“To a degree. But with all the illegal guns and shootings in this city? Are you kidding me?”
Rapier said, “Matt-”
Byrth interrupted him. “That didn’t answer my question. So you’re telling me that the guns are the problem? You just said ‘it’ killed.”
Payne looked at him a long moment.
“You’re telling me,” Byrth pursued, “that if a law were passed that miraculously made every gun go away-poof!-all the problems would disappear, too?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Payne said more than a little lamely. He motioned toward the TV. “This gun wouldn’t have been on the street.”
“Matt-” Rapier began again.
“Let me see if I can finish that thought,” Byrth interrupted him again. “Only cops should have guns, right? Because only they can use and care for them reasonably. Because cops never make mistakes.” He paused. “I guess you missed that little anecdote from the Super Bowl. The FBI boys at the Holiday Inn?”
Matt shook his head.
Byrth explained: “The hotshots left their cache in the van in the parking lot. Long about oh-dark-thirty, while they were having sweet G-man dreams of their hero J. Edgar Hoover, their van got burgled. The thief made off with four.308-caliber sniper rifles, a pair of fully auto M4 carbines, and-you’ll appreciate this, Marshal-a pair of Springfield.45s. The thief then sold ’em all to his cousin the drug dealer.”
“Jim, I’m not suggesting that that doesn’t-”
“Wait,” Byrth interrupted, putting up his hand, palm out, “I’m on a roll here. And maybe you missed that hilarious video clip of the DEA agent with the dreadlocks. He’s in a classroom setting, wearing the obligatory T-shirt with the big D-E-A lettering in case anyone should forget who they are. And he’s warning the students how dangerous guns are, that only the select few should have access to them. Then, to demonstrate, he pulls out his Glock-and promptly puts a round through his foot. Then he commences with what we real professionals call the I-Just-Shot-Myself Silly Dance.”
“Hey, I’ve got that on my laptop, attached to an e-mail,” Corporal Rapier said. “It is pretty funny. Want me to punch it up on-screen?”
He immediately regretted speaking when he saw Payne’s expression.
“Matt,” Byrth said, “I’d suggest you do a little research. Take a look, for example, at our friends in England. They passed a law that pretty much turned every citizen’s gun into scrap metal. And you know what then happened? Crime went up. So now the brilliant political minds in Parliament that brought gun control are tinkering with a law banning the carrying of pocketknives. Why? Because that’s become the punks’ new assault weapon of choice.”
“That’s a bit of comparing apples and oranges.”
“Is it really? And when they ban pocketknives, what next? Cardboard box cutters? Those came in pretty handy on the aircraft that the terrorists hijacked on 9/11. The problem is not the weapon.”
“Look, Jim, I take your point,” Payne said. “I still maintain, however, that this Ruger would not-”
“Matt,” Rapier now interrupted, “I’ve been trying to tell you that Harold Thompson is a Twenty-fourth District blue shirt.”
Payne did not say anything for a very long moment. Then he laughed.
“Okay, okay. I surrender.”
Jim Byrth sighed, then said, “Matt, I apologize for all that. I’m the guest here.”
“No apology necessary. I guess I deserved that,” Payne said. He smiled. “Besides, I’ve been known to let loose with some strong opinions myself. Political correctness be damned.”
He looked at Rapier. “Let’s get back to the images.”
“You got it,” Rapier said, and clicked on 5.7- X 28-MM SHELL CASINGS.
An image of scattered spent shell casings popped up in another inset.
“That 5.7-millimeter round was developed by FN to pierce body armor,” Rapier said. “You don’t see many of them.”
“That’s because there’re only about five weapons chambered for the five-point-seven round,” Byrth said. “If we find one, odds are those casings will belong to it. Click on the smack link, would you?”
They watched as Rapier moved the cursor to HEROIN-BASED PRODUCT. The image of the white packets scattered on the concrete floor appeared.
“Is that the best shot?” Byrth said. “Can you do what you did with the three-dimensional shot of the Ruger?”
Rapier clicked on a button that had a plus sign on it. The image zoomed in on one of the white packets. Then he used the joystick to turn the packet so that they had a better view of it.
The packet had a rubber stamp imprint in light blue ink of a cartoonish block of Swiss cheese. To either side of the cheese block were three lines that shot outward. Above the cheese was a legend in blue ink.
“Queso azul,” Payne read, then said, “That’s the blue cheese you told me about.”
“Bingo,” Byrth said.
“What’s blue cheese?” Rapier said.
“Cold medicine mixed with black tar heroin and sold to kids at two bucks a bump,” Payne said. He looked at Byrth and asked, “What’s with the three lines on either side? They look like cartoon sun rays.”
“Whiskers.”
“Whiskers?”
Byrth nodded. “El Gato. Cat whiskers. That’s his product. So it’s here. But where the hell is he?”
“Jesus,” Payne said. He added, “You think he shot up the market?”
“Could’ve been anyone,” Byrth said. “Anyone with a five-point-seven weapon. It’s certainly not outside the scope of what the bastard is capable of doing.”
Payne was looking back at the bank of screens with the various TV news broadcasts. The feed from the local FOX News channel showed images of the Philadelphia Fire Department at work. Firemen were battling extraordinarily large flames from two vehicles ablaze in a vacant lot adjacent to run-down row houses. Between the roaring fires and the wall of water being pumped at them, it was difficult to distinguish what type of vehicles they were.
Text along the bottom of the screen read: EARLIER TODAY IN WEST KENSINGTON, FIREFIGHTERS FOUGHT TO EXTINGUISH THE FLAMES FROM TWO VEHICLES. AUTHORITIES SAY ARSON WAS THE CAUSE.
Matt felt a vibration in the front pocket of his pants. He pulled out his cellular phone and saw that he had a text message. The color LCD screen read: AMY PAYNE-1 TXT MSG TODAY @ 1730.
He went to it:
AMY PAYNE
We still on for Liberties… 6ISH?
Payne looked again at the time stamp.
Five thirty.
That’s right. She said meet at six.
We can still beat her there.
He typed and then sent: see u @ 6 “I think we’re finished here for now, Kerry,” Payne said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime.”
Payne looked at Jim Byrth.
“How about we go get a few fingers poured of your choice of adult intoxi cants? If we get to Homicide’s unofficial favorite spot early enough, we can enjoy our beverages before She Who Is Always Right arrives. Then we can bounce some of this off her.”
Byrth nodded appreciatively. “I could use a little something to cut the dust, Marshal.”
[THREE] 3900 Block of Castor Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:54 P.M.
Sitting in the shadows of the trash Dumpsters in the alleyway, Paco “El Nariz” Esteban twice had had to move. The first time was because the big garbage truck had come to empty the three Dumpsters serving as his cover. That had stirred up the trash and caused the receptacles to really reek.
The second time was because a Philadelphia Police Department squad car came rolling down the alley.
That had caused Paco Nariz too many thoughts. And they came practically all at once.
The immediate one was the thought that always came first: Are they looking for me?
Then he thought: I can tell them about the girls in the store!
I can show them pictures!
But would they believe me?