The Traffickers boh-9, page 11
part #9 of Badge of Honor Series
The very big and very black Jason Washington then intoned in his deep voice, “I pray that I am profoundly in error, but I suspect the flow of said fecal matter will wind up on my desk-thereon hitting the proverbial fan.”
Denny Coughlin chuckled.
“Jason, your astute suspicions aside,” Coughlin then said, “let’s take it from the top. Beginning with what we know. Would you care to bring everyone up to speed?”
“Certainly. As I’ve shared with the captain and the chief inspector,” he said, making eye contact with Quaire and Lowenstein as he said their ranks, “what we know is that at one-fifty this morning, there was an explosion at the Philly Inn on Frankford Avenue. Specifically, room fifty-two, which appears to have been actively used for the manufacture of the Schedule II controlled substance methamphetamine. We have two dead Hispanic males and two others, a white male and a white female, who suffered grave injury. The deceased were taken to the morgue, of course. The latter pair was transported to Temple Hospital, where they were admitted to the Intensive Care Unit, their conditions last listed as ‘critical.’ ”
“Clearly the girl being Benjamin’s daughter,” Coughlin said.
Washington nodded.
“We’re told,” he went on, “but are awaiting positive ID, that the white male is one J. Warren Olde, Jr., of the custom homebuilder family. We’re also told, but are awaiting verification, that he’s the owner of the motel.”
“And we’re told this by whom?” Coughlin said. “A reliable source?”
Washington nodded again.
“Absolutely reliable,” he said. “We have Anthony Harris on the scene, and after some initial confusion of the deskman on the Wheel, he now has the job-”
“Confusion?” Coughlin interrupted. “What’s that all about?”
“Just an administrative matter that has been taken care of, sir.”
Coughlin raised an eyebrow, nodded, then gestured for Washington to continue.
“Harris got the job in part because he’s one of the best. But also because he has been on the scene since just about the time the motel blew up. He lives only seven, eight blocks away, and the blast rocked him out of bed.”
“Jesus!” Denny Coughlin blurted.
“It was a significant explosion,” Washington said.
“What do we know about the dead ones?” Coughlin said. “Anything yet?”
“Beyond the fact that one had his throat cut, not much. No IDs. They were severely burned, clearly. Practically everything in that room was consumed by the fire. The technician from the Medical Examiner’s Office put their ages between twenty-five and thirty-five. The autopsy should narrow that.”
Coughlin nodded in serious thought.
“Nothing else?” he then said.
Quaire grinned ever so slightly and made eye contact with his boss. Matt Lowenstein shrugged and grinned, too, his face saying Why not?
It wasn’t lost on Coughlin, who barked, “What the hell is it?”
“The tech from the Medical Examiner’s Office,” Quaire said, and in his peripheral vision saw Washington cringe, “said that the critter making the meth got circumcised in the room.”
“He got what?” Coughlin said incredulously, and wondered if he was having his chain pulled.
“It’s true, Denny,” Lowenstein offered. “But, I’m sorry, it’s far beneath my dignified station to explain.”
Coughlin looked at Quaire, who rose to the challenge: “The tech said anybody involved in drugs was a dickhead, and so deserved to have his throat circumcised.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Coughlin blurted, but he was smiling.
“What we don’t know,” Washington went on, “among other things, is: Who cut his throat? That may be something we never learn, considering the conditions of the only other two people who were there.”
After a moment, Quaire asked in a serious tone: “What I’m curious about is, how did Benjamin find out?”
“That’s a good question, Henry,” Hollaran said. “We wondered that, too. Turns out the vehicle Benjamin’s daughter drives has one of those satellite systems. In the event of an accident, a crash sensor on the vehicle activates a communications module that uses the cellular telephone tower system-or maybe it’s the global positioning system, or both-to triangulate the vehicle’s location and then telephone an emergency number and pass along the details. Everything from whether the air bags deployed-how many of them, to determine the severity of the accident-down to the air pressure in the tires.”
