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  PRAISE FOR W.E.B. GRIFFIN’S ALL-TIME CLASSIC SERIES,

  BADGE OF HONOR

  W.E.B. Griffin’s electrifying epic series of a big-city police force…

  “DAMN EFFECTIVE…He captivates you with characters the way few authors can.”

  —Tom Clancy

  “TOUGH, AUTHENTIC…POLICE DRAMA AT ITS BEST…Readers will feel as if they’re part of the investigation, and the true-to-life characters will soon feel like old friends. Excellent reading.”

  —Dale Brown, bestselling author of Day of the Cheetah and Hammerheads

  “COLORFUL…GRITTY…TENSE.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “A REAL WINNER.”

  —New York Daily News

  “NOT SINCE JOSEPH WAMBAUGH have we been treated to a police story of the caliber that Griffin gives us. He creates a story about real people in a real world doing things that are AS REAL AS TODAY’S HEADLINES.”

  —Harold Coyle, bestselling author of Team Yankee and Sword Point

  “FANS OF ED MCBAIN’S 87TH PRECINCT NOVELS BETTER MAKE ROOM ON THEIR SHELVES…Badge of Honor is first and foremost the story of the people who solve the crimes. The characters come alive.”

  —Gainesville Times (GA)

  “GRITTY, FAST-PACED…AUTHENTIC.”

  —Richard Herman, Jr., author of The Warbirds

  THE CORPS

  W.E.B. Griffin’s bestselling saga of the heroes we call Marines…

  “THE BEST CHRONICLER OF THE U.S. MILITARY EVER TO PUT PEN TO PAPER.”

  —Phoenix Gazette

  “A BRILLIANT STORY…NOT ONLY WORTHWHILE, IT’S A PUBLIC SERVICE.”

  —The Washington Times

  “GREAT READING. A superb job of mingling fact and fiction…[Griffin’s] characters come to life.”

  —The Sunday Oklahoman

  ‘THIS MAN HAS REALLY DONE HIS HOMEWORK…I confess to impatiently awaiting the appearance of succeeding books in the series.”

  —The Washington Post

  “GRIFFIN’S BOOKS HAVE HOOKED ME…THERE IS NO ONE BETTER.”

  —Chattanooga News-Free Press

  “W.E.B. GRIFFIN HAS DONE IT AGAIN!”

  —Rave Reviews

  “ACTION-PACKED…DIFFICULT TO PUT DOWN.”

  —Marine Corps Gazette

  BROTHERHOOD OF WAR

  A sweeping military epic of the United States Army that became a New York Times bestselling phenomenon.

  “A MAJOR WORK…MAGNIFICENT…POWERFUL…If books about warriors and the women who love them were given medals for authenticity, insight and honesty, Brotherhood of War would be covered with them.”

  —William Bradford Huie, author of The Klansman and The Execution of Private Slovik

  “Brotherhood of War gets into the hearts and minds of those who by choice or circumstances are called upon to fight our nation’s wars.”

  —William R. Corson, Lt Col. (Ret) U.S.M.C., author of The Betrayal and The Armies of Ignorance

  “Captures the rhythms of army life and speech, its rewards and deprivations…A WELL-WRITTEN, ABSORBING ACCOUNT.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “REFLECTS THE FLAVOR OF WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A PROFESSIONAL SOLDIER.”

  —Frederick Downs, author of The Killing Zone

  “LARGE, EXCITING, FAST-MOVING.”

  —Shirley Ann Grau, author of The Keepers of the House

  “A MASTER STORYTELLER who makes sure each book stands on its own.”

  —Newport News Press

  “GRIFFIN HAS BEEN CALLED THE LOUIS L’AMOUR OF MILITARY FICTION, AND WITH GOOD REASON.”

  —Chattanooga News-Free Press

  TITLES BY W.E.B. GRIFFIN

  HONOR BOUND

  HONOR BOUND

  BLOOD AND HONOR

  SECRET HONOR

  BROTHERHOOD OF WAR

  BOOK I: THE LIEUTENANTS

  BOOK II: THE CAPTAINS

  BOOK III: THE MAJORS

  BOOK IV: THE COLONELS

  BOOK V: THE BERETS

  BOOK VI: THE GENERALS

  BOOK VII: THE NEW BREED

  BOOK VIII: THE AVIATORS

  BOOK IX: SPECIAL OPS

  THE CORPS

  BOOK I: SEMPER FI

  BOOK II: CALL TO ARMS

  BOOK III: COUNTERATTACK

  BOOK IV: BATTLEGROUND

  BOOK V: LINE OF FIRE

  BOOK VI: CLOSE COMBAT

  BOOK VII: BEHIND THE LINES

  BOOK VIII: IN DANGER’S PATH

  BOOK IX: UNDER FIRE

  BOOK X: RETREAT, HELL!

