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“There’s one we found. They’re all like that—painted over. No telling how old they are.”
“Actually,” Payne said, “I’m more shocked there really aren’t any fresh ones.”
“So,” Harris said, “if we know there were live rounds, but no evidence of them, then the bullets had to go up and over the roof?”
Payne nodded, adding: “And the trajectory of those bullets going up and over the roof would also go up and over anyone standing on the stage.”
“So, then, no one got shot,” Harris said.
Simpson raised his eyebrows.
“That’s my bet,” he said. “At least no one onstage got shot. Depending on the angle, a round could have gone a couple hundred yards thataway”—he pointed to the north—“or even farther. And then have landed god-knows-where—what goes up must come down—maybe in the street, in the side of a building, the roof of a row house.”
“Same old story,” Harris said. “Unless the round actually strikes something that someone notices—say, a bedroom window, a car door—”
“A person,” Payne interjected.
“Or even a person,” Harris repeated, shaking his head, “then fat chance recovering it.”
“What about the blanks, Harvey? How do you know for sure that they were blanks?”
“The brass casings on blanks are crimped differently, because they don’t have a lead bullet.”
“Tell me more,” Harris said.
“You know that there has to be a seal on a round of ammo,” Simpson said, “or else there’s no explosion.”
“Yeah,” Payne said. “Otherwise, when the gunpowder ignited, it would just burn in the brass casing but make no sound.”
“Right,” Simpson went on. “So, instead of a lead bullet, blanks either have some type of plastic cap, which disperses more or less harmlessly after leaving the muzzle, or the top of the casing is crimped tightly closed, which is instantly obvious. No question whatever that both live and blank rounds were fired.”
Payne looked at Harris. “The question is, why both?”
“I’m beginning to think Sully’s people, or at least the ones he says are doing the casino’s dirty work, actually did do it,” Harris said, “which is why he called and denied it.”
“But, again, why? He—along with everyone else who does not know that blanks were fired—assumes the rounds were lethal ones.” He paused, scanned the area, then added, “Which may be exactly what Skinny Lenny wants.”
“You think Cross staged this, Matt?”
“I think anything is possible with that false prophet sonofabitch, who I think doesn’t really give a rat’s ass about the killings so much as how he can leverage them to his own advantage.”
Payne turned to Simpson.
“Who’s in here?” Payne said, gesturing toward the red door.
“Not Cross or Banks. They let us search it and the Fellowship Hall.”
“Who’s they?”
“Mostly the chubby bastard who says he’s in charge—wait till you see the shirt he’s had on all day, you’re gonna love it—gave his name as Deacon DiAndre Pringle. But that’s about all he said. I ran his name. Just last week he got one of the new citations for possession of pot. But, other than that, nothing.”
Simpson nudged open the door with his toe.
“Have a look.”
[ TWO ]
After entering the ministry—followed by Harris and with “Carlos” Simpson bringing up the rear—Payne scanned the large main room with its gold-and-black-patterned wallpaper and red-painted trim.