“I heard those calls go to some call center in Bombay, India,” Washington offered. “Making it an even more impressive system. Excuse me, that should be Mumbai, India. They changed it.”
Hollaran nodded and a little disgustedly said, “That would not surprise me; Lord knows there’s no one in Philadelphia-or Brooklyn or Iowa-who could be taken off the unemployment line and trained to do that. Why the hell keep jobs here? Anyway, this operator”-he glanced at Washington-“in Mumbai, India, could not get anyone in the Benjamin vehicle to respond when she or he dialed the vehicle’s cellular telephone system connected to its high-fidelity sound system. So the operator then called the local 911 emergency number here. And, after that, started going down the list of emergency contacts that the owner of the vehicle had submitted when the vehicle was purchased.”
“And the girl had her father as the first to contact in case of emergency, air bag deployment, et cetera,” Washington said.
“Exactly,” Hollaran said.
“And,” Coughlin put in, “because her father has the mayor’s personal cellular telephone number-it’s my understanding that quite a few city bond-issuance programs have been managed by Benjamin Securities-His Honor knew all about whose SUV that was before we could even get there and run the plates or VIN.”
“Ah, the miracles of modern technology!” Lieutenant Jason Washington intoned.
“In addition to the team of detectives Tony Harris is running,” Matt Lowenstein offered, “we’ve got men sitting on the hospital in case either the Benjamin girl or the Olde boy is able to start talking. We’ve got a lot of manpower already on it, Denny. Unless you can think of something else?”
Coughlin considered that, then said, “No, not at this point. It sounds as if all the wheels are turning on this.” He paused, then added, “I never doubted that, of course. It’s just that this has become an extraordinary case.”
He exhaled audibly.
“Okay, that was the first problem,” Coughlin went on. “Now, as to Matty. I would like to hear everyone’s thoughts on what we should do with Detective Matthew Payne.”
He looked at Washington.
“I’m sorry, Jason. But it seems that proverbial fan you spoke of is attracting more for you. I’d like your opinion first, then Henry’s, then Matt’s, and then Frank’s.”
Everyone nodded, recognizing what Denny Coughlin was doing. It was the military method of beginning with the junior officer and working up to the most senior. It was an effective way of getting an opinion that was original-not something from someone who for self-preservation or other purposes simply agreed with what their boss had just said.
“Unequivocally, I think Detective Payne should stay on the case,” Lieutenant Washington immediately said.
“What do you mean, ‘stay on the case’?” Coughlin said.
“He’s our absolutely reliable source. The one you asked about earlier?”
“How the hell is that?” Coughlin said. He looked at Hollaran. “Is that why he’s on the way here, Frank?”
Hollaran shrugged. “He didn’t get into that. He just said the heads-up was that he wanted to come back to work.”
“Matthew went to school with the two in the hospital and is close to another who has a financial interest in the motel,” Jason Washington explained, then went into the background he had on that from Tony Harris.
When Washington had finished with that a few minutes later, he added, “In summary, I believe Matthew would be indispensable. I welcome him back to Homicide with open arms.”
“Okay,” Coughlin said, stone-faced. “Thank you, Jason. Henry? Your piece of mind, please.”
“Well,” Quaire began, “it’s no secret that I was not overly thrilled about Matt using The List and the mayor’s top-five-scores-get-their-pick to come to Homicide.”
About a month earlier, the department had released what was universally known as “The List.”
Some twenty-five hundred police officers-corporals, detectives, and patrolmen with at least two years’ service?had taken the examination for promotion. Those who passed and were promoted received a pay raise, a bump of four percent for the first two ranks, and fourteen percent for the patrolmen.
The List showed who had passed and how their scores had ranked them.
The exam was given in two parts, the first being written. Of the twenty-five hundred candidates, one in five had failed the written component. That washed them out, making them ineligible to move on to the exam’s oral component.
