Badde hadn't hesitated. Beyond being old neighbors, the Jones family had campaigned hard for his election to office. He couldn't do anything with Kenny's case; that, he told Jack, was a matter involving the court system and the district attorney's office, over which a city councilman such as himself had absolutely no sway, even in a place like Philadelphia.

So he called the manager of his campaign office in West Philly, which was run from a rented row house, and told him to let Kareem live there in the bas.e.m.e.nt bedroom, which had its own door to the street, and to pay him, in cash, to work as one of Badde's "community voter canva.s.sers."

Badde even helped Kenny pick out the cover name "Abdul-Qaadir," which was Arabic for Servant of the Capable. Badde quietly enjoyed the implication of that.

At first, Kareem Abdul-Qaadir's job had been to go door to door pretending to be a volunteer with the City of Philadelphia working for the Forgotten Voters Initiative-a program that, had anyone actually bothered to investigate, would've been found not to exist. He asked the residents if they were registered voters. If they said no, he helped get them registered.

But then came his real job: the compilation of the names and addresses of all these voters, especially noting the elderly, immigrants, and others who could easily be convinced that they needed to request absentee-voter ballot forms. More important, once those ballots arrived in the mail, Kenny would help those voters with filling out the forms-specifically, under "city councilman," marking the box next to "H. Rapp Badde, Jr."

Kenny had then stumbled across an idea that had turned out to be borderline brilliant.

As he was canva.s.sing a far section of West Philly, knocking on door after door, he walked up to a retirement community, Fernwood Manor at Cobbs Creek. The ten-story-high building overlooked the greenbelt of the small tree-lined stream-and, curiously, on the opposite side of the creek, Fernwood Cemetery.

Kenny, whose experience with retirement communities could be equated to his knowledge of quantum physics, had been excited to find the place was packed with really old people. In no time he had talked his way into its Community Activity Center, a large building that reminded him of a high school auditorium. There he found that the residents watched TV, played card games and bingo, and otherwise pleasantly pa.s.sed time in their retirement before, ultimately, winding up across the creek.

At Fernwood Manor's Community Activity Center, he didn't have to go door to door. The retirees came to him. They were happy to see a nice, clean-cut young man such as Kareem. Especially the old-timers who had failing memories, Alzheimer's disease in particular, and never remembered previously meeting him-or filling out forms.

And when Kareem had explained the purpose of his volunteer work, everyone thought that the nice young man was extremely considerate to think of forgotten old folks. That, and to understand how difficult it was for them on voting day. They said visiting polling stations that invariably had long lines was very painful for their aged bodies. At the community activity center, though, they could at their leisure fill out the requests for absentee-voter forms, then later, when the forms arrived, fill those out also at their leisure.

Especially with the kind help of a nice young man like Kareem.

Kenny started visiting as many retirement homes as would let him in the door.

And then he went to nursing homes, where he found the residents were more or less unconscious-almost every one on medication that kept them in a mental fog, or worse-so all he had to do was forge their signatures on the forms. Even easier to sign up were those who in the last year or two had fallen into their own category: deceased.

Slipping the kid or old man in the mailroom a little stash of cocaine or cash, with the promise of more, guaranteed that there'd be a telephone call alerting him when the absentee-voter ballots arrived in the mail.

Over time, Kenny Jones did one h.e.l.l of a job collecting names and helping the forgotten voters of Philadelphia support Badde for city councilman-and soon, for the office of mayor.

And Rapp Badde had been impressed. Ignoring the unfortunate fact that Kenny was a fugitive charged with a felony, he'd thought that Kenny was still pretty much the good, if dim, kid he'd been when they were growing up. And in two years since his arrest-What the h.e.l.l's wrong with a little c.o.ke now and then? That probably was a bulls.h.i.t bust, anyway-he'd never gotten into any other trouble.

Until now.

