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“Who is Cairns?” Simpson said, reading the poster.
“The casino jewelry store manager shot this morning. Guess he wasn’t ‘young’ enough.”
“Huh?” Simpson said, then added, “Oh.”
He saw that, while the poster had listed the name, Malcolm Cairns, and the white circle with a red MURDER VICTIM #361, there was no age mentioned. It was clear, however, he was long past his twenties and thirties.
The next three males shown on the posters were labeled as murder victims 350, 351, 352. Ricardo Ramírez was a chunky twenty-seven-year-old Puerto Rican, Héctor Ramírez a swarthy forty-year-old Cuban, and Dmitri Gurnov a tall, wiry, thirty-year-old Russian with sunken eyes and a three-day growth of beard.
“Aren’t those guys from Payne’s shoot-out last month on the casino boardwalk, Kerry?”
“Yeah, but it was the Russian who whacked the Cuban Ramírez, and maybe five minutes later Ricky Ramírez killed Gurnov. Then when Ricky Ramírez started shooting at Jim Byrth—”
“That Texas Ranger who was up here?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Ramírez shot at Byrth and then took shots at the helo that came on station and was lighting up the scene. When Matt ordered Ramírez to drop the weapon, the bad guy made the mistake of getting in a shoot-out with the good ol’ Wyatt Earp of the Main Line. That poster attests to the fact that it didn’t turn out too good for Ramírez.”
“Why the hell do they get included in this? Because Payne took out one? An active shooter who’d just killed a guy? That’s pure horseshit.”
“Well, technically they all are homicides and made the list. But I take your point.”
The next poster was of an attractive, petite nineteen-year-old Puerto Rican. Krystal Angel Gonzalez was listed as MURDER VICTIM #348.
Rapier said: “And there’s the poor girl who made the mistake of getting involved with Ricky Ramírez.”
“That’s the girl who was killed in the home invasion in Old City last month, right?”
“Yeah. Tragic story. Spent most of her life in and out of foster homes, then got conned by Ramírez. All the details haven’t come out, but what we do know is that Ramírez was running drugs and hookers out of a dive bar in Kensington. He made the Gonzalez girl think she was his girlfriend, then tried to pimp her out, and beat her when she wouldn’t do it.”
Simpson grunted again. “Same old story. You’re right—tragic.”
“Same story but with a twist. After he began beating her, she got her hands on his books—contacts, schedules, everything—”
“And passed them to the woman who ran the foster home,” Simpson finished. “I heard that. And the woman went into hiding when she found the girl killed in her fancy house, the place set afire with Molotov cocktails.”
“And the woman who went into hiding used the books as leverage to get to Ricky Ramírez and the Russian, who owned the dive bar.”
“Nice guys. And now all dead guys. Sergeant Payne should get credit for all three.”
They watched as the final posters were being put up—with Payne’s Public Enemy #1 poster being affixed to the front of the lectern.
“Those bastards,” Rapier said. “Harv, if you knew Matt, you’d know he’d rather not get credit for even one. It’s why this all stinks. Anyway, I’ll check back in a bit.”
“I’ll be here with bells on,” Simpson said, reaching for the thermos.
—
Five minutes later, Simpson watched over the lip of his stainless steel cup as a new shiny black Lincoln Navigator came flying up Twenty-ninth and then, tires screeching, pulled up onto the sidewalk behind the rental box truck. The driver of the SUV slipped a paperboard sign on the dash that had a facsimile of a crucifix and the wording CLERGY—ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS.
Simpson saw the SUV’s right rear door swing open. Out stepped Josiah Cross. The tall, skinny, bearded forty-year-old African-American wore a black cloak with a white clerical collar.
Bingo, Simpson thought.
He zoomed in for a close-up as Cross, dodging traffic, then walked out into the middle of Twenty-ninth Street. Cross put hands on his hips as he looked up at the banner on the yellow rental truck, then surveyed the stage and its posters, and nodded appreciatively.
He turned to start walking back toward the sidewalk—and almost stepped right in front of a car.
As the driver stood on the horn, and then the accelerator, Cross quickly stepped backward out of the path of the roaring car. Then, before he could catch himself, Cross pumped his right arm above his head, his fist in a ball, middle finger extended.
