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Unrestrained by seat belts, the three men were almost instantly out of the unmarked shiny gray Police Interceptor.
“That’s one massive steel ball,” Kerry Rapier said, looking up at the towering red-and-white Link-Belt crane that in the late-afternoon light was casting a huge shadow across the dirt. “Must weigh two, maybe three tons. Could be a contender for the largest murder weapon on record.”
Harris snorted. “If in fact it was the cause of death. Remember that the Black Buddha said the other two victims showed no known cause of death.”
With Payne leading, they walked past a big, bright white sign announcing a Philadelphia Economic Gentrification Initiative project by City Councilman Rapp Badde and the coming of three thousand new jobs.
That’s a lot of jobs, Matt thought. Especially here.
Probably another political lie.
Payne couldn’t help but notice that the sign was plastered with homemade flyers that bore a crude representation of the city councilman.
“Badde wanted for crimes?” Kerry Rapier then wondered aloud.
“Everyone’s got their own idea of what constitutes a crime,” Payne said. “As far as I know, Badde hasn’t broken any laws on the books. Arguably, he’s bent the living hell out of a few, but then that’s what politicians do.”
Payne saw that except for a line of five row houses—Make that four and a half, considering that hole in the one on the end—only smelly, raw earth remained on the once-residential city block. There was some heavy equipment and the white PEGI signs in each corner of the block. And that was it.
Yellow POLICE LINE tape was strung from the half-fallen wooden back fence of the semidemolished row house to the rear of the red-and-white Link-Belt crane, then to a four-foot-high iron pole in the concrete sidewalk that once held a parking meter, then past the Medical Examiner Office’s van and all the way down the sidewalk to the farthest row house at the corner of Jefferson and Mascher.
Payne looked at the small group gathered beside the crane and saw a familiar face, Detective Harry Mudd of the Crime Scene Unit.
Mudd—a muscular, five-foot-eleven thirty-five-year-old with fiercely inquisitive eyes and salt-and-pepper hair trimmed short—was a ten-year veteran of the department. Payne knew him to be a no-nonsense and damned thorough investigator.
Mudd stood with his arms crossed and head somewhat cocked as he listened to one of the three beefy men who looked like construction workers.
Or heavy-equipment operators, Payne thought when he saw the sloppily hand-lettered cardboard square sign—TURCO DEMOLITION & EXCAVATION—that was taped to the side of the crane.
Mudd’s eyes darted to Payne, who was leading Harris and Rapier toward him. He held out his right index finger as a Hold that thought a moment gesture to the beefy guy who was doing the talking. Then Mudd turned and started moving to intercept Payne.
“Sergeant Payne, good to see you,” Detective Mudd said, offering his hand.
“It’s ‘Matt,’ Harry,” he said, taking it, then he gestured to the others. “You know Tony Harris. And this is Corporal Kerry Rapier.”
“Harry Mudd, Kerry,” he said, shaking the corporal’s hand.
Kerry Rapier nodded, more than a little impressed by Mudd’s grip. He was almost afraid he was going to pull back his hand and find his fingers crushed to a bloody pulp.
“Nice to meet you, Detective,” Rapier said.
Tony Harris said, “How they hanging, Harry? It’s been a while.”
Mudd nodded. “It has. And if you mean, how are the bad guys hanging, I wish I could say by a noose. Otherwise, the answer’s the same, one lower than the other.”
He and Harris exchanged grins.
Payne looked over at the three men standing beside the Link-Belt crane. The tallest one, who appeared somewhat pale and had his chin almost to his chest, had a real look of gloom. The shortest of the three, who had a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, glanced at his wristwatch as he anxiously kicked the raw dirt with his boot toe, then glared in Payne’s direction.
“I’m assuming one of those guys is Mr. Turco?”
Mudd glanced over. “Yeah, two actually. The tall one’s name is Bucco, Bobby ‘The Ballbuster’ Bucco. He was running the crane when the ball found the deceased. The owner of the company is the short one who’s sucking on the cigar stub. Thomas ‘Little Tommie’ Turco. And he’s ten kinds of pissed off.”
“What’s his problem?”
“You.”
“Me? I just got the hell here.”