[image]

"What the h.e.l.l do you mean something's gone bad with you and Reggie?" he said into his Go To h.e.l.l cell as he looked out over the city to the right, toward West Philly and the rented campaign-office row house.

Reggie was the baby Jones brother, but at age twenty and two hundred thirty pounds, not much of a baby anymore.

Rapp knew that Reggie had never been really normal-his mother had had him late in life, in her forties, and there'd been complications at birth-and when Reggie got mixed up with drugs, he really went off the deep end.

Worse, while Kenny had just sold dope, Reggie both sold and used the stuff. Unfortunately, a lot more of the latter than the former, and he was forever trying to pay off his dealer.

Kenny said, "I got a call from Reggie. He was crazy. Crazy scared. Crying, man. Said, 'If I don't come up with thirty large to pay the man, I'm dead.' He didn't, and next day they grabbed him."

Thirty thousand dollars! Badde thought. Badde thought. Jesus! Jesus!

"How'd he get that deep in debt?" Badde asked.

"h.e.l.l if I know. Snorting more than selling? A lot of IOUs over time? And some crazy interest on top of what he owed? Adds up fast."

"Who grabbed Reggie?" Badde asked.

"The dude he bought his c.o.ke from. The man. His dealer."

Badde sighed audibly.

"So, what would you have me do about it?"

Kenny was quiet a moment, then with a tone that was incredulous said, "What else, man? You know."

"What?"

"The money. I need the money bad to get him back."

Can I quickly put my hands on that much even if I wanted? Badde thought as he looked out at the city and mentally went over his cash reserves. Badde thought as he looked out at the city and mentally went over his cash reserves.

There's only ten, eleven grand in my office safe.

He was silent for at least a minute.

"You still there?" asked Kenny.

Badde didn't reply.

Kenny said, "We go way back. My family's done a lot for you, man."

And I've not helped you?

And what the h.e.l.l have you done that's worth thirty grand?

Kenny added, "It'd just be a loan. You name the interest, whatever."

Right. Where the h.e.l.l will you get that to repay me?

"Rapp? You there?"

"Yeah, Kenny. I'm here. Isn't there any way you can work out an arrangement with this dealer, just-"

Kenny Jones interrupted him: "Are you listening, man? We pa.s.sed that point. These people kill for less!"

Rapp stared off into the night, silent.

Kenny went on: "Listen, man, it, uh, it wouldn't be good for folks to find out about those ballots, you know what I'm saying?"

What? "Those ballots"?

He's threatening me!

Sonofab.i.t.c.h! He thinks he can finger me for the voter fraud!

He blurted: "Are you f.u.c.king threatening me? You f.u.c.king ingrate!"

"I'm just saying . . ."

Jesus! Him getting diarrhea of the mouth would start the whole house of cards crumbling, starting with the campaign for mayor. And I can kiss the housing project goodbye.

Well, that is is f.u.c.king worth thirty grand. f.u.c.king worth thirty grand.

But if I cough up the money, I can forget getting paid back, with or without interest.

And what's going to stop him from squeezing me for more?

s.h.i.t!

"Kenny, where am I going to put my hands on thirty grand?"

"Important folks like you, you got connections."

Badde kicked the concrete four-foot-tall wall that served as the balcony's railing.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it!

"Where are you now?" he asked.

"At the house in West Philly."

"How soon do you need the money?"

"Like yesterday?"

s.h.i.t.

"Kenny, I hate to ask this, but do you know if he's still alive? Have you talked to Reggie?"

"Yeah, this morning. But he won't be if I don't do something."

Bulls.h.i.t. Then they really wouldn't get their money.

Kenny, as if reading Badde's mind, added, his voice cracking: "And if they kill him, they're coming after me for it."

Well, then not paying would remove one problem immediately.

But Kenny would still be mine, especially if he went into hiding and started blowing the d.a.m.n whistle on the absentee ballots.

