Authors: Duane Swierczynski
Mahoney consults the best source in the world: Facebook.
Seriously, you’d be surprised how many people hang ridiculously incriminating shit out there in cyberspace. If he’d had Facebook back in the 1990s he could have doubled his arrests, easy. Bad guys can’t resist bragging, and social media gives them the perfect opportunity.
It also is a blindingly easy way to come up with a perp’s associates.
So a search on Tamara Pleece in Philadelphia gives her up straightaway—why hello there, blond darling—along with her circle of friends. Little Pete is right. She knows half the fucking city. But a lot of scrolling turns up exactly zero Sallies. Fuckin’ Pete. Maybe she’s not on Facebook, but that seems unlikely. The goombah probably just botched the name. So let’s narrow it down. Sully? Last name Sullivan, maybe? Nah, only guys go by last names. Sally, Molly, Mary, Marie …
Then he sees it: Sarie Holland. Close enough to be promising.
Clicky-click and he’s on her page. Which she hasn’t updated since December of last year. And after that, a lot of condolence messages to her, none of them replied to. The girl’s mom died, apparently. Sorry stuff.
But that’s not the most interesting thing on her page. Instead it’s a series of hate-posts from a dude named Ryan Koolhaas, all of them a profanity-laced variation on a single theme:
SARIE HOLLAND IS A CUNT SNITCH.
“This sneaky bitch came to me for a couple of pills and the next thing I know I’m arrested and thrown out of school! Don’t trust this frigid cunt! She’s working off her own shit and taking down everyone she can.”
Well, there we go.
Hello, mysterious confidential informant.
MAHONEY: I found the girl.
D’ARGENIO: Yeah?
MAHONEY: You’re going to need to take care of her.
D’ARGENIO:
(lengthy pause)
Why me?
MAHONEY: Because apparently she’s coming with your friend Tammy to a party you’re throwing tonight. And by the way, I’m hurt, dude. You didn’t invite me.
D’ARGENIO: Fuck.
MAHONEY: So what you’re going to do is cancel that party and throw a smaller, more intimate affair. Meanwhile, I’ll follow up with my ex to make sure she doesn’t have any other surprises in store for us.
D’ARGENIO: Fuck. Alright. I’ll let you know.
MAHONEY: You do that.
The names Rem Mahoney and Peter “Little Pete” D’Argenio have already been linked in the media dozens of times. And with good reason: He was the one who busted him back in the naughty nineties—the era Mahoney now refers to as “the good old days.” Because let’s face it, Mahoney’s city is going to hell.
So Mahoney made a side deal with the Italians, who wanted to come back strong. Better the wops than any of the other ethnic screwheads—especially the Mexican cartels. Bring some order back to this crazy city. Confine the junkies to Pill Hill, the Badlands, and let the mob run the rest … so Mahoney can run the mob himself. In Philadelphia, law enforcement isn’t so much about busting gangs as
containing
them. No straight citizen cares when it’s not happening in his or her part of the city. Life’s rough in Killadelphia. You don’t like it? Don’t be a fucking junkie. Don’t sell drugs. You’ll be fine. Mahoney’s family had a long history of tangling with the mob families over the years. They tend to be greedy and stupid and easily controlled. And Mahoney knows he’s the cop who can control them and bring order back to the city. But not if this college girl fucks with it.
It won’t be a big deal. In this town, CIs die all the time.
Not much time to write, Mom, but let me just say this:
Everything comes down to what happens tonight. And everything feels like it’s exploding around me. Dad’s not talking to me (and I guess I can’t blame him). Marty’s looking at me like I’m the daughter of the Devil.
And then there’s this text I just got. I don’t recognize the number, but I know it’s from Partyman:
—Whatever you’re doing … don’t.
Which really inspires confidence, doesn’t it?
But I have to go through with tonight. What choice do I have? I’ve worked too hard to set this up.
Wish me luck.
Ringo spends the afternoon getting the Rat Receiving Station all ready, hanging new plastic sheets, sweeping the concrete slab floor, making sure the industrial-sized drain is clear. The work goes quickly, leaving Ringo enough time to wonder: Who’s the guest they’re expecting? Usually it’s him and Frankenstein (or Bird and Lisa) scooping up their rats right from the street. That was most of the fun, truth be told. But Little Pete said no, just wait there, I’m bringing the rat to you.
And apparently Frankenstein is sitting this one out, which makes Ringo wonder: Has ol’ Franken-face turned traitor on them? Is he the surprise guest tonight?
Ringo ponders and sweeps, ponders and sweeps.
Night comes faster than I want it to.
I don’t want to make the mistake of underdressing for the occasion (again), so I dig out the black cocktail-length dress I wore to an honors formal two months ago. (Mom, you would have really loved this dress.) It’s not exactly appropriate for the time of year, but who cares—I’ll be moving straight from warm car to overheated apartment in a matter of seconds.
Thing is, I can’t get dressed at home without Dad asking a million questions. So I go to the only warm and reasonably safe place I can think of: the nearest Wawa bathroom.
This time, thank God, there’s no wire hidden in my clothes. Wildey managed to get his hands on this pen with a radio transmitter hidden inside. (How very Jason Bourne.) If I start to think that somebody’s about to check me for a wire, it will be a lot easier to ditch a pen than tear off a chunk of my dress—and one hell of a lot less suspicious. Not that Wildey would be happy if I tossed his fancy spy toy. Otherwise this whole thing will be for nothing.