  BADGE OF HONOR

  BOOK I: MEN IN BLUE

  BOOK II: SPECIAL OPERATIONS

  BOOK III: THE VICTIM

  BOOK IV: THE WITNESS

  BOOK V: THE ASSASSIN

  BOOK VI: THE MURDERERS

  BOOK VII: THE INVESTIGATORS

  BOOK VIII: FINAL JUSTICE

  MEN AT WAR

  BOOK I: THE LAST HEROES

  BOOK II: THE SECRET WARRIORS

  BOOK III: THE SOLDIER SPIES

  BOOK IV: THE FIGHTING AGENTS

  BOOK V: THE SABOTEURS

  BOOK VI: THE DOUBLE AGENTS

  PRESIDENTIAL AGENT

  BOOK I: BY ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT

  BOOK II: THE HOSTAGE

  BOOK III: THE HUNTERS

  THE VICTIM

  THIRD IN THE BADGE OF HONOR SERIES

  W.E.B. GRIFFIN

  For Sergeant Zebulon V. Casey

  Internal Affairs Division

  Police Department, Retired, the City of Philadelphia.

  He knows why.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  BADGE OF HONOR: THE VICTIM

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 1991 by W.E.B. Griffin.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street. New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-4406-3861-9

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Str
eet, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ONE

  On the train from New York to Philadelphia, Charles read Time and Victor read The Post. Charles was thirty-three but could have passed for twenty-five. Victor was thirty-five, but his male pattern baldness made him look older. They were both dressed neatly in business suits, with white button-down shirts and rep-striped neckties. Both carried attaché cases. When the steward came around the first time, when they came out of the tunnel into the New Jersey wetlands, Charles ordered a 7-Up but the steward said all they had was Sprite, and Charles smiled and said that would be fine. Victor ordered coffee, black, and when the steward delivered the Sprite and the coffee, he handed him a five-dollar bill and told him to keep the change. Just outside of Trenton, they had another Sprite and another cup of black coffee, and again Charles gave the steward a five-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

  Both Charles and Victor felt a little sorry for someone who had to try to raise a family or whatever on what they paid a steward.

  When the conductor announced, “North Philadelphia, North Philadelphia next,” Charles opened his attaché case and put Time inside and then stood up. He took his Burberry trench coat from the rack and put it on. Then he handed Victor his topcoat and helped him into it. Finally he took their luggage, substantially identical soft carry-on clothing bags from the rack, and laid it across the back of the seat in front of them, which was not occupied.

  Then the both of them sat down again as the train moved through Northeast Philadelphia and then slowed as it approached the North Philadelphia station.

  Victor looked at his watch, a gold Patek Philipe with a lizard band.

  “Three-oh-five,” he said. “Right on time.”

  “I heard that Amtrak finally got their act together,” Charles replied.

  When the train stopped, Charles and Victor walked to the rear of the car, smiled at the steward, and got off. They walked down a filthy staircase to ground level, and then through an even filthier tunnel and came out in a parking lot just off North Broad Street.

  “There it is,” Victor said, nodding toward a year-old, 1972 Pontiac sedan. When he had called from New York City, he had been told what kind of car would be waiting for them, and where it would be parked, and where they could find the keys: on top of the left rear tire.

  As they walked to the car both Victor and Charles took pigskin gloves from their pockets and put them on. There was no one else in the parking lot, which was nice. Victor squatted and found the keys where he had been told they would be, and unlocked the driver’s door. He reached inside and opened the driver’s-side rear door and laid his carry-on bag on the seat and closed the door. Then he got behind the wheel, closed the driver’s door, and reached over and unlocked the door for Charles.

  Charles handed the top of his carry-on bag to Victor, who put it on his lap, and then Charles got in, slid under the lower portion of his carry-on bag, and closed his door. Charles and Victor looked around the parking lot. There was no one in sight.

  Charles felt under the seat and grunted. Carefully, so that no one could see what he was doing, he took what he had found under the seat, a shotgun, and laid it on top of the carry-on bag.

  He saw that it was a Remington Model 1100 semiautomatic 12-gauge with a ventilated rib. It looked practically new.

  Charles pulled the action lever back, checked carefully to make sure it was unloaded, and then let the action slam forward again.

  He then felt beneath the seat again and this time came up with a small plastic bag. It held five Winchester Upland shotgun shells.

  “Seven and a halfs,” he said, annoyance and perhaps contempt in his voice.

