Deadly Assets (4 page)

Carlucci felt his own throat catch.

I cannot imagine what emotional hell he must've gone through—clearly is still going through—losing his wife and child that way.

No amount of wealth can replace that.

“Frank, you know you have my sincere—”

Fuller again held up his hand, palm out. After a moment, he raised his head and looked again at Carlucci.

“You'll please excuse me for that,” he said, then went on: “Another significant issue is the wretched failure of our city schools. The buildings are run-down, those students who actually graduate high school are ill-equipped for the real world, and more than a few disgraceful teachers and principals, to make themselves look better and thus teaching all the wrong lessons, are going to jail for correcting test answers in that cheating scandal.

“And then there is the matter of city finances—or lack thereof. The budget shortfalls are across the board, pensions are unfunded to the tune of some five billion dollars, and both property and wage taxes have repeatedly risen and are now at record levels. We're selling any assets we can to try to keep afloat. What happens next when all those are gone?” He paused, caught his breath, then said, “Jerry, this city is falling apart—literally—as it does not even have sufficient funds to demolish all the dangerous structures before they simply collapse on their own.”

Fuller saw that Carlucci had a weary look. And that he was nodding.

“Welcome to my world, Frank,” Carlucci said, not pleasantly.

“I understand that I am telling you nothing new. But that does not change the fact that these issues are grave. My companies, as you would expect, constantly study demographics. We have to know all about our customers, both current ones and potential ones. What we have found is disturbing, from the perspective of both the future of my companies and the future of this city. And that is: The majority of those in the current generation of eighteen- to thirty-five-year-olds, citing concern with issues I've just listed, say they won't raise their families in Philadelphia. They are graduating college, sticking around a few years before or after getting married—then moving where taxes and crime are lower and schools are better. This has been going on for years, and it's accelerating. We—you and me and everyone else in this city—need those families and the taxes they pay. Or—”

“Or we go broke,” Carlucci interrupted. “I get it.”

“I must say that I do believe in your style of leadership, Frank. An iron fist properly wielded is effective. But I have come to better appreciate that there are nuances to politics, to getting—and then most importantly, keeping—the support of corporations. Corporations that will create jobs that will keep those families here, and in so doing build a healthier city and generate more tax revenue that in turn will better provide for our citizens.”

“So, what are you saying specifically?”

“What I'm saying, Jerry, is that I believe with my help you can accomplish that, presuming (a) you do what I say and (b) we get you reelected.”

“‘Do what I say,'” Carlucci quickly parroted, trying not to lose his temper.

“For the good of the city,” Fuller said, his tone matter-of-fact and unapologetic. “It's your choice. If you're not open to (a), then I have a number of candidates who are.”

Carlucci met his eyes.

That's damn sure not a veiled threat.

I should tell you to go straight to hell.

But . . . that would not be productive. I don't need you as an enemy.

Carlucci said: “There's no guarantee these others can get elected.”

Fuller shrugged.

“I will grant you that. But I can guarantee that whoever I back will win the primary election, with great odds of winning it all.” He paused to let that sink in, then finished: “And I can guarantee that those who fail to win their second term as mayor, as history has proven, never find themselves going on to win higher office in Harrisburg or Washington.”

Carlucci looked off in the distance. He had not risen to police commissioner and then mayor by being easily intimidated. He was from South Philly and enjoyed a good fight. But long ago he also had learned to be pragmatic.

I may not like the message worth a damn, but I can appreciate its frank delivery.

His candidate, no matter if the guy won or lost in the general election, would leave me out of office.

Forget not being a lame duck—politically I'd be a dead duck.

On the other hand, if I have his backing for mayor, then I probably could bank on it for governor.

What the hell. One step at a time.

I only have to put up with him until my victory speech on election night.

“I'm listening,” Carlucci said, after a moment.

Fuller nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Here's what I'm going to do. I have a fine young man, another product of our city, who graduated at the top of his class at Penn Law. I like to hire our hometown people, and he is an outstanding example of why. I lured him—Edward Stein is his name—away from Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo, and Lester.”

Carlucci's eyebrows rose. He was well-acquainted with what was arguably Philadelphia's most prestigious law firm, particularly founding partner Brewster Cortland Payne II.

“I imagine Brew Payne was not happy with that,” Carlucci said.

“Perhaps. But as his firm represents a great deal of my business, you might say it's all in the family. Much like Stein working for you. Presently, Stein is one of my senior vice presidents. He will be your executive counsel, or whatever you wish to call him, and will provide counsel to you. He will also report to me.”

Carlucci watched as Fuller then stood, nodded once, and, without another word, walked out of the office.

[ THREE ]

Chief Executive Adviser Ed Stein tapped his pen on his legal pad again.

“The media coverage from those murders will have a direct impact on revenues,” he said.

James Finley added: “Do I have to remind you, Mr. Mayor, that this city will implode without the revenue from tourism? Kiss some four billion—or potentially more—dollars good-bye. That's how much the thirty-five million leisure visitors spent last year in Philly, generating for the city almost five hundred million—a half-billion—in tax revenue. And that's not counting convention business. It's long been on the decline, and the fewer people who come for business translates into fewer who will return with their families.”

“I would not characterize it as imploding,” Stein offered, earning him a glare from Finley. “But it certainly is the tip of the financial iceberg, and that has to improve or else Center City's shiny towers, high-end retail spaces, and hotels and restaurants could slowly empty and eventually falter. If people see Philly as a place of crumbling buildings and slain tourists—which is today's reality—they will take their money elsewhere.” He paused, and then added, “When was the last time you heard someone say, ‘Hey, how about we take the family for a vacation in Detroit!'?”

First Deputy Police Commissioner Coughlin chuckled, and immediately felt Finley staring at him. He looked at Stein.