The G.o.dd.a.m.n media would love that story. It'd become a bigger circus than the Bermuda photographs.

And even if I gave him the money, I can't keep having to wonder when dimwit Kenny or Reggie will f.u.c.k up again, or if Kenny will open his mouth about the ballots.

"Okay, look, Kenny, it's going to take a little time. Especially at this hour. But I'll send someone first thing-"

Kenny interrupted, "No, man. You need to bring it."

He waited a moment, then replied, "Why me? Personally?"

"It'd be better. That's all."

Badde lost his temper: "Well, you can f.u.c.king forget it, Kenny! G.o.dd.a.m.n you! You want the money or not?"

There was a long pause while Kenny thought about that.

"Fine, then. I'll be here waiting."

As Badde broke the connection, looking out at West Philly and shaking his head, he heard the gla.s.s door slide open, then Jan's voice: "Everything okay, honey? I saw you kick the wall."

When he turned and looked at her, he saw that she glistened from having just taken a shower. Now she wore a tan silk robe. It hung open, and he could see that she was completely naked beneath it.

Badde took a deep breath and composed himself.

"Yeah, just give me one more second. I've got to make a quick call. You do look incredible, honey."

"I'll be waiting," she said softly, and slid the gla.s.s door shut.

H. Rapp Badde, Jr., felt a stirring in his groin.

Is that from seeing her gorgeous naked body-or because I'm about to have someone whacked?

[THREE].

The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 7:30 A.M.

Lieutenant Jason Washington looked up from reading the front page of the morning's Philadelphia Bulletin Philadelphia Bulletin in time to see his boss walking purposefully around a corner, making a beeline for Washington's gla.s.s-walled office. Captain Henry C. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Unit, was a stocky balding man in his late forties. Like Washington he wore khaki slacks, but instead of the white b.u.t.ton-down-collar shirt Washington had on, Henry wore a red knit polo under a navy blazer. in time to see his boss walking purposefully around a corner, making a beeline for Washington's gla.s.s-walled office. Captain Henry C. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Unit, was a stocky balding man in his late forties. Like Washington he wore khaki slacks, but instead of the white b.u.t.ton-down-collar shirt Washington had on, Henry wore a red knit polo under a navy blazer.

Jason glanced at the wall clock and saw that Quaire was fifteen minutes earlier than he had said he would arrive. They'd spoken on the telephone an hour earlier. Quaire had called Washington at home and announced that Frank Hollaran had just called him at home, asking if they could be at the Roundhouse as soon as possible.

Quaire said that Captain Francis Xavier Hollaran, the forty-nine-year-old a.s.sistant to First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. "Denny" Coughlin, had told him: "Denny wants us to be prepared before we meet with Mariana and before Mariana's meeting with Carlucci. Mariana said Carlucci wants damage control, and he needs to know what we know about the pop-and-drops."

Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariana, a natty Italian, was the top cop with four stars on his uniform. And the Honorable Jerome H. "Jerry" Carlucci, who had once been the top cop, was Mariana's boss, the mayor of Philadelphia.

Coughlin, whose three stars made him the number-two cop in the department, reported to Mariana. They were both appointed to their jobs by the managing director of the city, but served at the mayor's pleasure. Every policeman below them in rank on the force-which, with some seven thousand in uniform, was the fourth largest in the country-was a civil servant.

Washington saw that Quaire was sipping from a heavy china coffee mug that bore the logotype of the Emerald Society, the fraternal organization of police officers of Irish heritage. Washington wasn't a member, but he knew Hollaran and Coughlin had belonged to "The Emerald" all their long careers.

"Well, Jason, I see you've seen the good news," Quaire said by way of greeting. He motioned at the desk and repeated the quote over the TV: "If it bleeds, it leads."

The newspaper's front-page headline at the top of the fold screamed: THE HALLOWEEN HOMICIDES.

TRIPLE MURDERS TERRORIZE OLD CITY.