W.E.B Griffin - The Traffickers

And it’s good to be among people who actually know all the words to our national anthem.

And are respectful of it.

Hand over heart. No talking during its singing. No yelling “play ball!” at its end.

A real class act.

Hollaran now said, “If you’ll please join me in welcoming First Deputy Police Commissioner Denny Coughlin…”

The room filled with polite applause as Hollaran handed the microphone to Coughlin.

“Hear, hear, Denny!” a dashing gentleman seated at a table closer to the lectern called out as he pounded the tablecloth with an open hand.

Byrth saw Payne make eye contact with the gentleman. He looked to be about fifty. He wore a crisp seersucker suit and red bow tie. He was enjoying a cigar the size of a small baseball bat. He nodded politely at Payne.

Payne saw that Byrth was watching and leaned over.

“D. H. Rendolok,” Payne whispered as he nodded in Rendolok’s direction. “Can usually be found at the bar lost in his thoughts and an enormous cloud of Honduran cigar smoke. His father-in-law was one of our finest police commissioners, under a previous mayor. His wife gave up a lucrative law practice to become one of the most respected judges in Eastern Pennsylvania, if not the entire Eastern Seaboard. D.H. won’t tell you himself, but he volunteers time as a consultant in building structure analysis in a highly classified homeland security project. Good people.”

Byrth nodded. He then looked at Coughlin.

The big Irishman smiled warmly. He held up his hand to get them to stop. “Thank you. That’s quite kind of you.”

The crowd became quiet.

Coughlin said: “As usual, I must begin by saying that this session is off the record. What’s said here in the Grant Room stays in the Grant Room.” He grinned. “My old pal Ulysses would want it that way.”

He got the expected chuckles.

“That said, I want to repeat Frank’s sincere thanks for all of you taking time to be here. It tells me that not only do we have fine citizens who care about our great city, we also have people who care about what their police department is doing.”

Byrth saw more than a few heads nodding. But he also heard behind him what sounded like a derisive grunt. And some mumbling.

He turned and saw two men right behind him, at the next table.

Byrth did not hear exactly what had been said. But the tone and body language-and knowing smirks-clearly suggested that it had been derogatory.

The two men were murmuring between themselves. They looked to be between thirty-five and forty-and terribly smug. One had what could be described as a three-day growth of beard. It was what in some circles passed for a fashion statement and in certain other circles qualified for insubordination. The other was skinny and frail, appearing almost sickly.

“Inbred” comes to mind, Byrth thought.

Or “professorial.”

Well, at least the bearded one looks like he could be a college teacher.

One tenured or someone still living on Daddy’s Money-same difference.

When the bearded one noticed Byrth looking at him, he made a face that was at once condescending and disdainful. Then the bearded one looked at Payne in his undersized loaner blazer and at Harris in his wrinkled well-worn blazer. He made a similar look of condescending disdain.

He’s clearly decided that we’re all interlopers.

I’m surprised he hasn’t called for security to have us booted out.

Byrth turned his attention back to Coughlin. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Payne had not missed any of that exchange.

Byrth looked at Payne, who shook his head just perceptibly in a gesture of mild disgust.

“It’s been another challenging day in our fair city,” Coughlin was saying. “You very likely have seen part of it on tonight’s newscasts. We had two deaths at the motel on Frankford that blew up around two o’clock this morning. We believe the explosion was caused by a lab manufacturing illegal drugs. Two other people were injured in the blast and taken to Temple University Hospital’s Burn Unit ICU. Then, later in the morning, there was a shooting at the Reading Terminal Market. It was a multiple murder, including that of innocent bystanders. Our detectives and investigators found evidence that that shooting was also drug-related. Then, just before noon, an assassin disguised as a hospital orderly snuck into the Burn Unit’s ICU and murdered one of the victims from the motel explosion. The assassin-”

He pulled the microphone away and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me.”

Hollaran brought him a glass of water from their table.

“Thank you, Frank. As I was saying, that assassin was pursued through the streets of Philly on foot by one of our Homicide sergeants. The assassin shot at the sergeant. Just before he unfortunately got away, the sergeant, we believe, wounded him. The shot was made to his leg in an effort to stop him, not cause fatal injury.”

My ass, Payne thought. I wanted that sonofabitch dead.

I was aiming for a chest shot, hoping it might turn into a head shot.

Breathing so hard, it knocked my aim off-that’s why I only winged the sonofabitch!

Byrth looked at him and smiled conspiratorially.

Payne thought, He just read my mind!

He grinned back.

“Finally,” Coughlin went on, “about the time of that foot chase, the Marine Unit of the Philly PD recovered from the Schuylkill River the body of a young Hispanic woman.”

One of the few females in the audience gasped audibly.

“Yes,” Coughlin said softly. “And I’m saddened to say that that story gets worse. Before this poor young woman was put in a black trash bag and weighted and tossed in the river, she had been beheaded.”

“My God!” the woman now said loudly and forcefully.

“And within the last hour, we have additional information that gives us reason to believe beyond any doubt that we know who her killer is. We are applying our full resources in apprehending him. As well as the others.”

There was a wave of appreciative murmuring though the audience.

Then Byrth heard the bearded one’s voice say in a stage whisper: “These Keystone Kops couldn’t catch a cold barefoot in a December snowstorm.”

His inbred pal chuckled.

“And with that information,” Coughlin went on at the front of the Grant Room, “we now have a common thread between all these crimes I’ve mentioned: illicit drugs.”

Another audible wave went through the audience.

Coughin nodded. “Now, tonight I’m going to depart from the usual focus on Philly. I’ve given you just now an idea of what problems our city faces today. And I mean today.” He looked to the table in the back of the room with Payne, Harris, and Byrth. He gestured. “I am privileged to introduce some of our finest members of law enforcement who are with us tonight. The first is a guest, Sergeant James Byrth of the Texas Rangers.”

Byrth half-stood, waved once, then glanced at the two men behind him as he backed down. The audience applauded politely.

Their body language is saying, “Oh, so you’re cops. That’s how the riffraff gets in the Union League.”

Coughlin went on: “Just like those Texas Rangers of fame and legend who have proceeded him, Sergeant Byrth is on the trail of the fellow who we now believe killed this girl and, last week, two others in Texas. Beside him is Homicide Detective Anthony Harris”-a somewhat shy Harris half-stood and gestured to the crowd, then sat down-“who this morning was among the first on the scene of the motel explosion. Tony has had a very long day.”

There was another smattering of polite applause.

“And finally, Sergeant Matthew Payne, also of our Homicide Unit. Many of you, I’m sure, are familiar with the Payne name, if not with Matthew personally. Sergeant Payne is a legacy member of this fine society, his great-grandfather having been among the founders of the Union League.”