the police. He had gotten inside the tape on many occasions this way.
When Byrne took a right on D Street, Shane got caught at a light, and lost him.
He banged a fist on the steering wheel, pulled over a block away from where he had last seen Byrne’s car, turned up the volume on the scanner. Something was happening. Something was definitely happening. Byrne had taken off like a bat out of hell.
Shane thought about calling the TV station, getting a shooter, but he didn’t need Cyn or anyone on this. He had his own rig in the trunk, and there was no better one-man-bander in Philly.
He found himself right in front of a coin laundry, so he rolled back about thirty feet, taking himself out of the electric glow of the fluorescent lights. He berated himself for staying too far away, for not being better at shadowing a subject.
Did this have something to do with the ritual killing of the baby?
Shane had to laugh. He was already categorizing what happened to the baby and the other victim as a ritual killing.
He listened to his scanner. Nothing that sounded relevant. The police band in Philadelphia was rarely silent for long. Shane was just about to go into the trunk when he saw a shadow coming up on him. Fast. He spun around.
The kid was on top of him before he knew it. Black kid, thirteen or so, dark hoodie. He had a small face, tiny, fold-down ears. He rode a mountain bike that looked new.
Shane did a quick inventory of his possessions. He always kept a hundred-dollar bill in his