Dead Ringer

“It won’t do the tourism business any good, and it doesn’t help CompStat either.” The detective was referring to the crime statistics the Philadelphia police had instituted under the now-legendary Commissioner John Timoney. “Now with these two murders, it throws off the numbers. Shame of it is, we decreased street crime in the Center City District last year by adding beat cops. You would think it would help with these tourists.” Detective Needleman was thinking aloud, and Be

“How would somebody know he’s a tourist, just by looking?” Be

“S’okay, these are all good questions, and I don’t mind being backstopped. My partner’s on disability and I’m solo until he comes back.” Detective Needleman waved the apology away. “Foreigners, or tourists, are easy marks because they have lots of dough on them, and they don’t expect violence the way we do. They don’t take the precautions. They walk in dumb places, not paying attention. They think they’re safe here, like they are at home.”

Be

“Sure. He smoked those weird cigarettes, he was smoking one when he got hit. Also, from the cut of his clothes, his expensive suit. He dressed too nice for here, especially for Philly.”

Be

“He had very polished shoes, a little formal. Lace-ups, and I never saw that kind here. A fancy silk tie. You could tell he was different, not from here, even if you couldn’t tell he was European. Same thing with the Belgian, and he was an international banker.”

Be

“Of course. They can tell Iversons at fifty yards.”

“In the dark?”

“Probably followed him for a while. It’s Center City, plenty of light around.”

Be

“There you go. So did the Belgian guy.” Detective Needleman nodded, acknowledging that she was with the program.

“Any witnesses?”

“No, at least not yet.” His gaze returned to the scene. The klieglight reflected bright on his face, limning the contours of soft, almost jowly features, a short nose framed with deep laugh lines. He was about fifty years old, and he laughed a lot. Just not right now; his mouth had a grave set to it. “The vic’s driver’s license said he lived at the Manchester, on Rittenhouse Square. Nice place. Condos, isn’t it?’

“I’ve never been. Robert was my client for only a few days.”

“Very nice place. I went there for the notification. Just got back.”

Be

“Sure, it’s procedure. I got his name from the wallet and I went over.”

“Waste of your time, huh? He doesn’t have family in town. His wife is dead and his son’s at law school, at Harvard.”

Needleman shook his head. “I know, but the brother was at home. He lives in the same building. When I went looking for next of kin, they told me at the desk.”

“He lives in the Manchester too?” Be

“Yes. I did the notification, and the man got pretty broken up. Name is Georges. They were supposed to have di

Be

St. Amien’s eyes were horribly open, fixed and unseeing, and his mouth livid and contorted with agony. His glasses were off, and his head was turned to the nearer of the klieglights, his skin as white as the beam itself. Oh my God. No. His tie remained carefully knotted but his suit jacket had been rent by the knife blade and lay open, exposing his chest to the klieglight, which cruelly illuminated a vivid crimson mass of sopping red blood that had spread from the many cuts. The coroner and his assistants moved expertly around the corpse, returning with the stainless-steel gurney and preparing the body to be transported, but Be

“You okay?” the detective asked, concerned, but she had already turned away, covering her eyes with her hands, almost involuntarily. She was supposed to be professional, but she couldn’t deal with it. The horror of the crime. The very violence of the act, and of Robert’s death. Be

Be

“I want to get whoever did this to him,” Be

Detective Needleman almost smiled. “You must feel better.”

“I will when I can get those questions answered, and not until.”

“I can answer one of them.”

“Which one?”

“Why he was here,” the detective answered matter-of-factly, and Be