What Happened to the Bennetts(62)

I was parked between two commercial dumpsters on Buckingham Street, a narrow backstreet in Center City, Philly’s business district. Buckingham afforded me a clear view of Colonial Towers East, a monolithic office building across from me on Eighteenth. On my left was Colonial Towers West, and on my right the service entrances to the stores and restaurants around the block, closed now.

You didn’t know I had an affair.

I suppressed the thought. Paul Hart was inside Colonial Towers East, and I was here for a reason. Milo was a confidential informant, so he had to have entered into a cooperation agreement. Those agreements were in contract form, drafted by the government and negotiated by defense lawyers. Since Hart was Milo’s lawyer, that meant Hart had negotiated the agreement.

I connected the dots that had taken me here. Hart knew Milo was a confidential informant, but Big George didn’t. So sooner or later, Hart would have to meet with Milo without Big George’s knowledge. I assumed they would meet in some out-of-the-way location, alone and probably at night. They couldn’t risk meeting in the open and they couldn’t talk on the phone, since they would assume the FBI was listening in. My plan was to follow Hart until he met with Milo, then take proof of that secret meeting to Big George.

I waited, and my dashboard clock ticked to eight forty-five p.m. I knew Hart was inside since I’d looked up his website, on a Tracfone with Wi-Fi I’d bought today. According to his schedule, tonight Hart was at a fundraiser for U.S. Senator Mike Ricks, who was rumored to be considering a presidential run. Tomorrow night, Hart would be at a fundraiser for U.S. Representative Barbara Caldwell, rumored to be vying for Ricks’s seat. The lawyer must have been hedging his bipartisan bets, having no interests except self-promotion.

Nine-fifteen p.m.

I straightened in the driver’s seat, eyeing Colonial Towers East. Its sleek modern lobby was a bright layer of floor-to-ceiling glass under the rest of the darkened building, its mirrored fa?ade vanishing into a black, foggy sky. I turned my attention to the entrance-and-exit of its underground garage. I assumed Hart would be among the last to leave the event, sprinkling his business cards like corporate confetti.

Nine-thirty.

Cars began leaving the parking garage, turning right onto Eighteenth. I got a decent look at the drivers’ faces in the streetlight. They were well-dressed men and women, on phones or smoking. No Paul Hart in his charcoal Mercedes.

I watched and waited, checking each driver. A line of big black Escalades left the garage, one of which held Senator Ricks himself. I caught sight of Senator Ricks in the back seat, a tall, gray-haired politician with the requisite toothy smile. But still, no Paul Hart. The caravan diminished to only a few cars, and I worried I had missed Hart. Maybe he had been a passenger in someone else’s car or was still inside.

Nine forty-five.

Suddenly I spotted Hart walking inside the lobby of Colonial Towers East, which had a glass fa?ade. He nodded at the security guards at the front desk as he passed them.

My heart began to pound. I started my engine as Hart exited the building, briefcase in hand. He reached the sidewalk and stopped before he crossed the street, waiting for traffic. His head was turned to the right, and I followed his line of sight to a black hired car parked in front of Colonial Towers West. So he hadn’t driven himself.

I left my parking space and cruised slowly up Buckingham. Two men under umbrellas met Hart on the sidewalk and they started talking, so I braked a short distance from the top of the street, waiting for them to finish. I couldn’t read their lips with an obscured view.

Hart waved goodbye, stepped off the curb, and started to cross Eighteenth. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a dark sedan sped down the street and struck him, head-on.

I gasped, shocked. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It took everything in me not to shout.

Hart screamed. The impact of the sedan catapulted him into the air, propelling him down the street. The sedan didn’t stop.

My heart thundered. It was an intentional hit-and-run. I didn’t see what kind of car it was, I had been watching Hart.

Instinctively I accelerated and turned onto Eighteenth Street. People were running down the sidewalk toward the scene. Hart lay motionless in front of the entrance to Colonial Towers West.

I glanced over, horrified, as I drove by. Security guards raced to him from the building. A crowd was beginning to gather.

“Jason?” I thought I heard someone say, as I sped off.





Chapter Thirty-Eight



I raced down Eighteenth Street. The sedan was two blocks ahead of me. In the dark, I couldn’t see its make or model. There was no traffic between us.

We flew toward Market Street, one after the other. I swerved to avoid an SUV, the sedan swerved to avoid a cab. People pointed from the sidewalk.

The traffic light turned red but the sedan didn’t stop. Pedestrians jumped out of the way. Cars on Market Street screeched to a halt, honking.

I kept going, too. I chased the sedan to the next block, veering around a boxy white SEPTA bus.

The sedan steered left onto the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, the main artery out of the city, lined with streetlights and oversize banners. A Honda tried to pass in front of the sedan, forcing it to slow down.

I slammed the pedal to the floor, getting close enough to identify the sedan. It was the dark blue BMW from Junior’s funeral. It had the dent on its fender.

Questions flew through my brain. Why would GVO kill Hart? And why now? Did Milo know? Was Milo driving the BMW?