"Do it!"

She shook her head again, closing her eyes at the antic.i.p.ation of being slapped again.

He didn't hit her but, instead, touched the muzzle of the revolver to her head and slowly thumbed back the hammer. As he did so, the cylinder rotated. The metallic click-click click-click sounds made her open her eyes wide. sounds made her open her eyes wide.

When he'd finished, Sasha began to sob softly.

Xavier "Xpress" Smith, still with his left fist gripping her hair and his right hand holding the pistol to her head, then terrified the beautiful teenager one last time.

"Bang-bang, b.i.t.c.h," he said as he smiled and squeezed the trigger.

Sasha screamed at the sound of the hammer falling forward.

But there was no bang.

There was just silence-and a great gasping from the couch. Then nothing.

Smith laughed as he and Sasha looked over to the couch.

The old woman had either fainted or was pretending to sleep.

"Next time, old woman, there be a bullet in there," he called to her.

His left hand let loose of Sasha's hair. He patted her head.

"That was good, girl. Real good. I just might make you my steady b.i.t.c.h."

Sasha got to her feet and bolted over to the couch.

"Grammy!" she cried as she reached her.

There was no response. Sasha shook her, but still nothing. She put her cheek to her grandmother's nose and mouth, looking for an exhaled breath, then desperately touched the inside of her wrists and all along her neck at the jawbone, hoping to find a pulse, however weak.

"She's dead!" Sasha wailed. "Oh, Grammy!"

Xavier "Xpress" Smith ran over to the couch and felt the wrist and neck of the old woman.

Sasha balled her fists and started hitting Xavier Smith on the back and arms. "Don't touch Grammy, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

He stood up and nervously aimed the pistol at Sasha.

"Listen, b.i.t.c.h. Don't you say a word I was here. You hear me?"

She stared at him, a mixture of deep sadness and hatred in her eyes.

He moved quickly toward the front door and said, "Don't you forget. I can come here anytime I want. Or find you anywhere. Anytime."

Then Xavier "Xpress" Smith lived up to his nickname and fled into the dark of night.

[THREE].

705 N. Second Street, Philadelphia Sat.u.r.day, October 31, 11:59 P.M.

Tony's and Mickey's cars, Harris's city-issued battered unmarked gray Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor and O'Hara's new black BMW M5 sedan, were parked in front of Liberties Bar.

Inside, Matt Payne saw that the place was not as packed as he'd expected. Along the left wall were wooden tables with booths. A couple were filled, but most looked like they'd recently been vacated. They were still covered with empty and unfinished drinking gla.s.ses. Same was true in the middle of the room, where there were more wooden tables and chairs. The busboy was working busily, and would be for some time.

Matt noticed some motion across the room and looked to the century-old, ornately carved oak bar. It ran from the front window almost back to the wooden stairway leading to second-floor seating. The bar was three-quarters full, and at its right end, nearest the front window that looked out onto the street, stood Michael J. "Mickey" O'Hara.

The Irishman exuded an infectious energy, and now used that to enthusiastically wave his right hand high above his very curly red hair.

Standing next to him, wearing his usual well-worn blue blazer and gray slacks, was Tony Harris. He'd noticed Mickey's manic wave and looked over his shoulder. When Tony saw Matt, he shuffled to the left, making a place for him at the bar. His move gave Matt a clear view of Mickey-more specifically, of what he wore under his tweed jacket: a green T-shirt that had a four-leaf clover and read KISS ME, I'M IRISH.

As Payne approached, O'Hara said, "What the h.e.l.l took you so long?"

Discretion being the better part of valor, I believe I'll dodge that one.

"I had to walk her dog," Matt said.

"Oh?" O'Hara smiled. As he motioned suggestively with his right hand, the middle finger rubbing the top of the index finger, he said, "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Harris chuckled.

"Screw you, Mickey," Payne said, but he smiled. He changed the subject. "Nice shirt. But wrong holiday."

"It's the closest to a costume I've got," Mickey said. "But don't be so d.a.m.ned sure of yourself, Matty."

"What do you mean?" Payne asked.

Tony Harris had a bottle of Hops Haus lager beer to his lips, about to sip, when he nodded and said, "He's already gotten six kisses, including two long ones from an incredibly cute, quote, angel, unquote, in all white. She rubbed Mickey's head and said he was her lucky charm."

Matt laughed, and the bartender walked up and slid two gla.s.ses on the bar before him, one with ice cubes in a clear liquid and one with just a dark liquid, both half-filled.

"First round tonight's on me," said the bartender, John Sullivan-a hefty forty-year-old, second-generation Irish-American with an ample belly, friendly bright eyes, and a full white beard. "Happy Halloween, Matt."

"I guess I should've said 'Trick or treat' to earn my single-malt, huh?" Payne replied, reaching for the gla.s.s that he knew held the ice water. He poured it into the gla.s.s that contained the dark brown liquor, mixing it fifty-fifty. "Thanks, John."

The bartender grinned as Payne held up his drink and said, "Cheers, gents," clinked the gla.s.ses and bottle of John the bartender, Tony, and Mickey, then took a healthy sip.