Not everyone rushed to take the exam. Detectives could bring home more money in overtime than could sergeants, who clocked fewer hours. But because retirement pay was based on rank, they eventually would take it in hopes of being promoted and, then, retired as a lieutenant or captain.
The first hurdle, however, was passing. And not everyone did. And of those who did, not all were necessarily promoted right away.
After the names of those who passed the written exam were posted, the oral exams were given over the next four months.
In the Sergeant’s Exam, nearly seven hundred detectives, corporals, and patrolmen had passed the oral component. That made them eligible for promotion, of course, but contingent on a number of factors. One was funding. There was money available for only ten percent of The List to be moved up immediately, in the next days or weeks.
The rest had to wait for attrition, a vacancy made by a sergeant who retired or was promoted.
Realistically, that meant if the score of one who passed the exam had them ranked no higher than the top one hundred or so, they would not get promoted. The List would expire after about two years, and the examination process would begin anew.
For those who did score very well, however, the mayor-in a moment of inspiration, thinking it would make for good public relations-had proclaimed that the five who scored the highest on The List would be given their choice of where in the department they wanted to serve.
And when The List had been recently posted, Number One on it was: PAYNE, MATTHEW M., PAYROLL NO. 231047, SPECIAL OPERATIONS.
And newly promoted Sergeant Payne had picked as his choice the Homicide Unit.
Captain Henry Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Unit, had not been thrilled with the news of the hotshot young sergeant’s arrival. But putting two and two together, Quaire understood that there was more to it, more to Matt. He quickly had learned that Matt Payne, like his rabbi, Inspector Peter Wohl, was of the very smart sort. The bright ones destined for greater responsibilities and higher ranks.
Once, over drinks one night, Quaire even had heard Denny Coughlin offhandedly say that judging by the speed with which Payne was progressing in the department, Coughlin was worried that it wouldn’t be long till Payne took his job.
Coughlin really hadn’t been worried or serious, of course. No one would be prouder of his godson getting the job than the godfather himself. And, besides, realistically that just was not going to happen anytime soon. It was simply Coughlin’s way of saying Payne was a rapidly rising star in the police department.
“And, Denny,” Henry Quaire now went on, “I don’t think it’s any secret-I sure as hell hope it’s not-that I now am in the camp of those who know Matt to be one helluva cop. I vote with Jason.”
Coughlin looked at Lowenstein.
“I don’t think you have to ask, Denny,” Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein said simply. “But, officially, I concur.”
“Ditto, Denny,” Francis Hollaran said.
All eyes were now on Coughlin.
After a long moment that in the absolute quiet seemed much longer, he grunted and then said, “All right. I thank you for your thoughtful opinions. This, as I’m sure you know, is not an easy decision for me, and I appreciate your input. But, making such decisions is the reason that I’m paid the big bucks.” He paused and grinned to show he was being facetious, then added, “Both of those big bucks.”
There were the expected chuckles.
Coughlin glanced at each of them, then said, “Until I order otherwise, I do not-repeat, do not-want Matty anywhere near the street.”
The shocked silence in the room bordered on the awkward.
Coughlin went on, “I have my reasons. For one, he’s had more than enough to deal with lately. Yes?”
There were a couple of agreeable nods.
Coughlin gestured toward the television with his right hand. “And he damn sure doesn’t need to be in the news again anytime soon. What’s it been? Not quite thirty days. The ink’s still wet on the newspaper articles about his shooting at that Italian restaurant-”
“La Famiglia Ristorante,” Hollaran furnished.
“That’s it.”
Hollaran said, “Matt’s a good investigator, right, Jason?”
“A most excellent one,” Washington said. “And supervisor.”
“And I have absolutely no argument with that,” Coughlin said reasonably. “So have him do it from the telephone. If I find out he’s on the street, I’ll put him on the goddamn midnight shift of the School Crossing Guard Unit.”