“Sorry. I take your point.”

Stein went on: “When the tourists don't show, everyone suffers. Especially now. For many businesses, how well holiday sales go makes or breaks them for the year. And no sales means no sales tax. It's lose-lose.”

“Something is going to have to be done about stopping these murders!” Finley said. “Something different that works. And now. It's only ten days until Christmas . . .”

“Listen,” Carlucci said, “I like to think I know a thing or two about police work—”

“I know, I know,” Finley interrupted, his tone clearly one of frustration. “You've ‘held every job but meter maid'—”

“Every job but
policewoman
,” Carlucci snapped, and was immediately sorry he'd lost his temper.

Did that bastard just goad me into that?

“Let me be clear,” Finley said. “I do not need this job. I took it because I love this city. And because you asked me. That is, Ed asked me to work with him.”

Carlucci looked at him.

And you—maybe both of you—will report back to Frank Fuller what you perceive to be my failures.

“Look,” Carlucci went on evenly, “I take great pride in my time on the force. And, as mayor, I continue to take great pride in seeing that our laws are enforced, our people protected.”

“Then what do you plan to do?” Finley said. “Two families are about to visit the morgue and have to identify their dead teenage son and daughter. And that animal put a young mother through hell by kidnapping her child!”

“We're as disgusted by this as you are, James,” Carlucci said. “The first thing we're doing is putting more uniforms on the street, beginning with a surge in Center City.”

He looked at Coughlin, who nodded.

“Including all of the Mounted Patrol Unit,” Coughlin added.

“‘Mounted Patrol'?” Finley repeated.

“Officers on horseback,” Coughlin said. “Very effective, both from the vantage point of being higher and seeing more ground and from the ability to cover a lot of that ground quickly. There's also a PR aspect—the public really likes seeing the horses, and are more prone to interact with the officers, take pictures, that sort of thing.”

Stein nodded thoughtfully.

Carlucci then turned and looked between Finley and Stein as he went on: “But know that even if we put a uniform on every street corner, there simply is no definitive way to protect against a thug hell-bent on killing. Take, for example, John Kennedy and Ronald Reagan. Both were surrounded by layers of Secret Service agents actively looking for a possible attack, yet determined men still got to them. So, even if we'd had a uniform dive in front of the girl, there's no guarantee it would've saved her from being stabbed.”

“Murders are up and our case clearance rates are down,” Coughlin put in, “because things are different now. Back in the day, most victims knew their killers, and it was only a matter of time—usually within the first forty-eight hours—before we connected those dots, caught the doer, and gave the district attorney's office a solid case to put them away.”

“But . . . ?” Finley said, crossing his arms.

“Today, though, random stranger-on-stranger crime—murders, robberies, purse snatchings, carjackings—it's everywhere. Drug dealers kill one another battling for turf—something that might explain what happened again just yesterday in Kensington. And these murders this morning could have been, say, some gang's rite of initiation. Anything's possible. We will know more from our investigations.” He paused, then added, “But understand that budget shortfalls have hit us hard, too. We're stretched thin. Our department is down significantly from our onetime strength of eight thousand. I've had to cancel two police academy sessions. And I won't get into our outdated gear, et cetera. If it weren't for federal grants for equipment and things like the FOP getting local supporters to donate body armor, we'd be in trouble.”

“The Fraternal Order of Police is having to do that?” Finley said, then, with a look of frustration, slowly shook his head as he looked down at his shoes.

Behind Finley, on the television, the attractive female reporter had turned from looking into the camera and was reaching up with her microphone, putting it before a nicely tanned male in his mid-twenties who looked as if he'd just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers advertisement.

The caption at the bottom of the screen read
HOMICIDE SGT. MATTHEW PAYNE ON PARK MURDERS: “WE WILL NOT REST UNTIL WE FIND WHO COMMITTED THESE ATROCITIES.”

Jesus,
Coughlin thought,
don't let Finley see Matty or he'll really get his shorts in a knot.

Then he glanced at the mayor, who had a slight grin as he looked at the TV, and guessed he was having similar thoughts.

But Jerry's probably smirking because he's hoping that it gets under Finley's skin.

Then Coughlin looked back toward Finley, and on the television saw the caption had changed to
A POLICE SOURCE REPORTS THAT SGT. PAYNE WAS
CLEARED LAST WEEK BY INTERNAL AFFAIRS IN NOVEMBER'S SHOOT-OUT ON
CASINO BOARDWALK THAT LEFT 3 DEAD.

Finley looked up and saw that everyone was looking behind him.

He turned to the television just as the caption changed to
SGT. PAYNE IS ALSO KNOWN AS THE WYATT EARP OF THE MAIN LINE.

“Damn it!” Finley said. “And now him!”

“What?” Carlucci said, now stone-faced, purposefully having lost the grin. “Payne gets his man. It's what you said you wanted.”

Finley's head jerked. He met the mayor's eyes.

Here it comes,
Coughlin thought.

Finley, he's playing you like a fine instrument . . .

“What I
want,
” James Finley snapped, “is for there to be fewer killings so he will have fewer bastards to go after—and fewer chances for him to get in shoot-outs that wind up sensationalized in the media with that Wild West tagline!”

“When that nickname first made headlines,” Carlucci said, somewhat sharply, “the reporter meant it as a compliment. Marshal Earp was considered the most effective lawman of his time. Matt comes from a family of good cops. His father was killed by a robber months before Matt was born. And it reflects well on the department to have in its ranks officers from the Main Line, especially one who's smarter than hell. He graduated from the University of Pennsylvania summa cum laude and, not surprisingly, scored the highest in the department on the sergeant's exam.” Carlucci glanced at Coughlin, then looked at Finley. “And, because Matt also comes from money, he doesn't need his job, either. In a sense the same as you, James—with one difference.”