Deadly Assets (15 page)

“I wasn't.”

“That's right. You certainly weren't thinking.”

“No, I mean I wasn't planning I'd be at that, or any other, damn rally. I've got too much other stuff going on. I just now heard about it from this new guy Stein. And I need to call him back quick. What he said was . . .”

When Badde finished repeating the conversation, Jan shook her head.

“How do you get involved with all these jackasses like Cross?” she said, her tone disgusted. “Okay, here's what you're going to do, first call back Stein and then . . .”

—

Two minutes later, Badde was back on his Go To Hell phone, and the moment Stein answered, he announced: “Okay, Monday afternoon is Feed Philly Day. I'll be back for that, and we can meet then.”

Stein did not immediately reply.

“I'm sorry,” Stein then said. “You said Monday afternoon is
what
?”

“It's our annual Feed Philly Day. We park a delivery truck full of frozen turkeys in front of the Word of Brotherly Love, and pass them out to the citizens. And we—are you aware that there are people who don't even have a stove or oven, and many more who may have one but can't afford the power to use them?—we will serve a thousand holiday dinners at the fellowship hall. Do you know what a difference that makes in the lives of our citizens, especially during the holidays?” He cleared his throat, then self-righteously added, “That's how one who truly cares is supposed to reach out and make a difference in the community, something beyond the usual constituent services.”

Stein was quiet a moment.

“All right,” Stein finally said, “I'll be there. But today is Saturday. What about today's rally? I'm not at all suggesting the rally should not take place. It is certainly the mayor's position that there are too many murders, and that if Reverend Cross can help address that—and address it constructively—everyone will be better off.” He paused, then in a stronger tone went on, “But the mayor will absolutely not tolerate the targeting of the police department and its officers. This demonizing is destructive. And besides being ethically wrong, it's also factually incorrect. As chairman of CPOC, Cross must know how few homicides are actually committed by police each year and that—at least in the last ten years—all have been cleared as justified.” He paused again, then added, “Since you're on the Public Safety Committee, you should know how many.”

There was a long moment's silence, and when Badde realized that he was expected to answer, he said, “Well, not off the top of my head, but I'm sure you can tell me. As I said, I'm deeply involved with other city committees and can't be expected to remember all the minutiae from every one.”

He'd pronounced minutiae “minn-you-tee-uh,” and now could be heard softly uttering, “Huh? It's ‘min-eww-sha'? Oh.” Then in a louder voice said into the phone: “Such
minutiae
from every one.”

“Only nine all this year,” Stein said, and then blurted, “And that's hardly
trivial
information. So you need to rein in your goddamn man. And now.”

“What I can do,” Badde said after a moment, “is call and attempt to persuade Reverend Cross to focus on the wider topic, and not the department.”

“Fine. You do that. And have him return my call right after you do. Now, I'm going to touch base with Councilman Lane, whom I know is very concerned about today's events.”

From the far side of the airplane, Badde heard a vehicle approaching. When he looked to the nose of the jet, a shiny gold Jeep Wrangler with oversized tires rolled into view, then stopped near the tip of the wing.

“I'll make the call,” Badde said into the phone, “and get back to you.”

Badde listened, heard nothing, then realized that Stein had hung up.

Jan, he saw, was surveying the Jeep. The sport utility vehicle had had its doors removed and there was no top, only a foam-padded roll-bar above the seats. Neat lettering along both sides of the hood read
QUEENS CLUB, A ROYAL YELLOWROSE RESORT
.

He also quickly noted that the driver, in her late twenties, was stunning.

She had a rich chestnut tan, and her short blond hair had been pulled back into a tight ponytail that bounced with the vehicle. She wore what appeared to be a nautical-themed uniform that consisted of tight navy shorts and a sheer white short-sleeved captain's shirt (each epaulet had gold stars pinned to it) that fit very snugly over her ample bosom. Badde looked—and looked—but could not see any suggestion of a suntan line.

She hopped out and waved as she walked toward them.

“Welcome to paradise!” she said. “Mr. Santos has been expecting you. I'm to take you to Queens Club.”

Jan Harper had somewhat expected to hear an English accent. She knew the Caymans were, after all, a British territory, and the woman looked as if she'd be equally at home in, say, London's trendy Notting Hill. What came out of the woman's mouth, however, made Jan think she sounded Russian.

