You?re so bad!
I share my soul and that?s the thanks I get.
Some sexist caveman comment on my anatomy.
Next thing you know, we?ll have our first argument. (smile) no chance of that. for one, i could never argue with you. for another, i?ve been told that there are two theories to arguing with a woman. and neither work. (smile) so why try?
A minute passed, and there was no reply.
Harris said, “What happened with your phone? You finally break it? You’re pounding that thing with your thumbs like it needs life support.”
Payne looked at him and shrugged.
He looked back at the phone and thumbed: oh… and nice story in today?s paper! you looked terrific. how is your day going?
Thanks. That was a difficult press conference. But, it explains why I was out of sorts at the bar later.
And my day is great, thank you.
We still on for that lunch?
Lunch? We never planned lunch.
Oh! “Lunch, dinner, cottage.”
Payne thumbed and sent: yes! that?ll knock lunch off the list. one down, two to go. (grin) let me get back to you in just a bit.
He sent the text just as Harris pulled the rental Ford in behind Chad Nesbitt’s BMW.
Harris, Payne, and Byrth stood at the painted metal door of the row house at 823 Sears Street. Payne knocked loudly with his knuckles three times.
They could hear on the other side of the door the sounds of feet approaching. Then, a moment later, there came the banshee wail of a woman. Followed by the sounds of heavy footfalls pounding away from the door.
On the stoop, the three exchanged glances as they heard a woman’s Latina-accented voice. It cried out, “La Migra! La Migra!”
And then they thought they heard a back door slam shut.
Payne and Harris looked at each other, then at Byrth.
“‘La Migra,’” Byrth explained, “is a Spanish pejorative for immigration enforcement officers.”
They nodded their understanding.
“Can probably thank The Hat for that,” Payne said, and chuckled.
A moment later, they could hear two male voices on the other side of the door, having an animated discussion. Finally, there came the sounds of the three locks on the door being turned.
The door swung open.
Paco Esteban stood there. Chad Nesbitt was behind him.
El Nariz’s eyes fixated on The Hat.
“Thanks for coming, Matt,” Nesbitt said, then looked between Harris and Byrth and added, “Gentlemen.”
Nesbitt saw Payne looking at Paco Esteban.
“Paco,” Nesbitt said, motioning in Payne’s direction, “this is my friend the policeman I told you about.”
Then Byrth spoke up. “I’m not La Migra, Paco.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers. And I’ve come after the man known as El Gato.”
El Nariz looked at the Texas lawman warily. He shook his hand and said, “Mucho gusto” without much gusto at all.
But there seemed to be some relief in his eyes at the mention of El Gato. It told him that maybe this authority wasn’t after anyone in his home.
Payne introduced Harris and himself.
“Come in,” Esteban said.
Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV felt the bile rise in his throat one more time. He was on his knees, his expensively tailored slacks now soiled by the dirty floor of the bathroom in Paco Esteban’s basement. His fine silk necktie was loosened and the collar of his custom-made French-cuff dress shirt unbuttoned. There were wet spots of vomitus on both garments.
Just outside the door, on the closed white door of the horizontal Deepfreeze, Paco Esteban had opened the black plastic bags containing the severed head of Ana Maria Del Carmen Lopez.
He had peeled back the bloody white towel with which he’d wrapped her head.
And there Harris, Byrth, Nesbitt, and Payne had had their first look at the face of what once had been a pretty seventeen-year-old Honduran.
Now, however, her light-brown skin was blotched and bruised, her long straight black hair matted, her dark eyes glassy.
Nesbitt had lost it when he noticed her soft facial features had what had been cute little freckles across her upper cheeks and pixie nose.
“What’s that?” Payne said, pointing toward her left ear.
Esteban turned the head slightly.
They saw there on the neck, at the hairline, a small black tattoo. It was a gothic block letter D with three short lines.
“El Gato and his whiskers,” Byrth said.
Payne shook his head in shock. “What’s the D about?”
Byrth shrugged. “Maybe, probably Dallas.”
Then Nesbitt shared the information about El Gato’s girls and the house on Hancock.
What a helluva break! Payne thought.
And then he thought, Amanda and lunch!
He began thumbing: how?s your day going? just had an interesting development in the case…
He pushed SEND, but then his screen flashed with ERROR-NO SERVICE.
