The Vigilantes (Badge of Honor) - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,20

working the story?”

A young-looking Philadelphia Police Department patrolman was going back under the yellow police tape next to O’Hara, who Matt noted was standing apart from the pack of reporters quickly scribbling on their pads. O’Hara had a camera of some type hanging from his right shoulder by a thin black strap. He held in both hands what looked like a cell phone, and he was tapping it with both of his thumbs.

Then Payne felt his phone vibrate again, and a new text message appeared in a box on its screen:MICKEY O’HARA

AN OLD SOURCE JUST MENTIONED “POP-N-DROPS”

TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW, DAMN IT, AND I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I DO . . .

MEET ME AT LIBERTIES?

“Old source” my ass—it was that wet-behind-the-ears uniform.

The kid’s probably starstruck with Mickey and thought he’d show off how important he already is by sharing what’s supposed to be kept quiet.

Hell, Mickey will keep his mouth shut if I ask, and if he’s on the scene he probably has something good that I can use.

But Amanda is going to be pissed if I leave now to go work.

He heard her sigh, and when Matt looked to her, he saw that she’d read the screen.

He began to apologize: “I’m—”

“No,” she interrupted. “It’s okay. Really, it is. I can’t agree that bad guys should be off the streets and then expect you not to do your job.”

He kissed her forehead again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finishing the apology.

Then Payne texted “Liberties in 20” back to O’Hara.

Payne’s phone vibrated once, then again. The first message was from O’Hara, who’d simply texted “OK.” The second was from Tony Harris:-blocked number-

YOU JUST SEE 5-F?

I BET JASON IS FIT TO BE TIED.

GOT TIME FOR A BEER? -TH

“My,” Amanda said, “aren’t you the popular one at this hour. Should I be jealous?”

Payne thought, What the hell, may as well kill two birds with one stone, and texted back: “Liberties in 20.”

She rolled over and began to slowly rub his belly.

Matt looked at her and began, “Speaking of killings—”

“You should go?” Amanda finished his sentence.

“No. What I was going to say is: I don’t see the rush.”

As she made another slow circle with her palm, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, as far as I can tell, there’s no reason to jump up and race anywhere. Mick can cool his heels with Tony at Liberties for ten minutes. And even if I do get a call about those pop-and-drops”—he reached for his cell phone and pressed a button to turn it off—“which will now go directly into voice mail, it’s my professional opinion that those guys who got popped will probably still be dead ten minutes from now.”

Amanda’s hand stopped. Matt looked deeply in her eyes.

“ ‘Just ten minutes’?” she said, her tone suggestive.

As he smiled and nodded, she pursed her lips.

After a moment, he felt her warm hand slide down his belly.

“I know a Ben Franklin saying, too,” she said.

“Yeah? I’m afraid to ask. Something to do with moderation or saving for a rainy day, or—worse—abstinence?”

Her warm palm moved smoothly and excitingly slowly until it was just below his belly button, then a bit farther down. He grunted appreciatively in anticipation—until her fingers suddenly gripped him by the short hairs.

“Ouch!” he cried out a bit dramatically when she pulled them. “What was that for?”

“Ben said, ‘Love, and be lov’d.’”

[FOUR]

5550 Ridgewood Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:45 P.M.

Mrs. Joelle Bazelon long had lived with the dark fear, deep in her big bones, that such a terrible day would come. The dark-skinned, sixty-two-year-old widow—she was of Jamaican descent, five-foot-eight tall, and after a decade of battling diabetes, clinically obese—had prayed literally every night, down on arthritic knees, her Bible before her on the bedspread, that somehow she could figure out a way to run from it. Some way to pack up everything in time and move to a better place for her and Sasha, her just-turned-eighteen-year-old granddaughter.

But that hadn’t happened.

And now, standing at the kitchen sink on what so far had been a fairly pleasant Halloween, looking out the window as she finished drying and putting up the dinner dishes, Joelle Bazelon suddenly realized that time had run out.

Earlier in the evening, she’d heard the doorbell ring again and again, the excited choruses of young children shouting, “Trick or treat!” and seen Sasha, her beautiful, slender, five-foot-seven teen, rushing enthusiastically to the door with the large plastic bowl of candies, then bending at the waist and complimenting each child on his or her costume as