Kim Soo looked wide-eyed at Javier Iglesia.

"You don't know that's what happened to her," Soo said, glancing at the body bag.

Iglesia glanced up at the row house porch, then turned and stared Soo in the eyes and said, "I know two things. One, that girl knows something that she isn't telling about Princ.i.p.al Bazelon. And two, I'm not going to sit around while my neighborhood goes to h.e.l.l."

He gazed down the block. Across the street, three houses down, he noticed that another group had gathered. Five boys. They were sitting on a short brick wall and watching the activity at the Bazelon house. They looked to be teenagers, a couple maybe a little older, and in their baggy jeans, oversize gangster jackets, and hoodie sweatshirts, they did not appear to be on their way to church.

The only thing they worship is trouble.

"See these punks?" Iglesia said as he nodded at the group. "I guarantee you they're up to no good. Ten bucks says they're using, five says selling. And who knows whatever the h.e.l.l else."

Kim Soo turned to look, then faced Iglesia and said, "Aw, h.e.l.l, Javier. You don't know that. A lot of kids do that gangsta-from-the-'hood look. We used to hang out in high school wearing tough looks, too."

"Uh-uh," Iglesia said, shaking his head. "It's different now, is what it is."

Soo shrugged his shoulders.

After a moment, Iglesia added, "You see any of the speech that Ben Franklin rich guy gave last night on the news? While Jimmy's team was at the Old City scene of the first two pop-and-drops?"

"Pop-and-drops?"

"Yeah, that's what a sergeant I know in Homicide says they're calling them. There was five to start. Now there's eight. And they're all stacked up in the meat locker, waiting for Mitch.e.l.l and his buzz saw. The Homicide sergeant came by the office one day and took a look at them."

"Yeah, I saw that eye-for-an-eye guy's speech right before I hit the sack. He's paying ten grand for anyone bagging a bad guy-'evildoers,' he called them!"

"Yeah!" Javier Iglesia said, his face lighting up.

Soo realized that Javier was quickly getting his talkativeness back.

Javier went on: "Now, that's that's what I'm talking about! I mean, someone has finally had enough of the city going to h.e.l.l and they're stepping up to help fix it, is what I mean. Ten large per 'evildoer' is some seriously high stepping up." what I'm talking about! I mean, someone has finally had enough of the city going to h.e.l.l and they're stepping up to help fix it, is what I mean. Ten large per 'evildoer' is some seriously high stepping up."

He paused and looked down at the body bag.

"Too d.a.m.n bad it's too late for Princ.i.p.al Bazelon."

Javier then softly repeated, "Rest in peace. Praise be the Lord."

He shoved the gurney, causing its framework to collapse as it rolled up and inside the rear of the van. Then he gently, respectfully, closed the left door, then the right one.

Police Officer Geoffrey Pope was standing on the curb, behind where the right door had been open, making Javier wonder how long he'd been there and how much he'd heard.

"Hey, Geoff," Javier said to him. "You standing there long?"

"Long enough to hear the news flash that the city's going to h.e.l.l. And your short prayer for the deceased." He paused, then added, "You don't look too good, Javier."

"I'm-"

He stopped as he glanced at the small crowd on the sidewalk. A few were watching the conversation between the cop and the tech with rapt interest.

"Step around here," Javier said, walking around to the far side of the van to block the view of the curious.

Javier pulled out his wallet and from it extracted a business card. He held it out to Officer Pope.

"Here's my card, Geoff. It's got my cell phone number on it. I live eight blocks away, the other side of Warrington, over where the middle school is."

"Yeah, and?"

"And if there is anything I can do to help get this girl to talk, as a citizen, as a concerned neighbor, whatever, you let me know."

"I'm not sure I should share anything-"

"Who the h.e.l.l am I going to tell anything?"

Pope held up his hands chest high, palms out. "Hold up, Javier. I'm just-"

"Look, Geoff. My baby sister is her age, and I know when she's holding something back. And I'm telling you, that poor girl is holding something back."

"You don't think she did it, do you? What'd be her motive?"

"Maybe she gets the house?"

"That banshee cry of hers is deep. It's not contrived."

"Whatever it is, she's lying."

Pope shrugged.

Javier said, "I mean, I don't think it's a malicious lie, I don't. But there's something not being said."

"There always is, Javier. Welcome to police work."

V.

[ONE].

2620 Wilder Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 9:02 A.M.

Will Curtis drove the rented white Ford Freestar minivan up onto the cracked South Philly sidewalk, braking to a stop in front of the tiny, run-down, two-story row house.

He studied it and thought, Hope this sonofab.i.t.c.h is in there. Hope this sonofab.i.t.c.h is in there.

I can't believe that last sonofab.i.t.c.h's address was so old the house was completely gone, burned to the d.a.m.n ground.

Don't want two dead ends to start my day.

Curtis wore his Federal Express uniform, complete with the grease-smeared FedEx cap. The driver and front pa.s.senger doors of the minivan each had a three-foot-square polymer sign displaying the red-and-blue FedEx logotype and the words HOME DELIVERY. He knew his makeshift package delivery van wouldn't pa.s.s muster with anyone back at the distribution warehouse, but so far it had looked like the real deal to everyone else.

Curtis got out from behind the steering wheel and glanced around the neighborhood.

It wasn't that early in the morning, but the street was quiet. There were only the sounds of dogs yapping down the block and, not too far off in the distance, the horn blare from a SEPTA light-rail train.