He turned to looked at Harris. "So tell me what the h.e.l.l that was all about tonight in Old City."

Harris glanced at Mickey O'Hara. "You want to start?"

O'Hara gestured grandly, After you After you.

Harris shrugged, then nodded and said, "All off the record, right?"

O'Hara sighed. "You know you'll see what I put together before I post it online."

From the look on Tony Harris's face, it was evident that he was genuinely embarra.s.sed for the slip of tongue. "Sorry, Mickey. Old habits and all."

[FOUR].

As a rule, cops didn't much like reporters, and, accordingly, didn't share with them more than they absolutely had to-and a good deal of the time not even that.

Those who made up the Thin Blue Line were a guarded group. Outsiders simply didn't understand what it was that they did, what their brotherhood meant, and apparently no amount of education changed that.

You either were a cop-and understood-or you weren't.

Mickey O'Hara wasn't a cop. "I couldn't get on with the police department," he joked with his cop friends, "because I knew both of my parents and knew that they were married."

But-as, invariably, rules had exceptions-O'Hara did indeed understand.

He had long ago earned the respect-and in cases like Matt Payne, the friendship-of many on the police department, including more than a few of the white shirts, some of whom even wore stars on their uniforms.

It was said of Mickey O'Hara that he knew more people on the police force than most of the cops did themselves, and certainly more cops recognized him than could identify in a crowd the top cop himself, Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariana.

O'Hara's history with the police was almost, but not quite, as long as his history with the Bulletin Bulletin. He'd begun with a paper route at age twelve, throwing the afternoon edition from his bike at the stoops of West Philadelphia row houses every day after school for four years.

By the time he turned sixteen, a series of events had served to dramatically change his career in newspapers.

The series was triggered by his being expelled from West Catholic High School.

Monsignor Dooley had made it clear that gambling would not be tolerated. When he found out that the O'Hara boy had illegal numbers slips that could be traced back to Francesco "Frankie the Gut" Guttermo, and that Mickey would not rat out his co-conspirator-no matter how immoral the Monsignor declared it all to be-the Monsignor said that left him with no choice but to throw Mickey out of school.

Before being caught by the Monsignor and being shown the door, Mickey had heard that the Bulletin Bulletin had a copyboy position open. He'd never had the time to pursue it-until now. And now he really wanted it, because it offered far more money than throwing papers from a bike, and it was indoor work, so no more riding in the rain or racing away from the snapping maws of those G.o.dd.a.m.n rabid street dogs. had a copyboy position open. He'd never had the time to pursue it-until now. And now he really wanted it, because it offered far more money than throwing papers from a bike, and it was indoor work, so no more riding in the rain or racing away from the snapping maws of those G.o.dd.a.m.n rabid street dogs.

Mickey actually got the position, but with a ninety-day probation period.

He took his new job seriously, probation or not. And that did not go unnoticed.

After his probation period expired, he came to be mentored by the ink-stained a.s.sistant city desk editor, who dumped on Mickey more and more of the research a.s.signments-drudge work that no one else wanted to do. Before Mickey knew it, the research he was turning in was becoming actual articles, albeit short ones, printed under the credit "Staff Roundup."

Then, late one Friday afternoon-he clearly remembered it as if it had happened yesterday, not nearly two decades earlier-he'd been summoned to the managing editor's office. The office had a huge gla.s.s window overlooking the entire newsroom, and as Mickey approached he saw that the managing editor was looking at a copy of that afternoon's front page. The a.s.sistant city desk editor was in there, too, looking his usual deeply introspective self.

Mickey O'Hara, days shy of turning eighteen, was convinced that this was the end of his newspaper days. Clearly, his mentor had been caught abusing his official duties by helping develop the questionable skills of a lowly copyboy.

And now said copyboy was about to lose his job and be sent back to the streets.

O'Hara figured that if he was lucky they might let him pedal around town slinging papers at stoops again.

But, of course, that had not happened.

After an initial awkward exchange of pleasantries, the managing editor had tossed the afternoon paper that he was holding to Mickey. Mickey had glanced at it, recognized the headline he'd written, then under that seen his name-his byline byline there on the front page. there on the front page.

As Mickey O'Hara, speechless, looked between the two men, the managing editor said, "Congratulations, Mickey. Nice work. This is usually the part of the interview process when I ask, 'When can you start?' but it would appear that you already have."

O'Hara rose rapidly in the hierarchy of the Bulletin Bulletin city room, eventually writing "Follow the Money," the hard-hitting series of articles on graft and gross incompetence in the city's Child Protective Services. It was the series that won him a Pulitzer Prize for public service. city room, eventually writing "Follow the Money," the hard-hitting series of articles on graft and gross incompetence in the city's Child Protective Services. It was the series that won him a Pulitzer Prize for public service.

O'Hara had thought that he was on top of the world, particularly considering how far he'd come from the day Monsignor Dooley had shown him the door. He was being paid, he'd thought, d.a.m.ned decently for something he enjoyed doing. And, he believed, the stories that helped better the lot of kids trapped in the h.e.l.l that was CPS was alone worth it all.

