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Which is why I had Janelle send those photos to him. And why he’ll get more photos the minute the damn construction crews arrive.
There was a huge gasp from the crowd as the televisions showed the gray police sedan racing up behind the minivan—then ramming it.
The minivan slid sideways, then spun twice before smacking the divider wall.
Jesus! It hit so hard it moved the wall!
He’d already heard from Roger Wynne that the last of the recovered absentee ballots had been shredded into a fine confetti, so that was not going to come back to haunt him.
Unless Wynne gets wise and thinks he can use that against me.
I’m going to have to keep an eye on him.
As he picked up his new pint of lager and downed a third of it in one swallow, his Go To Hell cell phone rang. He put down the glass and looked at the caller ID.
W
hat? It’s gobbledlygook. Nothing but “010101010.”
“Yes?” he said, answering it.
“I got your photograph. The site is looking better.”
The Russian? How the hell did he get this number?
“Yuri?” Badde said.
“I think we now better understand each other.”
Badde began, “I’m glad . . .” But then he realized that the line was dead.
He anxiously sipped at his beer as he tried to figure out just what the hell had happened.
There was another gasp from the crowd, and he looked again to the televisions.
The camera showed a remarkably clear shot of a man running from the minivan, being chased by a man in a coat and tie from the gray sedan.
That first one looks like it could be Kenny!
Being chased by a plainclothes cop?
And then the camera caught a clear shot of the man in the coat and tie.
Someone said, “Look! It’s the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line!”
Then Badde saw the man who was being chased trip, get up, and go over the concrete divider. What happened next was obstructed by the big box of a delivery truck. But the crowd’s gasp made it obvious what had happened.
Damn! Talk about being thrown under a bus.
He took another sip of beer and thought a long moment.
Bottom line: I’m going to have to watch my back a helluva lot more closely.
“Waitress!” he called out to the barmaid, and when she stepped over, he said, “I’ll take a double Jameson’s rocks. No, make it a triple.”
[SEVEN]
Ben Franklin Bridge, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 1:05 P.M.
