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Looking at the image of Marc James, Payne said, “Whoever he is, our mystery shooter’s bright. He’s doing the reverse of a sweepstakes sting.”
“A sweepstakes sting?” Radcliffe repeated.
Payne explained: “You mail out, say, a thousand letters to the LKA of people wanted on outstanding warrants. The letter says the recipient is guaranteed a prize worth up to a couple hundred bucks, and the first fifty people who show up have a chance to win a car. The official-looking but bogus letterhead has the address of some empty store in a strip center you get a civic-minded owner to let you borrow. The day of the ‘event,’ you furnish it with a couple desks and some chairs, then put signs in the window that say ‘Keystone State Sweepstakes Headquarters.’ And you borrow a nice new luxury sports car or SUV to park in front with a sign saying ‘Win This!’ Then, when the wanted ones show up, an undercover posing as a secretary matches the letter to the warrant list to make sure it’s still outstanding, then sends the idiot back to another room for his photograph and prize—a nice shiny pair of handcuffs.”
Radcliffe grinned. “Sounds like it works.”
“Not as good as it used to, but yeah, there’s still plenty of stupid critters out there. One really bright one even brought his court papers as his proof of ID.”
“So,” Radcliffe said, “instead of the guy sending out letters to the LKAs, he went to them individually, saying he was delivering FedEx envelopes containing checks?”
“That appears to be it,” Payne said.
Everyone was silent a moment.
Then Radcliffe went back to his keyboard and stared at the screen, then quickly typed something and smacked the enter key.
“There,” he said, pointing at the screen. “I don’t know if it means anything, but in Nguyen’s file?”
“Yeah?” Payne said.
“The district attorney’s case notes say that William Curtis is employed by FedEx here. Says he lives on Mount Pleasant.”
Payne casually sipped from his Homicide coffee mug, then said, “Who the hell is William Curtis?”
Twenty minutes later, Harris returned the receiver to the cradle of the multiline phone on the conference desk. He looked at Payne.
“This Will Curtis called in sick today. His supervisor”—he looked at his notes—“a guy named Jeff Allan, said he’s in a bad way. Curtis has been out sick most of the month. And he said that, judging by the look of him, it’s the real deal. He guessed it’s something terminal. He asked, but Curtis wouldn’t own up to it.”
Payne and Harris looked at each other.
“And there’s no answer at his house on Mount Pleasant,” Payne said.
Harris’s cell phone started ringing.
He checked the caller ID, then answered the phone with: “Whatcha got, Charley?”
Payne looked at Harris and saw his expression brighten.
“How many?” Harris said. Then: “Okay, got it. Let me know if anything changes. We’re on our way.”
He looked at Matt as he broke off the call.
“Bell says two black males just entered the James place on Richmond carrying a black duffel bag.”
Payne quickly stood up. “Kerry, you and Andy run things here and call me the minute you find anything else on
this Curtis guy.”
As Payne pulled on his blazer and dug in his pocket for the Crown Vic keys, he said to Harris, “Let’s roll.”
[THREE]
3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:45 A.M.
Allante Williams saw an open parking spot one block south of 3118. He liked it for two good reasons: It was close enough to reach if the deal went sour and he had to run, and his black Dodge Charger would be well hidden by the old PECO truck right in front of it.
He shut off the car, looked at Kenny Jones sitting in the passenger seat, then reached back and pulled the black duffel from the backseat. He unzipped it and took out a monster of a stainless-steel pistol. Even Kenny appeared impressed at the sight of the Ruger Redhawk, a double-action revolver chambered for .44 Magnum.