At least, she's Eastern European something
.

But she could pass, on looks alone if she kept her mouth shut, for a Main Line wife at the Merion Golf Club.

Or one at Rittenhouse Square.

I guess that's why she does look so familiar.

Jan studied her.

Wait. That's it—the bar in Vista Fiume!

But you'd think I would've remembered that accent, especially because of Yuri.

The new five-star “River View” took up half of the entire thirty-seventh floor of Two Liberty Place, the city's third tallest tower that was midway—a few blocks—between Rittenhouse Square and City Hall. The fashionable restaurant and its enormous lounge featured panoramic views of the city and its iconic rivers, the Schuylkill and Delaware. It, and its moneyed international clientele, had set the new standard for late nightlife in Philly.

Janelle knew it was owned by a company controlled by the international investor Yuri Tikhonov, in large part because he also held, through shell companies, forty-nine percent of Diamond Development, which was in partnership with the Philadelphia Economic Gentrification Initiative.

Tikhonov—a wealthy forty-eight-year-old Russian rumored to have high connections in Moscow from his time in the intelligence agency Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—had struck fear in Badde in early November at Vista Fiume when he very quietly announced, stone-faced, that “friends” had taken care of three people who were holding up the final demolition for their PEGI-sponsored project.

Badde, incredulous, asked how. Tikhonov, his tone matter-of-fact, replied that it had been done by injecting them with succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant with a short half-life that could stop the heart and become undetectable after an hour.

Badde, not knowing what to believe at the time, now knew one thing for certain about the dead men—the cause of their deaths, from the start listed as “unknown,” remained unsolved.

And that—having initially wondered why Tikhonov would share such a damning admission—in turn had caused Badde, with bile suddenly rising in his throat, to decide that the Russian's purpose had been coldly calculated.

Tikhonov was quietly suggesting that such “friends” could visit Badde, and anyone else, if they displeased the former spy. And, as with the three holdouts, there would never be any way to link Tikhonov to the act.

“I think we've met?” Jan asked, but she made it sound more of a statement.

“Yes, of course. I'm Illana,” she said, offering her hand. “A month or so ago? At Vista Fiume. It's nice to see both of you again.”

“Well,” Jan said, shaking her hand, “I should say it's a small world. But I guess it's really not in certain circles.”

Illana smiled. “I recognized you, too.”

Jan glanced at the Jeep, and Illana followed her eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Jan said, looking back at Illana, “but I forgot what you told us it is that you do.”

“Of course,” Illana said. “I am what I like to call a hospitality ambassador. Our company provides consulting services and more to world-class properties.” She glanced at the Jeep, then added, “There's usually a driver, but Mr. Santos asked that I personally meet your flight.”

“Properties like Vista Fiume?” Jan said, somewhat suspiciously.

“Yes,” Illana said, not showing that she had picked up on the inflection. “And also to Yellowrose resorts, such as Queens Club, and various other fine properties.” She turned to Rapp Badde. “I understand from Mr. Santos that we will soon provide the same to new properties in your Philadelphia.”

“That's what I've been told,” Badde said, nodding. He looked at Jan, and added, “That's what I was telling you we worked out when I met Santos in Dallas.”

Jan looked at him, raised her eyebrows, then turned to Illana.

“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.

O'Hara, his head down, shoulders slumped, and with his hands stuffed in his overcoat pockets, didn't speak. His face showed a mix of intense concentration and a certain sadness. He motioned with a nod for Matt to follow him to the house.

Just shy of the concrete steps, O'Hara stepped around a yellow-stained melted spot in the snow on the sidewalk.

“That's mine,” he said, his voice a monotone.

Payne looked at it.

Mickey threw up.

And, judging by the direction of his shoe prints, after he'd left the house.

He's seen a lot over the years. Not much bothers him.

But it can and does happen to all of us.

He followed O'Hara up the three concrete steps—and immediately saw bloody tracks across the worn paint of the wooden porch. They had an aggressive waffle pattern, suggesting they had been made by heavy boots, for either work or hiking, and they led out from the front door. He could see that the wooden front door was open about three inches, with no evidence of any forced entry.