Text message exchange between CI #137 and Tamara Pleece, 12/12/13, 7:47 p.m.The object of tonight’s mission: party with Peter D’Argenio until he loosens up enough to possibly brag about his drug operations. Hell, he’s blabbed all about them to Tammy, so I’m hoping he’ll be in a boastful mood tonight—because Wildey will be there listening the whole time.
PLEECE: Quick change of plans! Peter wants to show us this new nightclub space he’s considering
PLEECE: Can you meet us there?
PLEECE: It’ll be awesome
CI #137: kk where
PLEECE: Sweet here’s the address
I dig the pen out of my purse and speak into it like it’s a talk show microphone. I’ll admit it, Mom: I feel kind of fucking cool.
—Okay, just got a text from Tammy. Change of meeting place. I’m headed to a building on Columbus Boulevard and Race, right under the Ben Franklin Bridge. It’s the only building there, aside from a hotel. Got it? You said to keep talking, constant updates, so there you go. You got my back, partner?
Wildey does not receive this transmission; a full minute before the text message was sent from Tammy Pleece’s cell phone, Captain Rem Mahoney remotely disabled CI #137’s transmission and replaced it with one of his own. Such a thing is ridiculously easy. With access to his ex’s computer and files, he can pretty much do anything.
All Wildey hears is the faint sound of a car engine, which he believes is his informant’s Honda Civic, headed to the Society Hill Towers for a small apartment party.
I find a parking spot right across the street from the building near the Race Street Pier. Within seconds some valet dude comes bounding out of the front doors and crosses the street, dodging traffic, waving at me with Muppet arms. What’s this now? I tuck the burner phone under my seat then talk to the pen one last time.
—Here we go. Wish me luck, Wildey.
I roll down the window just as Valet Guy reaches the car.
—Ms. Holland? Your friends are inside, they’re expecting you. I’ll park your car for you. You don’t want to leave it out here unattended.
I’ll admit it, I don’t like giving up my keys, but what else am I supposed to do?
—Okay, you can park my car, but just be careful with her. She’s temperamental.
Wildey, you with me? You get what I just did there?
Wildey has no idea what she just did there.
Tammy’s creepy old boyfriend Peter opens the door with a big grin on his face.
—Hey, sweetheart, come on in!
I’m already shivering from the brief trot across the avenue. The wind chill off the river is seriously intense.
I scan the interior, which does not resemble a potential nightclub spot in the least. It looks like a big basement—dusty, damp, and dark. And despite its size, the space is weirdly claustrophobic. The door slams shut behind me. I flinch, which at least momentarily stops the shivers. This beefy dude in his fifties stands in the corner, one hand over the other like he’s trying to get through the Procession of Faith with a hangover. He’s wearing a military jacket and black gloves. D’Argenio locks the front doors and there’s a dull, echoing snap as the latch slides home. No. This is not good.
—Uh, where’s Tammy?
D’Argenio smiles.
—It’s just you and me, babe. Well, you, me, and Ringo over there. I thought we’d spend some time getting to know each other. You know all about my business, and I don’t know much about yours.
No no no …
—I’m sorry—I have to go …
—You just got here. You want a drink? Ringo, get her a drink.
The big guy standing in the corner smirks.
—Uh, unless you want me to run out for a six, I’d say we’d better skip the drinks.
D’Argenio shakes his head, smiling.
—Yeah. That’s my fault. I should have said something before. Doesn’t matter.
Wildey, please be hearing this and speeding to my rescue right away.
—I really,
really
have to go.
I do a side step, wondering if I can do an end run around D’Argenio and make it to the door before he does. Then I realize this would do no good, because the key to the locked door is in his pocket.
—Uh-uh.
D’Argenio mimics my side step, blocking my path.
—We have to talk, Sally.
Creep wants to threaten me and he doesn’t even know my name.
—Get the fuck out of my way or I’ll scream.
D’Argenio grins but the expression melts away the second his hands lunge out, reaching for my dress. I pull away, release the most piercing scream I can, and throw a wild punch at D’Argenio, which somehow catches him on the side of his face. No one’s more surprised than me. His eyes water and he’s momentarily stunned, as if he’s asking himself, Did this bitch really just do that? But the big guy with the gloves moves fast and has me in a tight armlock a nanosecond later.
D’Argenio shakes his head, smiles.
—We were just talking. And there you go screaming and hitting. Scream all you want, Sally. The walls and ceiling are soundproof. I made sure. Even if anybody could hear you, they wouldn’t do anything about it. You’re not the first snitch we’ve invited here.
The moment he says the word “snitch,” I know I’m screwed.
—Wildey! I’m inside the building at Columbus and Race! He’s locked the front door!
I struggle to break free, but the big guy has all of his weight against me. I’d be better off trying to nudge a boulder.
D’Argenio chuckles as he pulls a black gun out of his pocket. My stomach turns to water.
—Wildey, huh? Is he your handler? Well, I guess we’d better make sure he hears.
D’Argenio takes a step back, puts his hands at the sides of his mouth, gun still in one of them, and bellows.
—Officer Wildey! Come quick! Your girl needs you! Wildey! What, are you deaf or something? Break down the door!
D’Argenio pauses, cupping a hand around his ear, as if listening intently.
—Huh. Guess he really can’t hear us.
Then, to the boulder behind me:
—Hold her still.
My arm is twisted up behind my back so hard it takes my breath away. The pain is electric. D’Argenio tucks the gun away in the waist of his pants, then touches both sides of my belly gently, as if trying to calm a wild animal.
—Now let’s find that wire.