back of his mind, and focused on his new mystery. Three former Marines had been killed in the previous few weeks. All apparent executions. Then he’d learned from Pentagon records each of the three murdered men served in Afghanistan in a unit called the Special Logistical Support Detachment. And he’d just found out the next CIA Deputy Director had commanded the Special Logistical Support Detachment. O’Neil briefly considered the possibility all of this might be pure coincidence. But he quickly discarded the thought.
Montrose Toney had cased the Hoods’ street several times and come to the conclusion that an attack on his target here was not his best alternative. He ticked off the problems in his mind: too restrictive a physical environment, limited parking close to the house, and being on foot in this neighborhood could be suicidal. He felt like an Albanian Muslim in a Christian Serb neighborhood. But he knew this street like it was his own. He’d grown up in an all-black neighborhood that looked just like it. The row houses served as bleachers for the residents, with the street as their arena. Toney knew he fell into the category of “troublemaker” as far as these people were concerned. He knew the residents had probably already spotted him.
He could tell someone was at home at the Hoods’. He’d seen movement through the sheer front window drapes. But he had no idea if David Hood was in there. He pondered the problem for a few minutes and then remembered the name of the detective in charge of the Hood murder investigation: Roger Cromwell. He’d read all the accounts in the Baltimore and D.C. papers about the case. He called 4-1-1 on his cellphone and got the number for Peter Hood on Rosemont Street in South Philadelphia. He called and when a man answered, Toney said, “This is Detective Cromwell with the Bethesda Police Department. Is Mr. David Hood there? I need to speak with him.”
“He’s out right now,” a man said. “Can I help you? I’m his father. Can I have him call you back?”
“That’s all right, I’ll call later,” Toney replied, and hung up.
After Toney’s most recent swing down Rosemont Street, Carmine Santori again called Gino, who immediately telephoned Bobby Galupo, the man he’d picked years ago to take over the Philadelphia organization. Galupo, in turn, called one of his men, Rocco Fortunato, stationed in a car at the end of the Hoods’ block, and told him to follow the white Acura and report back every fifteen minutes.
Rocco Fortunato, a beefy young hoodlum in his twenties, tailed Toney. He followed him from South Philadelphia all the way past the Philadelphia sports complex, out past the oil refineries on the south side of the city, and finally to a motel near the Philadelphia International Airport. After he watched Toney take a small suitcase from the trunk of the Acura and enter room 157, Fortunato called Bobby Galupo.
Toney had been on the move for nearly sixteen hours, most of it in the driver’s seats of the stolen Camaro and his own Acura. He was exhausted and needed sleep before he went after Hood. He had to come up with a way to hit the man and get away clean, and he knew he’d be able to think more clearly after he’d had some rest.
Jennifer Ramsey rapped on the side of the doorjamb of Lieutenant Croken’s office. “You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, take a seat.”
She sat down in one of the two chairs in front of Croken’s desk.
Croken picked up a piece of paper from his blotter and waved it at Jennifer. “This is Detective Cromwell’s request for reassignment.”
Jennifer said nothing. She was thrilled that she might be rid of Cromwell, but she was surprised the man had requested the personnel action. Things had to be pretty bad between partners for one to ask for a reassignment. Her relationship with Cromwell obviously qualified. A request for reassignment by one partner, however, could leave a
Montrose Toney had cased the Hoods’ street several times and come to the conclusion that an attack on his target here was not his best alternative. He ticked off the problems in his mind: too restrictive a physical environment, limited parking close to the house, and being on foot in this neighborhood could be suicidal. He felt like an Albanian Muslim in a Christian Serb neighborhood. But he knew this street like it was his own. He’d grown up in an all-black neighborhood that looked just like it. The row houses served as bleachers for the residents, with the street as their arena. Toney knew he fell into the category of “troublemaker” as far as these people were concerned. He knew the residents had probably already spotted him.
He could tell someone was at home at the Hoods’. He’d seen movement through the sheer front window drapes. But he had no idea if David Hood was in there. He pondered the problem for a few minutes and then remembered the name of the detective in charge of the Hood murder investigation: Roger Cromwell. He’d read all the accounts in the Baltimore and D.C. papers about the case. He called 4-1-1 on his cellphone and got the number for Peter Hood on Rosemont Street in South Philadelphia. He called and when a man answered, Toney said, “This is Detective Cromwell with the Bethesda Police Department. Is Mr. David Hood there? I need to speak with him.”
“He’s out right now,” a man said. “Can I help you? I’m his father. Can I have him call you back?”
“That’s all right, I’ll call later,” Toney replied, and hung up.
After Toney’s most recent swing down Rosemont Street, Carmine Santori again called Gino, who immediately telephoned Bobby Galupo, the man he’d picked years ago to take over the Philadelphia organization. Galupo, in turn, called one of his men, Rocco Fortunato, stationed in a car at the end of the Hoods’ block, and told him to follow the white Acura and report back every fifteen minutes.
Rocco Fortunato, a beefy young hoodlum in his twenties, tailed Toney. He followed him from South Philadelphia all the way past the Philadelphia sports complex, out past the oil refineries on the south side of the city, and finally to a motel near the Philadelphia International Airport. After he watched Toney take a small suitcase from the trunk of the Acura and enter room 157, Fortunato called Bobby Galupo.
Toney had been on the move for nearly sixteen hours, most of it in the driver’s seats of the stolen Camaro and his own Acura. He was exhausted and needed sleep before he went after Hood. He had to come up with a way to hit the man and get away clean, and he knew he’d be able to think more clearly after he’d had some rest.
Jennifer Ramsey rapped on the side of the doorjamb of Lieutenant Croken’s office. “You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, take a seat.”
She sat down in one of the two chairs in front of Croken’s desk.
Croken picked up a piece of paper from his blotter and waved it at Jennifer. “This is Detective Cromwell’s request for reassignment.”
Jennifer said nothing. She was thrilled that she might be rid of Cromwell, but she was surprised the man had requested the personnel action. Things had to be pretty bad between partners for one to ask for a reassignment. Her relationship with Cromwell obviously qualified. A request for reassignment by one partner, however, could leave a
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