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“And what about him, Harry?”
“The kid’s name is Michael Floyd, age twelve or age four, depending on the direction the wind’s blowing.”
Now Payne, Harris, and Rapier looked confused.
Payne held out his right hand, palm up, and wagged his fingers in a Let’s have it gesture.
Mudd made a sour face. “He’s a simpleton. Backward, you know? May even have a bit of brain damage. He isn’t saying much. But even if he did say something we might be able to run with, I’d be very skeptical of it.”
Payne glanced at the kid and said, “Well, he’s got to be in shock seeing his uncle dead.”
Mudd shrugged. “Then again,” he said, “it could all be an act, at least the backwardness. Just playing dumb, you know? Reason I say that is, one of the blue shirts, who was directing traffic at the first scene”—he pointed eastward, toward Mascher Street—“saw a white minivan with FedEx logos roll past a minute before he heard the two gunshots. We asked the kid about that, and”—he flipped a couple pages on his notepad and read from it—“he said, quote, What be a FedEx, motherfucker? end quote.”
Payne raised his eyebrows, looking at Michael for a moment before turning back to Mudd.
Rapier handed Mudd the evidence bag with the Wanted sheet.
Mudd said, “He pointed at Cheatham’s Last Known Address on here and said that’s where he and his mother live, not Cheatham. He said his uncle lived in this abandoned house here.”
“Maybe the kid’s mama got sick of her brother’s bullshit,” Payne said. “Must be difficult enough raising a kid with a mental disability.”
Payne then bent over to look at the spent shell casings.
They’re damn near still warm.
We were that close!
Harris said, “What’re you thinking, Matt?
Payne looked up at him and said, “How close we were.”
“And now,” Harris said, “how close we’re not again.”
Payne stood erect and, clearly in thought, stared at Tony a long moment.
“Nothing personal, Detective Harris, but you look like shit. And I’m beginning to feel like it. We’ve been banging away at this”—he glanced as his wristwatch—“hell, I can’t even do the math. I think we need to take a break. Clear our heads. As a very wise person once told me, ‘These guys will still be dead in t
he morning. You don’t need to make a mistake and join them.’”
“That was me, Matt,” Harris said.
Payne smiled. “I know.”
He turned to Mudd and handed him his business card. “That’s got my cell number, Harry. Let me know if you find something.”
“Will do.”
As they walked back to the gray Crown Vic, Payne thumbed out a text message: HEY, BABY . . .
ON MY WAY. BE THERE SHORTLY.
He hit SEND and thought, Hope you’re still there—and still talking to me. . . .
[THREE]
Hops Haus Tower 1100 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 7:01 P.M.
It was well past dusk as Matt Payne drove up the cobblestone drive to the circle entrance of the high-rise condominiums. After dropping Harris and Rapier at the Roundhouse, he’d run by his tiny apartment on Rittenhouse Square, grabbed a fast shower and shave, and changed into an old comfortable pair of clean khakis, a long-sleeve navy cotton polo shirt, and boater’s deck shoes. His shirttail was out, concealing the Colt Officer’s Model .45 tucked under his belt on his right hip.