Dammit!
Must be because we’re in the basement.
He looked at the signal strength. None of the five bars were present. He also noticed that the battery was almost drained.
That’s not good.
Worse, I’m not sure I have a charger in the rental car.
Payne walked across the room. The smallest of the five bars flickered on, indicating the weakest of signals.
He hit SEND again. And a second later the screen flashed MESSAGE SENT.
Then his phone chirped twice. And its screen went black.
Fuck!
What if Amanda tries to reach me?
[THREE] 3519-A North Broad Street, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 9:56 A.M.
Dr. Amanda Law had just paid for her usual morning double cappuccino with nonfat milk at the Cup O’Joe’s Internet Caf? location across Broad Street from the Shriners Hospital for Children.
She stepped outside and looked up at the morning sun and smiled. Her cellular telephone chimed once. She looked at the screen and her smile became larger.
The box showed the first two lines of the message. It read: matt how?s your day going?
And she thought, I haven’t felt this good in a long time.
I’d forgotten what it was like to have someone thinking about me.
And being genuinely affectionate.
Amanda slid her left thumb across the bottom edge of the big glass of the computer-phone and the touch screen lit brightly. Now she could clearly read the box that had popped up in the middle: matt how?s your day going? just had an interesting development in the case… need to postpone lunch (frown) sorry… i?ll make it up to you… promise!
She thought somewhat sadly:
And so that begins, or continues…
But I can deal with it.
She tapped out:
I?m still fine.
Same as the last time you asked-what?-a half hour ago? (wink) And that?s fine about lunch. I have a busy day, too.
Besides, I told you I know how your days can go.
So, be safe! -A Then she hit SEND. She had no way of knowing that it would be some time until it would be received and read.
Dr. Amanda Law took a sip of her coffee and prepared to cross the street and enter Temple University Hospital.
She looked left, checking for southbound traffic. There was a package delivery truck, a big boxy brown one, accelerating down Broad. She glanced right, trying to judge the northbound traffic, wondering if she could go after the delivery truck flew past her at the hammers of hell.
A block south, the traffic light had all the vehicles on Broad stopped in both directions. A taxicab was parked in front of the hospital, and behind that a beat-up old black minivan was rolling to a stop. She saw a skinny dark-skinned man in baggy jeans, a zipper hoodie sweatshirt, and a wife-beater T-shirt get out of the sliding door on the far side, walk to near the front door of the hospital, and stop to look back at the minivan.
Suddenly, there was the enormous sound and wind of the delivery van blowing past. It went so fast it left a huge wake. Amanda caught herself clutching at her phone and coffee, afraid she’d drop one or the other, or both.
Then all was calm again. She glanced left and saw that no other vehicle was coming, and stepped off the curb. Just shy of halfway across, she glanced to the right. The taxicab was now rolling forward. It made the right turn onto Tioga just as Amanda stepped around its rear bumper.
As she stepped up on the sidewalk, she noticed movement to her right.
The black minivan, too, was rolling.
And the man in the T-shirt was moving away from the front door of the hospital.
Then all of a sudden the minivan accelerated and was right behind her.
And the man in the T-shirt was running right at her. He charged into her, his right shoulder hitting her just above the stomach, at the same time wrapping his arms around her, like a football tackle. It knocked the wind out of her.
The impact also caused her to squeeze and crumple her cup, the hot coffee spilling on her and her attacker, and she dropped her phone on the sidewalk.
As she slowly went backward, Amanda Law began anticipating hitting the hard concrete sidewalk.
But the next thing she knew, she was down, and it hadn’t been hard concrete. It had been a softer landing. Then she realized that she was now on a blanket inside the black minivan, its sliding side door still locked in the open position.
There was no middle or backseat in the van, only open carpeted floor.
She tried to scream or yell, but the wind knocked out of her left her gasping for air.
She heard the driver, a male, yelling: “Phone! Get the fucking phone!”
The driver had been yelling at the man who’d tackled her, because with a grunt he pushed off her. He ran back to the sidewalk and retrieved the phone.
She tried to sit up and make a try for the open door. But then she painfully felt a hand grab her hair at the back of her head. It pulled her back down.
