“What sort of bad problem?”

There had been a long silence before the man spoke. “I cannot say.”

“You cannot tell me? Or cannot tell me on the phone.”

“On the phone. Is better that I tell Meester Skeeper in person.”

And there had been a long silence before Nesbitt spoke. “That won’t be possible for some time. He’s badly hurt, and in the hospital.”

Nesbitt heard the man mutter, “Madre de Dios!” Then he said, “Is Meester Skeeper going to be okay?”

Nesbitt did not know how to answer at first, then said, “We don’t know. I can tell you that it will be some time before he’s able to speak with you.”

The man then said, “Then, please, I must speak with you. His best amigo and partner in business.”

Six blocks after crossing Lehigh Avenue-which almost didn’t happen because he nearly got sideswiped by a damn rusty white Plymouth minivan that ran the red and then flew down Lehigh-Nesbitt approached the intersection of Dauphin and Broad. This was the outer edge of the neighborhood where Temple University served as somewhat of an anchor.

The light at Dauphin turned red. As he waited for it, he looked down the street. On the left he saw a series of retail chains-a McDonald’s fast-food restaurant, a Rite-Price pharmacy-and some mom-and-pop shops.

The man on the phone had said the laundromat was there, but he could not make it out.

And that’s another coincidence.

A laundromat. And Skipper.

Who is this guy?

He absolutely would not tell me what he wanted.

Except that it was “mucho important.”

The traffic light cycled. He crossed Dauphin and started scanning for the laundromat. At the next corner, which was Susquehanna, he saw a convenience store’s signage-TEMPLE GAS amp; GO. Next door to that, sharing a wall, was a brick-faced building that looked as if it recently had been renovated.

The brick was clean and bright, as if freshly sandblasted. There was a glistening glass door set in shiny aluminum framing. On either side of the new door were six large plate-glass windows, also similarly framed in aluminum, that were covered from the inside with what looked like brown wrapping paper.

As Nesbitt slowed the car, he read the announcement that was painted on the paper in bright festive colors:

Under that, with lots of cartoonish foam overflowing from an oversize beer mug and a washing machine, was Sudsie’s’ marketing slogan:

Nesbitt groaned audibly.

What were you thinking, Skipper?

About that and everything else?

He then pulled the M3 coupe into an empty parking spot at the curb around the corner.

When Chad Nesbitt got to the new front door of Sudsie’s, he saw that someone had posted a sign that read CLOSED-PLEASE COME AGAIN and an emergency contact telephone number. He didn’t recognize the number.

He hammered the door with a balled fist, but there was no answer.

He then pulled out his phone from the left front pocket of his pants. He thumbed keys to reach the RECENT CALLS menu, then highlighted the first call on the list. He hit the CALL key.

When the man answered, he said, “This is Chad Nesbitt. You asked to see me? I’m at the door.”

There was silence on the phone for a moment. Then Nesbitt saw the brown paper on the glass of the door pull back just enough for someone to peer out. There then came the sound of the front door being unlocked.

Nesbitt hit the END key, put the phone back in his pocket, and scanned the area. About all he saw were students coming from the Southeast Philadelphia Transportation Authority’s Susquehanna-Dauphin Metro stop. Some of them crossed the street, headed for McDonald’s before class.

The door, its hinges squeaking, opened not quite halfway.

Nesbitt saw standing there a five-foot-two Hispanic male. He was heavyset, with an enormously wide, flat nose. He looked to be maybe thirty.

“Come, come!” the man anxiously told Nesbitt, waving him in.

Nesbitt did. The man looked nervously up and down the sidewalk before closing and locking the door.

Chad Nesbitt looked around the brightly lit, newly renovated laundromat. It was obvious to him that this was Skipper Olde’s work, that this was one of the locations they had acquired in the package deal. There were lines of brand-new commercial-quality washers and dryers in the walls, and positioned neatly against the back of the room at a long tan linoleum counter were waist-high thick-wire baskets on heavy-duty casters.

The man walked up to him and held out his hand.

“Se?or Nesbitt, mucho gusto. I am Paco Esteban.”

“Paco,” Nesbitt said shaking his hand, “you want to tell me now what the hell’s going on here?”

“Here?”

Nesbitt looked around the room. “Okay. Start with that. Why are we here?”

El Nariz looked him in the eyes, then nodded.

“S?. I have agreement with Meester Skeeper,” he began, “to use his machines for my laundry service…”

“… And as the evil man was leaving, he shot holes,” Paco Esteban said, as he finished his five-minute explanation. “And so everyone, all of my crew, they run for their lives. I come back here to clean up the place. I could not leave it the way it was.”

“This evil man shot holes?” Nesbitt repeated.

“S?. Come. I show you.”

El Nariz led Nesbitt to the rear room. He pointed to the arch that was the bullet-riddled masonry wall.

“My God!” Nesbitt exclaimed.

“S?.”

“Why did he do that? I mean, to scare you?”

El Nariz nodded. “S?. Muy scary.”

“And you have a head in your freezer?”

“S?.”

Chad Nesbitt could not believe what he was seeing and hearing.

The gunfire was bad enough-gunfire in a business he partly owned.

But the barbarism?

Jesus!

That’s the kind of thing you hear about those animals committing in faraway backward countries!

He pulled out his cellular phone and hit the speed-dial number of Matt Payne. The phone beeped in his ear, and when he looked at the screen, he saw:

Then he saw that the signal bars were low.

“Shit!”

Nesbitt typed out a text message to Matt and sent it:

“Paco,” Chad Nesbitt said anxiously, “you must not tell anyone about this! Understand? Not until I figure out what to do.”

He nodded, and said, “S?. Muchas gracias.”

[THREE] Temple Burn Unit Temple University Hospital North Broad and West Tioga Streets, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 10:43 A.M.

Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski came pounding down the third-floor corridor, her hands on either side of her ample hips. One held her police radio and the other her Glock pistol, both in their respective holsters, in an attempt to keep them from banging against her as she ran.

She turned the corner. Just as she glimpsed what looked like a scuffle at the southeast end of the corridor, she ran smack into a gurney that was being pushed up the corridor. When she hit it, both she and the gurney went flying.

The Hispanic orderly who had been pushing the gurney got knocked on his ass.

After a second, Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski regained her footing. Ignoring the gurney, and not saying a word to the Hispanic orderly, she rushed toward the two men scuffling. She recognized now that one was Joseph Olde.

The orderly righted the gurney, then calmly continued pushing it up the corridor. He got to the corner and made the turn.

About the time that Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski reached the end of the corridor and the altercation, the other uniform and a young male civilian had managed to pull apart Olde and the other older man, who were on the ground. The young male civilian now stood between them as they started to regain their composure and get up.