Hollaran said, “There’s no-”
“Of course there’s not,” Coughlin interrupted. “But I’ll damn sure establish one, and man it with the rest of you. Do I make my point?”
There was a chorus of yessirs.
“All right, then. When he gets here, Henry, send him in. It’s my order, so I’ll break the news to him.”
IV
ONE
826 Sears Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 7:55 A.M.
Paco Esteban, a bloodstained gauze bandage on his forehead, walked swiftly toward his South Philly row house. The two-story flat-roofed structure-like the row houses on either side and many others up and down the street-had a fa?ade of old red brick with dirty brown corrugated aluminum awnings above the door and windows.
In his left hand, Esteban carried two packed grocery bags, the sheer plastic stretching with the weight of their contents. He grabbed the black iron railing of the brick stoop and pulled himself along, quickly taking the three shallow steps up to the front door.
At the door, he nervously looked over his shoulder as he juggled the grocery bags and reached for his keys to open each of the door’s three locks. About the time he got the second one unlocked, he heard the familiar metallic clunk that told him someone on the other side of the door was unlocking the third, a deadbolt.
As he pulled out the key from the second lock, the door swung open.
Standing there in a dingy beige sleeveless cotton dress was his wife. As much as El Nariz’s head hurt, he still managed to think: My beautiful Salma. My Madonna. It is not fair that she should suffer such pain and worry…
Se?ora Salma Esteban was a swarthy black-haired twenty-nine-year-old who stood five-foot-four and weighed 160 pounds. Her face was puffy, the eyes somewhat swollen from crying. She clenched a wadded used tissue in her right hand.
On her left shoulder she held a toddler, the Estebans’ three-year-old nephew, who had a thick mop of unruly black hair and wore only a diaper. He was sound asleep and snoring.
Se?ora Esteban, sniffling, motioned for El Nariz to quickly come inside. When he had, she pushed the door shut and rushed to relock the doors.
“How is she doing now?” El Nariz asked his wife in rapid-fire Spanish.
“Better,” Salma Esteban said softly.
“Bueno,” El Nariz said, nodding thoughtfully.
He carried the bags into the cluttered kitchen. His wife followed.
She watched her husband, his coarse face still showing a mix of anger and fear, wordlessly unpack the bags with a heavy hand onto the counter. One bag held packs of flour tortillas, cans of frijoles negros and corn, and other staples of a heavy-starch diet. From the other he pulled out a pack of disposable diapers and handed them to his wife, then a box of gauze bandages, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide antiseptic, and a bottle of aspirin.
“While you were at the store,” Salma Esteban said softly, “Rosario did say she wanted to tell us more.”
Paco Esteban looked up from the bags. “More?” he said. “We know what she said about her being forced…”
He could not bring himself to repeat the sexual slavery part of her peonage.
He then shook his head and added, his tone incredulous, “There is more? Madre de Dios.”
“I will go and put the baby down,” Salma Esteban said.
On the loading dock of the laundromat nearly two hours earlier, El Nariz had had to slap a wildly hysterical Rosario Flores twice across the face. Not that he necessarily felt that she was overreacting to the severed head and the shooting. He himself was in shock from that-and from his bloody forehead, which throbbed beyond belief. But he had made the immediate decision that anywhere else would be better for them to be than at the laundromat.
And her banshee screams were about to attract some unwanted attention, if the sound of the gunfire hadn’t already accomplished that.
At least I hear no sirens, he’d thought.
At least not yet.
All of the other workers in his crew already had fled. He was not really worried about them. They knew how to take care of themselves, and for now that meant lying low, out of sight. He knew he would see some of them back in South Philly-particularly the ones who lived near his house, and especially the sister-in-law of his wife, who lived in his house with her husband and three-year-old son.
The others would at different times come out of the woodwork as they felt safer, as they collected information through their underground grapevine about what the hell had happened. And why. And how it did-or did not-directly threaten them.