  “Maybe he couldn’t find anything else,” Victor said, “or maybe he thinks that a shotgun shell is a shotgun shell.”

  “More likely he wants to make sure I get close,” Charles said. “He doesn’t want anything to go wrong with this. I had a phone call just before I left for the airport.”

  “Saying what?”

  “He wanted to be sure I understood that he didn’t want anything to go wrong with this. That’s why he called me himself.”

  “What did this guy do, anyway?”

  “You heard what I heard. He went in business for himself,” Charles said. “Bringing stuff up from Florida and selling it to the niggers.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “I believe that he probably got involved with the niggers, but I don’t think that’s the reason we’re doing a job on him.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “What do you think?”

  “If Savarese was a younger man, I’d say maybe he caught this guy hiding the salami in the wrong place. It’s something personal like that, anyhow. If he had just caught him doing something, business, he shouldn’t have been doing, he probably would have taken care of him himself.”

  “Maybe this guy is related to him or something,” Victor said, “and he doesn’t want it to get out that he had a job done on him.”

  “I don’t want to know. He told me he went into business for himself with the niggers, that’s what I believe. I wouldn’t want Savarese to think I didn’t believe him, or that I got nosy and started asking questions.”

  He loaded the shotgun. When it had taken three of the shotshells, it would take no more.

  “Damn,” Charles said. He worked the action three times, to eject the shells, and then unscrewed the magazine cap and pulled the fore end off. He took a quarter and carefully pried the magazine spring retainer loose. He then raised the butt of the shotgun and shook the weapon until a plastic rod slipped out. This was the magazine plug required by federal law to be installed in shotguns used for hunting wild fowl; it restricted the magazine capacity to three rounds.

  Charles then reassembled the shotgun and loaded it again. This time it took all five shells, four in the magazine and one in the chamber. He checked to make sure the safety was on, unzipped his carry-on bag, slid the shotgun inside, closed the zipper, and then put the carry-on bag in the backseat on top of Victor’s.

  “Okay?” Victor asked.

  “Go find a McDonald’s,” Charles said. “They generally have pay phones outside.”

  “You want to get a hamburger or something too?”

  “If you want,” Charles said without much enthusiasm.

  Victor drove out of the parking lot, paid the attendant, who looked like he was on something, and drove to North Broad Street, where he turned right.

  “You know where you’re going?” Charles asked.

  “I’ve been here before,” Victor said.

  Eight or ten blocks up North Broad Street, Victor found a McDonald’s. He carefully locked the car—it looked like a rough neighborhood—and they went in. Charles dropped the plastic bag the shotshells had come in, and the magazine plug, into the garbage container by the door.

  “Now that you said it, I’m hungry,” Charles said to Victor, and he took off his pigskin gloves. “Get me a Big Mac and a small fries and a 7-Up. If they don’t have 7-Up, get me Sprite or whatever. I’ll make the call.”

  He was not on the phone long. He went to Victor and stood beside him and waited, and when the
ir order was served, he carried it to a table while Victor paid for it.

  “2184 Delaware Avenue,” he said when Victor came to the table. “He’s there now. He’ll probably be there until half past five. You know where that is?”

  “Down by the river. Are we going to do it there?”

  “Anywhere we like, except there,” Charles said. “The guy on the phone said, ‘Not here or near here.’”

  “Who was the guy on the phone?”

  “It was whoever answered the number Savarese gave me to call. I didn’t ask him who he was. He said hello, and I said I was looking for Mr. Smith, and he said Mr. Smith was at 2184 Delaware and would be until probably half past five, and I asked him if he thought I could do my business with him there, and he said, ‘Not here or near here,’ and I said, ‘Thank you’ and hung up.”

  “If it wasn’t Savarese, then somebody else knows about this.”

  “That’s not so surprising, if you think about it. He also said, ‘Leave the shotgun.’”

  “What did he think we were going to do, take it with us?”

  “I think he wants to do something with it,” Charles said.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Charles said, then smiled and asked, “Shoot rabbits, maybe?”

  “Shit!”

  “How are we fixed for time?”

  “Take us maybe ten minutes to get there, fifteen tops,” Victor said.

  “Then we don’t have to hurry,” Charles said. He looked down at the tray. “I forgot to get napkins.”

  “Get a handful,” Victor said as Charles stood up. “These Big Macs are sloppy.”

  Officer Joe Magnella, who was twenty-four-years-old, five feet nine and one half inches tall, dark-haired, and weighed 156 pounds, opened the bathroom door, checked to make sure that neither his mother nor his sister was upstairs, and then ran naked down the upstairs corridor to the back bedroom he shared with his brother, Anthony, who was twenty-one.