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“I’m not exactly clear on what it is you provide,” Jan said, her tone making it a question.
“In simple terms, everything except the building,” Illana said. “We handle branding, marketing, staffing. I mostly consult on staffing. It is critical that guests receive the finest experience, and I, as well as others, travel from property to property to ensure that the highest of standards are kept. After I helped to staff and then open Vista Fiume, I was sent here. And after this tour, I expect to be back in Philadelphia to check on its progress and also work on the new hotel.”
“Well,” Rapp said, automatically flashing his politician’s smile, “that new hotel is why we are here to see Mr. Santos.”
Badde paused, and thought, Which could all go down the tubes if Willie Lane—or anyone else—starts sniffing around PEGI. This deal takes it all to another level.
“But first I need to make one quick call. Only take a moment.”
“To who now? Can’t it wait?” Jan said, and looked to Illana. “How far is the hotel?”
“It is perhaps ten minutes.”
“Rapp,” Jan said, turning back toward Badde—but he had already moved into the shadow of the aircraft and was almost yelling into his smartphone.
“Where’s Len— I mean, where’s Josiah?” Badde demanded. “Put him on the phone. Now.”
[ TWO ]
Molly’s Olde Ale House
Chestnut Street, University City, Philadelphia
Saturday, December 15, 2:40 P.M.
“Okay, keep knocking on the neighbors’ doors for statements—someone had to see or hear something—and let me know when the medical examiner releases the scene,” Homicide Sergeant Matthew Payne said into his cellular phone as he watched Michael J. O’Hara throw back a shot glass—his third—brimming with eighteen-year-old Bushmills Irish whisky. “I’m a few blocks away, almost to the ME’s office, actually.”
The medical examiner’s office was next to the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.
Payne and O’Hara were seated at the far end of the long wooden bar. Payne had his back against the wall. He looked at O’Hara, and beyond him, glancing around the half-full room of mostly college students watching sports on the overhead flat-screen TVs and—when it opened, bringing in a blast of cold air—at the front door.
“I’m repeating myself, I know, but the murder simply is barbaric beyond belief,” O’Hara said, shaking his head, then extended his arm and held the empty glass above his head to get the bartender’s attention. “Another Bushmills.”
The bartender glanced at Payne. Payne shook his head.
Payne looked at the two empty shot glasses before him—O’Hara had ordered them two each to start when they first sat down—and hoped Mickey wouldn’t override him and have the bartender bring them both another.
Then O’Hara, frustrated, practically slung the empty across the wooden bar. It slid into his two other empty shot glasses, making a loud clink that caused a couple of people down the bar to turn and look.
The bartender, who apparently had witnessed worse behavior, did not seem to care.
“Here ya go, pal,” the bartender said, placing it before O’Hara, then collecting the empties and walking away.
“Tim was a really good guy, Matty, fearless and honest as the day is long,” O’Hara said as he held up the glass, and stared at it a long moment.
Then he tossed back the shot.
“Maybe too fearless,” Payne said.
O’Hara’s tired eyes darted at him.
—
Not quite an hour earlier, Payne had pulled up to the U-City address O’Hara had texted him.
O’Hara was pacing on the sidewalk, following the path that he had packed in the snow halfway up the block. He wore a heavy black woolen coat over faded blue jeans and a brown checkered flannel shirt. His black loafers had a crust of snow.
Mickey barely acknowledged Matt as he parked the car and got out.
