Chapter One
Dorian Wilde scurried across Filbert Street towards the menacing frontage of the city of Philadelphias Criminal Justice Center. He skirted a large puddle and hopped on to the sidewalk just in time to avoid a Septa bus traveling much too fast. The storm splattered the Center mercilessly. Black splotches pock-marked the upper floors. Rain streaked down the slick, high windows. A low haze circled the cornices and shrouded the exterior lights.
Tall and broad -shouldered, he made an easy target for the rain drops. He never liked umbrellas. Besides, since the laptop was protected by the waterproof case, nothing else mattered. He dashed across Twelfth Street between two taxis much to the dismay of one driver who hollered, Yo Asshole! Do you think youre Spider Man?
At thirty-eight, he could still run without losing his breath. I am too old for him but some days I answer to batman.
The cabbie flipped him the bird, Answer this, he said and sped away.
Dorian thought about bypassing the coffee stand hed frequented every morning since his brothers murder trial began, but the vendor, an old black woman hed grown to like, waved an empty Styrofoam cup. He was a suspicious man and did want to do anything that might jinx his brother, John.
Howre you this mawnin, Mister Wilde? The ash from a thin, filtered cigarette hung precariously below the corner of her curled lips. Her blue and white knit sweater clung to her wide hips. A tightly wound green Eagles scarf propped up her pudgy face.
Im well, Elsie. And you?
Im fair to middling for an old lady. Hows your brother doing with those Judges?
Dorian slipped two dollars onto the coffee cart sheltered by a ragged yellow and green beach umbrella. He was tempted by the bagels but decided to pass.
Keep the change. Hes hanging in. The arresting officers, Palladino and Browne, testify today.
She wrinkled her nose and snorted, Watch those cops. I know how they plant evidence. Dont matter if youse are white, black or Chinese. You gots to watch out. Theyll git you if they wanna.
Dorian nodded and tipped his fedora. Yes, I know. Palladino was once my partner.
He started away but she tugged at his sleeve. My boy is doin time at Holmesberg prison. It tears my old soul up. How is yo momma holdinup?
Dorian forced a smile. My momma is long gone.
She twisted the cigarette in her lips and puffed on it without using her hands. Sorry. Is your daddy alive?
Dorian eased away. The rain pelted his neck and shoulders. Elsie looked like a mother should look when her son is in trouble -defiant and loving. No daddy either! Uncle Sam got him killed in Vietnam. There is just Johnny and me. I must run.
God bless, she said just as thunder crackled along the narrow street.
Dorian hurried up the slick, marble steps. He nearly slipped, spilling half the hot coffee on the arm of the trench coat and his exposed wrist. Shit! he said to the stinging coffee, to the cold morning and the rain and Elsies damned questions.
The security guards, two retired cops hed worked with until he became a Private Detective, nodded in his direction. The shorter of the two men, Kelsey, served as a Sergeant in the ninth district. Kelsey patted him down with a metal detector. Well check you in. I hear Victor Palladino is on the witness stand today. You are forbidden to shoot Palladino on my watch, said Kelsey. Though I might be okay with it if you shot the fat fuck on someone elses shift.
Not today, said Dorian.
Kelsey opened the laptop case and poked around. Dorian acted nonchalant.
In you go! said Kelsey.
A good ex cop never loses the respect of the men on the job. Hed counted on that trust, especially this morning. Besides, Kelsey had the technical acumen of a worm.
Dorian checked the case with the property clerk but not before he turned the record button to on. The tape would run for four hours.
The courtroom was empty. The Judges stand and witness box needed a coat of wax, he thought as he planted the first bug underneath the corner of the table where Assistant DA Alice Rowe normally sat. The ten foot ceilings often echoed but he was hopeful that the bugs could filter the sound properly. He eased his way to the witness holding room. The paneled, ten foot high walls needed a new coat of lacquer. The varnished wooden benches bore sole witnesses to his crime. He squeezed the door handle just enough to spot a uniformed janitor plying a long- handled broom underneath the bench against the wall. The janitor hummed softly, his back to Dorian. The oblong room had no windows, not even on the heavy wooden door at the far end. The overhead fans hung silently from the ceiling. He really wanted to plant a bug up there but that was out of the question. Dorian edged across the room and was about to slide the bug under the bench when the janitor looked up. Who are you? asked the man. The janitor held the broom tightly.
Dorian smiled and walked right up to the man. Wheres the john?
The janitor shrugged. Outside. You can go out this a way.
Dorian patted the mans shoulder. Is it to the right or left? Show me, please.
The janitor leaned the mop against the wall and turned. Dorian deftly slid the second bug under the bench
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