He saw a skinny, mangy gray cat across the street. It was eating Halloween candies that had been dropped and squashed on the sidewalk.

Probably stolen from some poor kid.

But who'd go door to door for candy in this dump of a place?

For drugs, sure. Which is why it's quiet now.

d.a.m.n lowlifes up all night chasing a.s.s and doing dope.

But catching them now all good and sleepy will be some sort of justice.

He reached back inside the door of the minivan. There was a stack of He reached back inside the door of the minivan. There was a stack of six thin white paperboard envelopes on the dashboard, and he pulled the top one off the stack. Each of the envelopes bore the distinctive FedEx logotype, as well as a clear plastic pouch holding a bill of lading.

Stepping carefully, Curtis carried the envelope toward the front door of the row house. Parts of the crumbling sidewalk were broken down to bare dirt, and there were knee-high dead weeds in the cracks.

The house itself, built of masonry blocks with a front facade of red brick, was also in really bad shape. There were several holes in the wall where bricks were completely missing. The house hadn't been painted in far too many years, leaving bare wood that had rotted in places. Racks of rusty burglar bars covered the solid metal front door and the four doublewindows-two upstairs and two at street level-and the first-floor windows were fitted with poorly cut pieces of weather-warped plywood.

To the right of the concrete steps, on the sidewalk and up against the foot of the house, Curtis saw five or six black trash bags. They were packed full, piled high, one on the bottom with a big torn hole. They looked to have been there for some time, easily days if not weeks.

Curtis went up the flight of four concrete steps leading to the battered front door. He saw out of the corner of his eye what at first he thought were two black cats. They'd been along the wall behind the trash bags. Then they'd bolted away, running behind some weeds in front of the small wood-framed window of the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Those aren't cats. They're G.o.dd.a.m.n rats!

He now noticed that the bas.e.m.e.nt window was open, pulled inward from the top. The rats had disappeared into it.

Curtis shook his head in disgust.

As he reached the bar-covered metal door, a breeze blew past, bringing with it a vile stench. He gagged.

He looked at the garbage bags.

Jesus! Whatever it is has to be in there.

It's worse than raw chicken-or maybe dead rats-that's gone bad.

He looked to the window where the rodents had run inside.

Or . . . could it be coming from the bas.e.m.e.nt?

What a s.h.i.thole!

He pulled back his sleeve, testing the air. The breeze had stopped and the stench had subsided.

For now.

I need to see who's home, then get the h.e.l.l out of here. . . .

There was no doorbell-just a crude little hole where it had once been mounted-so he balled his fist, reached between the bars, and pounded on the metal door.

As he waited for some kind of life to wake up inside-other than the vile vermin-he glanced at the FedEx envelope in his hand.

Its bill of lading had a return field that read: United States Department of the Treasury 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

Washington, D.C. 20500 Will grinned. He knew that was the address of the White House, and had listed it as an inside joke. He had no idea where the h.e.l.l the U.S. Treasury had its main office-and didn't give a d.a.m.n, because he knew the "recipient" wouldn't know, either.

The field for "Recipient" read: Kendrik Mays 2620 Wilder Street Philadelphia, PA 19147 Also on the bill of lading was a bold black X in the box beside the line that stated: GOVERNMENT-ISSUED ID & PERSONAL SIGNATURE OF RECIPIENT REQUIRED FOR DELIVERY.

After knocking again and waiting another few minutes, he'd yet to hear anything moving inside the house.

Dammit! Not even another rat.

Another dead end.

Move this one to the bottom of the stack with the other dead end.

Maybe try again later. At least there's a house at this address.

Just as he turned to go down the steps to the minivan, he saw movement in the left downstairs window, where he noticed a knothole in the warped wood.

So you use that as a peephole, eh?

Nervously, he readjusted the .45-caliber Glock that he had stuck under the waistband of his pants, right behind the buckle of his heavy leather belt.

This morning's work wasn't wasted after all. . . .

Curtis turned back to the door.

[image]

At five o'clock that morning, Will Curtis had awakened and gone downstairs to the kitchen to make his coffee, just as he'd done every day for as long as he could remember, easily twenty years.

All the while careful not to wake up his wife.

Not even a week after Wendy had been attacked, Linda had moved into her old bedroom. It was on the back side of the row house's first floor. It had not exactly been left as a shrine after Wendy had moved out and gotten her first apartment-if only because Wendy had needed a lot of the furniture and other items to kick-start her new independence-but it still had a lot of her personal items from growing up, things like the many trophies she had won playing soccer in junior and senior high school. And the walls were practically covered solid with framed and pushpinned photographs of Wendy and her countless gal pals, from birthday parties to summer trips at the Jersey sh.o.r.e, all from various points of her teen years.

A lot of memories for Linda to recall as she lay there. And, ever more the recluse, she spent more and more time in Wendy's old bed. (They'd told Wendy that a new life required a new bed, and among the apartment-warming gifts they'd given her had been a queen-size bed-the one she'd been attacked on.) I don't know who's going to take care of Linda when I'm gone, but I do know she won't want for anything.

Especially with the house being paid off and the fat payout from my life insurance policy coming.

Which is d.a.m.n convenient, because she's barely holding on to her teller job.

And I'm feeling worse every day.

As the coffee brewed, Will Curtis went down into the bas.e.m.e.nt.