She heard some woman’s voice on the sidewalk yell, “Stop them! Someone call the police! Stop!”
Then the man who’d tackled her jumped back into the minivan and onto her. The hand let go of her hair. And the minivan roared away from the hospital, wind rushing in through the open sliding door.
Some three or four blocks later, the minivan stopped. The man in back slammed shut the sliding door. There was the sound of tape being ripped from a roll. Despite her desperate attempts, Amanda Law very shortly found her wrists bound with duct tape, then her ankles. Then a strip of the tape was placed over her mouth, and finally a pillowcase pulled over her head and held there with a wrap of tape around her neck.
Amanda Law, her head still covered by the pillowcase, knew that she was in some sort of house not too far from the hospital. She had tried to track the direction and distance the van had driven her since she’d been abducted, but had become pretty disoriented after the first four or five turns. On two of the turns, the driver had taken them so fast that she’d rolled around on the open back floor, and that had really thrown off her sense of direction.
The distance had been easier to track only because it had not taken long at all to reach the house. It had been maybe eight, ten minutes at most before the driver had stood heavily on the brakes, then bumped up over a curb.
Someone-it must have been the skinny dark-skinned one in the T-shirt-had gotten out the front passenger door, and there had been the sound of a chain being pulled from around a metal pole, then of a metal gate dragging across what sounded like rock. The van had eased forward, its tires crunching on the gravel. And the gate was closed and locked.
One of the men had then picked her out of the back of the van, thrown her over his right shoulder, and carried her into the house. There, in what smelled like the kitchen, she had been put into what felt like an old wooden armchair. There came a tugging at her duct-taped wrists, and she realized after a moment, when the pressure of the wrap began easing, that her hands were being released.
But only for a moment. As she flexed her fingers and wrists to get the feeling back in them, someone grabbed her left wrist, and there came the sound of more duct tape being torn from a roll. Her left wrist was then taped to the left armrest of the wooden chair, and it was repeated on the right. Then her ankles were taped to the bottom of the chair’s front legs.
She could hear the sound of someone walking across the room, the door of a refrigerator opening, the clanking of what sounded like beer bottles being removed. Then the door closed and bottles were opened with a pffft sound.
And then the clanking of glass bottles again.
They just toasted the success of my kidnapping! Amanda Law thought.
What the hell is going on?
What do they want with me?
Is this… is this it? “So, Dr. Amanda Law,” a male Hispanic voice said.
He knows me?
How the hell does he know who I am?
That’s the same voice as the driver, who shouted about getting the phone…
There was the sound of a newspaper being opened.
The voice then said, “ ‘ The cowards who carried out these killings are despicable’-”
Despite the tape covering her mouth, she suddenly gasped.
He’s reading that from the front page of the paper!
The voice went on: “ ‘ Shooting a helpless patient as he lay unconscious in his hospital bed is a vile act… I would personally like to stare these evil people in the eye and see that they suffer real justice.’ ”
There was a long silence. It ended with the sound of a glass bottle being put heavily on a table.
“That bastard Skipper wasn’t helpless, Dr. Law. Same with that Jamaican bastard in the market. No, no. And I would think someone as smart as you would know things are never as simple as they appear.” He took a sip of his beer. “So maybe now you do. Too bad it’s too late.”
These are the killers…?
Dear God…
Then she heard another male Hispanic voice: “It’s busted a little, but still works.”
“Give it to me,” the first male said.
Amanda could hear the click-click-click sounds the computer-phone made when the touch-screen buttons were tapped.
“Well, look what we have here. Dr. Amanda Law has a new boyfriend sending her texts. Looks like his name is Matt.”
Oh, no! What happens now?
Especially if they find out Matt’s a cop…
“Wonder if the boyfriend will pay to get Dr. Amanda Law back. And how much more to get her back safely?”
The other man grunted.
“Well, only one way to find out,” the first said.
Amanda heard a different clicking sound, like the pushing of a button.
That’s not my phone.
Then she heard the terrifying sound of the screams of a young girl and the shouts of a young boy.
That’s a recording!
Of somebody being-what?-tortured!
Then there was another click. The recording stopped.
“Here we go,” the first man’s voice said.
She heard the familiar clicking sound of her phone.
Then quiet.
Then one more click.
