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After the last of ten trucks passed and the cop directed traffic to begin moving, Payne saw Austin turn the Tahoe in the plant’s entrance.
Payne slowed and looked as he approached the entrance. There were steel gates on either side of a guard shack, one an entrance, one an exit, both now closed. On the shack was signage that read FUTURE MODULAR MANUFACTURING, LLC. / NO VISITORS / NO TRESPASSING.
A gate opened, and the guard waved with his clipboard for the Tahoe to enter.
Payne tried to get a better look at what was inside, but the solid fencing blocked his view. Then he heard the angry screech of a whistle being blown, and, when he looked, he saw the traffic cop by his bumper, motioning for him to move along.
Payne looked at the men setting up along the roadside. Two were pulling red signs from the metal rack of a pickup truck. Their red hats had bold white lettering that read PLUMBERS UNION LOCAL 324.
Payne drove up to the next large intersection and turned around.
Approaching the entrance again, he pulled into a fast-food joint’s parking lot across the street from the plant, stopping when he had a clear view of the guard shack and gates.
He also had a perfect view of the inflatable cartoon animal, now almost fully blown up and rocking in the cold wind. What he saw was the exact opposite of kid-friendly. It was a rabid, teeth-baring rodent. And it held a red sign identical to those the men held: DON’T BE A RAT! UNION JOBS FOR UNION WORKERS!
Payne shut off the engine and studied the protesters.
He picked up his phone—the dash had gone dark with the ignition key off—and texted Tony Harris. Please ask McCrory to see what he can dig up on Future Modular Manufacturing in Doylestown. And what, if any, connection to John Austin he can find.
Payne settled back in his seat to keep watch on the plant’s guard shack. His mind drifted back to his meeting with Denny Coughlin, and ten or so minutes after considering all that had happened, he wondered if he should share it with Amanda. He decided that that could wait, at least until after Carlucci’s press conference.
With the backed-up traffic finally cleared, the cop got in his car and drove off. Shortly after that, the protesters started marching back and forth in front of the entrance to the plant.
Payne’s phone rang and he picked it up.
“What did Dick find out, Tony?”
“He’s still working on it. But I just got word we ID’d the fat guy in the coal tower by his fingerprints. And his blood matched what was found in the back of the stolen van, so that backs up that anonymous text saying he’s the shooter. Also, Krowczyk said that when they first looked at the cell tower dump from Thursday—specifically, at the window between twelve hundred to fourteen hundred hours—the burner flip phone recovered in the van is definitely on it. No surprise there—”
“Yeah. And?”
“And when they cracked that phone, all that was on it was a series of texts from one specific number—another burner phone that also was listed on the tower dump—a half hour before the shooting, then another text every five minutes right up until the shooting.”
“Someone at The Rittenhouse was a lookout.”
“That’s what it smells like to me, too, Matt. But good luck tracking them down.”
“So, who was the shooter?”
“One Daniels, Scott J., white male, age forty-one, with an address in South Philly. He had a meaty rap sheet. Mostly minor offenses. But one was for assault. He beat the living hell out of a construction worker with an iron pipe. Served six months of an eighteen-month sentence, got released three months ago. Still working on getting an ID on the smaller guy.”
“Ugly way to go,” Payne said, watching the line of marching protesters. “But looks like the bastard got as good as he gave.”
“Dumbasses went rogue,” Payne thought again. “There could be o
thers, but we’ll handle it.”
Harris said, “I’ll let you know what Dick comes up with.”
There was a long silence.
“You still there, Matt?”
“Yeah. That construction worker this Daniels thug beat up. Was he union?”
“You mean, like an electrical union guy?”
“Or plumbers, carpenters . . .”
