The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor) - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,120

went tumbling down the steps.

In the basement were two small dirty rooms, one with a twin-size bed and a wooden table. There were bags of pills stacked two feet high.

Kenny dragged the limp but breathing body to the bed, then pulled the zip ties from his pocket and cinched them tightly around Cicero’s neck. Cicero’s body began to convulse. But within a minute, it went slack.

Damn, that was fast, Allante thought.

Kenny turned and said, “I’m gonna look for some acid. Be right back.”

And he ran back up the stairs.

After Allante was sure Kenny was out of earshot, he called Rapp Badde.

“Hey, man, I know you were worried. Everything’s under control. The Cicero guy is gone and—”

“Look,” Badde interrupted, “you don’t have to do Kenny, too. We got back everything that he stole. All’s good. Just turn him in for the reward, too.”

“Okay, man. You’re the boss,” he said, but realized that he was talking to a broken connection.

Badde had already hung up.

Then Allante, starting to paw the bags of pills, wondering what they might be, heard banging on the front door upstairs.

What the—?

He threw all the bags of pills he could fit in the duffel, then headed for the stairs.

Will Curtis, curiosity getting the best of him on his way to Port Richmond, drove to where LeRoi Cheatham had had his Lex Talionis moment. Because of the various one-way streets, he had to make a huge circle around the block.

Then, there on Hancock, was a shred of yellow POLICE LINE tape flapping in the breeze.

And that’s all.

Then he thought he saw a bloodstain on the alleyway. But it was in shadow and he couldn’t be sure.

A block later, he did a double take at the cleared city block.

Down there’s where all those cops were.

But I thought there were some houses on that corner.

Now it’s all smelly raw dirt.

He drove on, and ten minutes later, just before eleven o’clock, he turned the white Ford minivan onto Richmond Street, then rolled up the street, looking for 3118.

During the drive, Will Curtis had decided he wasn’t going to handle this delivery like the others. He didn’t think he could go through the whole charade, then maybe have to wait if the bastard wasn’t here.

He felt so ill, in fact, that he almost had not come at all. Even after a night’s sleep he had not felt significantly better. He’d regained a little energy from forcing himself to eat a banana and half a turkey sandwich on the drive over. But he was still weak, far more so than usual.

The only good thing, he decided, was that he hadn’t had another unfortunate accident. The lump on his forehead hurt enough.

But I really want this evildoer to pay.

The sonofabitch not only sold those damn date-rape pills, but he’d been convicted of using them, too.

So, the minute the door opens, I’m just going to go in. I know what the bastard looks like.

Then it’s Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am, and I’m done.

[FOUR]

3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:59 A.M.

Flying up the Delaware Expressway in the gray unmarked Crown Victoria, Matt Payne killed the siren over Ann Street—where this part of I-95 went from being elevated to ground level—then caught the next exit. The off-ramp actually went over Allegheny, and he had to go up a block to Westmoreland, then double back around a park.

As he did so, he listened to Tony Harris talking on his cell phone with Charley Bell, the hefty thirty-year-old detective who was sitting undercover in the old Philadelphia Electric Company van.

“Okay, got it,” Harris said into the phone. He broke the connection and looked at Payne. “He said nobody’s come or gone since the last two went in. And that it’d be a good idea to go around the back and check that first. Said it’s the house with the black Cadillac Escalade in the drive.”

Payne nodded.

Harris then said, “Give me your phone.”

Payne did, and he saw Harris key in a number, then call it.

“It’s Harris,” Tony said. “Just making sure you have Matt Payne’s number. Now you both have each other’s number ready to speed-dial in your LAST CALL list.”

He ended the call without another word, then handed the phone back to Payne.

Because the Crown Vics had been on loan from Homeland Security and no one knew for sure how long the loan program would last—What the Fed Giveth, the Fed Can Taketh Away at Any Damn Time—the police department had had no intention of spending the money to buy