“I’ll be damned! It went into voice mail,” He added bitterly, “What’s the matter, Dr. Law? Doesn’t your boyfriend take your calls? Maybe this bastard Matt won’t pay to get you back! How is that for your justice?”
Amanda felt a sob welling up. She fought it back.
“Well, what the hell. We’ll just leave the boyfriend a message.”
There came the clicks, then she could hear the male breathing heavily.
He’s getting some sick satisfaction out of this!
It sounds almost sexual!
Oh, God help me!
Then she heard, after enough time had passed for Matt’s phone to answer and roll the call into voice mail, the man shout: “We have your girlfriend, Matt!”
Then came the audio recording of the teenage boy’s terrified shouts of “Stop! No!” and the girl begging, “No! Don’t!”
That went on for maybe five seconds.
Then the man shouted: “Do as I say, and you get your Dr. Law back alive! No cops!”
Then there was the sound of more clicks.
And then the kitchen was terribly quiet.
Except for the soft sobbing of Amanda Law.
[FOUR] York and Hancock Streets, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 11:01 P.M.
Matt Payne, Tony Harris, and Jim Byrth were seated in the passenger seats of Paco Esteban’s white Plymouth Voyager minivan. It was parked on the corner, a block shy of the dilapidated row house at 2505 Hancock Street.
Esteban was in the driver’s seat. And that almost had not happened.
At Esteban’s house, a fairly charged discussion ensued as to what to do with the information-not to mention the head-that Esteban had provided.
Chad Nesbitt, seeing where the debate may have been leading, excused himself. He’d said he’d done more than enough putting Paco Esteban together with Matt Payne. And he left, presumably to go home for a bath, clean clothes, and a good mouthwash.
In the basement, Harris had automatically said that he’d call in the information to the Roundhouse. That would get the official wheels turning. And someone farther up the food chain, certainly one in a white shirt, if not a white shirt with one or more stars pinned to its collar points, would decide how many assets to throw at 2505 Hancock Avenue.
“Slow down, Tony,” Payne had said. “Until ten minutes ago, we pretty much did not have a damned thing on where this guy was.”
“Yeah. And?”
“And I think it could blow up on us if suddenly there were a dozen Aviation Unit helos buzzing the rooftop of the place just so they can send video back to the Executive Command Center.”
“You don’t know they’ll do that, Matt.”
Payne nodded.
“True, Tony. But I also don’t know that they won’t do it. Which is what I’d prefer-that they don’t fucking do it.” He paused for a moment. “This guy is bad, and it’s an important bust. I don’t want someone doing it for the glory. I just want the sonofabitch off the streets. Period.” He gestured at the Deepfreeze. “No more little girls losing their heads, for starters.”
Paco Esteban grunted and nodded.
Tony Harris nodded. “Matt, you know I agree. But there are other ways to do this.”
“Yeah, but they involve a whole helluva lot more people, which we don’t need. And more time, which we don’t have.” He paused. “Look, you’re welcome to call it in, if that’s what you feel you have to do. But God knows what this animal is capable of doing next.”
“Tony,” Byrth said, “I’m afraid that I have to agree with Matt.”
Payne looked at Byrth. He wasn’t at all surprised that a Texas Ranger would have no trouble going it alone.
He’d read all about “One Ranger, One Riot.”
Tony Harris looked between them, then held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Let the record show that I have dutifully played devil’s advocate and hereby subscribe to whatever operation Marshal Wyatt Earp has in mind.”
Payne smiled. He knew Harris wasn’t mocking him.
“Tell you what, Tony. Call the Roundhouse, give whomever you feel can be trusted the address of this row house and the strict order (a) to say and do nothing with it and”-he glanced at Byrth-“(b) to have the cavalry ready to ride in should you call for it. Give it a code name if you want. Prairie Fire was one that the guys in Special Forces in ’Nam used for when the shit hit the fan. I’m partial to Get Me the Fuck Outta Here! Leaves no room for confusion or misinterpretation.”
Harris grinned. Then he nodded agreeably.
“I can live with that,” he said. “Okay, so what do you propose?”
Sergeant Matthew M. Payne, Philadelphia Police Department, Badge Number 271, turned to Paco Esteban.
