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He paused, then replied, “Of course. A cup of coffee sounds perfect.”
[ THREE ]
The Roundhouse
Eighth and Race Streets
Philadelphia
Saturday, January 7, 10:02 A.M
After a numb Matt Payne had left Denny Coughlin’s office and eased the door closed behind him—he had feared he might snap and slam the damn thing shut—he crossed the curved hallway and went to the bank of curved exterior windows. He looked down at Race Street, to where his car was parked at the curb, then glanced across the street, off to the right, over Franklin Park.
Jesus! he thought. What just happened?
His mind was still spinning, his ears still ringing. His head felt hot, his temples throbbing with his rapid heartbeat.
It feels like my head is about to explode any second.
I need to get some air.
He turned and quickly followed the corridor around to the stairwell and went down it as fast as he could, with every few steps feeling a sharp pain from his wound.
A blast of cold hit him as he went out the door of the front entrance. The air stung but also seemed to clear his head a little. He inhaled, and stopped walking. He looked for a minute at The Friend—the bronze statue of a uniformed Philadelphia policeman holding a young girl on his hip—before continuing down the steps to the sidewalk.
He walked past his car, heading toward Eighth. At the corner, out of mindless habit, he hit the button for the crosswalk signal, then, impatient, smacked it twice more.
Everything’s broken in this damn city, he thought.
Aw, why do I bother? Screw it . . .
He started to step off the curb and cross the street before the traffic signal cycled—but was startled by two long loud blasts of an air horn on an eighteen-wheeled tractor-trailer rig.
He turned and saw the big rig slowly pulling onto Eighth Street through the fabric-covered chain-link fence of the House of Ming Condominiums construction site. The truck had an enormous empty flatbed trailer, which was rolling very close to the gate and a couple of parked pickups, one topped with a metal rack loaded with long iron pipes and the other covered with the blue-flame logotype of the city-owned Philadelphia Gas Works.
As the trailer cleared the pickups, and the gate, there came more honking, this time from behind the tractor-trailer. It was a steady, long blare from a smaller horn.
Suddenly, a black Chevy Tahoe shot out of the fencing and came around the tractor-trailer, then cut in front of it. Two cars coming down Eighth had to make evasive maneuvers to avoid hitting the SUV.
Just another jerk driver, Payne thought. Breaking a half-dozen laws right in front of the Roundhouse.
Insane . . .
The Tahoe ran the red light, its tires squealing as it took a fast left turn onto Race Street, flying right past Payne.
Sonofabitch! he thought when he got a clear look at the SUV’s driver talking on a cellular telephone. Even without the bruise, I could’ve made out who that is.
What’s Austin doing?
Payne watched as the speeding Tahoe passed where his Porsche was parked.
One damn way to find out . . .
He headed for his car.
—
Matt Payne, driving hard, caught up to John Austin’s Tahoe right as it turned onto North Broad Street.