But then his childhood buddy, Casimir Bolinski, showed up in town and told him he was a fool. His exact words: "Face it, Mickey, those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g you."

"Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds" being the Bulletin Bulletin's management.

O'Hara was told that they were not paying him his due. Mickey listened to his buddy, especially when Bolinski offered to represent him as a small token of appreciation-"I can never adequately repay you"-for taking the fall at West Catholic High.

"If you'd ratted me out to Dooley the Drooler as your fellow numbers runner," Casimir said, "I'd have been out on my a.s.s, too. There'd have been no 'The Bull' Bolinski, no all-American trophy, no scholarship to Notre Dame, no career with the Green Bay Packers. And without the cushion from the Packers, both the pay and off-season time, I'd probably never have considered law school, and certainly not become a sports agent after retirement."

And as an agent, The Bull proved every bit as effective off the field as he'd been on it.

Players liked The Bull personally, but the athletes really liked what he could do for them financially. And The Bull wound up making more money by repping the sports world's top players-football, basketball, golf, et cetera-than he had earned actually playing the game.

Negotiating Mickey O'Hara's new contract with the Bulletin Bulletin had been no challenge compared to the high-pressure worlds of sports and product endors.e.m.e.nts. had been no challenge compared to the high-pressure worlds of sports and product endors.e.m.e.nts.

And as happy as O'Hara had been with his new benefits-from more pay and holiday time to a new lease car every year-The Bull showed his brilliance by including an exit clause in the contract. It was brilliant because the Bulletin Bulletin signed off on it, and because everyone believed Mickey, happy with the contract terms, would write for the paper forever. signed off on it, and because everyone believed Mickey, happy with the contract terms, would write for the paper forever.

Everyone including Mickey.

But then came the newsroom brawl, in which Mickey punched the city editor. Roscoe G. Kennedy was no great fan of O'Hara-though he did grudgingly admit that Mickey could be a h.e.l.luva writer despite not having attended the glorified University of Missouri School of Journalism, as Kennedy had. And there was no question that Kennedy resented the money and perks that the unschooled O'Hara enjoyed thanks to his buddy, The Bull, squeezing the newspaper management.

Kennedy thought that Mickey O'Hara had become a prima donna in his expensively furnished office, someone who had the audacity to demand more s.p.a.ce in the newspaper for his articles and photographs than the boss-J-school grad Kennedy-felt he deserved.

O'Hara, who'd been at the Italian restaurant La Famiglia the night that Matt Payne put down the two robbers who'd beaten up a couple in the parking lot, had written a long article for Page 1A. He'd also delivered the photograph he'd taken of Payne in his tuxedo standing over one robber lying on the ground. Payne had his cell phone in his left hand and his Colt .45 Officer's Model in his right.

What had set Mickey O'Hara off-and it happened in the presence of The Bull and his wife, Antoinette Bolinski-was Kennedy wanting to put a smart-a.s.s headline on the photograph: MAIN LINE WYATT EARP 2, BAD GUYS O IN SHOOT-OUT AT THE LA FAMIGLIA CORRAL. Kennedy justified it by saying that Payne looked like a G.o.dd.a.m.n gunslinger who obviously liked shooting people.

O'Hara put up his dukes, then dodged Kennedy's swinging fists, putting him down with a left punch to the nose followed by a right jab to the abdomen. Casimir J. Bolinski, Esq., then grabbed his client and-with Kennedy disparaging O'Hara before the entire newsroom staff, then declaring him fired-dragged him out of the city room, never to return.

The Bull that day pulled out O'Hara's contract-the signatures barely dry-and easily negotiated with the Bulletin Bulletin management a thirty-day cooling-off period with pay for Mickey, plus public apologies from Kennedy for the city editor's treatment of a Pulitzer Prize winner before newsroom colleagues. management a thirty-day cooling-off period with pay for Mickey, plus public apologies from Kennedy for the city editor's treatment of a Pulitzer Prize winner before newsroom colleagues.

O'Hara decided to use his downtime to research a book on Fort Festung-a despicable s.h.i.t from Philly who had been found guilty of murdering his girlfriend and stuffing her body in a steamer trunk, where she'd been found mummified.

Mickey convinced Matt to accompany him to France in hopes of finding the fugitive-if only for a current photograph for the book.

And, toward the end of their time in France, they finally tracked down the arrogant Festung, long-haired and goateed, living comfortably on wine and cheese with a new girlfriend in a French village.

Mickey got his photograph-and it was of Philadelphia Police Department Sergeant Matthew M. Payne collaring the fugitive.

And only weeks after their return to Philadelphia, Casimir J. Bolinski, Esq., ever diligent in delivering for his clients, presented Michael J. O'Hara with the contract for his new position as chief executive officer and publisher of CrimeFreePhilly.com.

Mickey, after signing the contract in mid-September, called Matt's cell and told Matt to meet him at Liberties Bar for some good news.

As O'Hara slid in the booth across the table from Payne, he said, "You may kiss my ring, Matty, as I'm now a triple-dipper. Say, 'Congrats, Mick.'"