“Se?or Paco Esteban, I hereby officially offer to you a position as confidential informant for the Philadelphia Police Department. In this capacity, you agree to assist in any way that (a) you can and (b) you feel is within your capabilities. In return, the department will make monetary payments and certain other tokens of compensation as mutually agreed.”
It was common practice for Philadelphia Police Department ongoing investigations to use confidential informants. And it was entirely within the rules and regulations of the department. For example, the police not only paid confidential informants for tips that led to arrests for illegal guns and drugs, they also provided the funds to make those purchases. It wasn’t unusual for the money to run into the tens of thousands of dollars.
Of course, there were rules governing the use of confidential sources. Among them was that there had to be a professional relationship. Strict procedures and policies were in place to ensure an arm’s length of professionalism between a police officer and an informant.
Paco Esteban shook his head.
“You don’t or you won’t?” Payne said somewhat incredulously.
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?” Payne repeated.
Paco Esteban shook his head again.
“I don’t want one dollar. I want that bastard caught. What do I do?”
“Everybody ready?” Matt Payne said, sliding open the side door of Paco Esteban’s Plymouth van, using his left hand. Payne and Harris were seated in back on the bench seat; Byrth was in the front passenger seat. On the console between the seats was a white paper bag. Printed on it in somewhat Asian-looking lettering was: TAKE OUT TASTY CHINESE. The van reeked of greasy fast-food wontons.
Byrth said, “Yup.”
Harris said, “Uh-huh.”
Esteban said, “S?.”
Everyone but Esteban was armed with a semiautomatic pistol. Payne had his Colt.45 ACP Officer’s Model in his right hand. It was cocked but unlocked, ready to fire. Harris held his Glock Model 17 nine-millimeter between his legs, the muzzle pointed at the floorboard. Byrth’s black Colt Combat Commander.45 ACP, with its inlaid star of the Texas Rangers, was on top of his right thigh, pointed at the dash.
Payne watched as Byrth put his left boot on the dash and pulled up on his cuffed pants leg, then reached to the right of his calf and pulled out a pistol from the boot top.
I’ll be goddamned, Payne thought.
That’s that Officer’s Model he told me he carried as his backup.
Byrth racked the slide back, then reached to the floorboard, where he had an open plastic box of.45-caliber cartridges. He pulled a single round from the box and slipped it into the chamber. Then he let the slide slam forward. With the hammer now back, he set its lock, then fed it a full magazine. Finally, he slipped the pistol back inside his boot top and pulled down his pants cuff.
Byrth caught Payne’s stare and, over his shoulder, said, “I’d rather have my twelve-gauge pump with buckshot for this, but it wouldn’t fit in the boot.”
Payne chuckled.
“Okay, Paco,” Payne said. “Let’s roll.”
The minivan began driving slowly toward 2505 Hancock.
As Esteban approached the row house, he steered to the left side of the street, then up and over the curb. Payne had told him to stop the van there so it could provide them at least a little cover and concealment.
Esteban then got out and reached back in for the bag of fast food.
Esteban was dressed in somewhat ragged khakis and a T-shirt, and on his head wore a big orange ballcap with the logotype TAKE OUT TASTY CHINESE. Payne had actually taken the cap off the head of one of the employees when they’d bought the food. He’d tossed the kid a twenty and smiled. The kid had thought him a fool, but kept the cash nevertheless.
Jim Byrth covered the right side of the front door, Payne the left. Tony Harris had gone around back to cover that possible exit.
Paco Esteban rapped on the wooden door.
No one answered.
He knocked again, harder.
After a few minutes, they heard the sound of shuffling footsteps. Then the door cracked opened.
A short, sleepy Hispanic male with a bad mustache stood there. He wore only boxer shorts and had a bandage around his left thigh.
“Your order,” Esteban said, holding out the bag of Chinese takeout. “It is prepaid.”
“We didn’t-” Jes?s Jim?nez started to say. Then through his sleepy haze he heard the “prepaid” part. The groggy teenager decided he was hungry.
Esteban had been told not to stand too close to the door.
Jim?nez had to reach out of the house in order to grab the bag.
And when he did, Jim Byrth grabbed his arm and spun him. He threw him to the floor and had the surprised kid handcuffed in no time. He stuck the muzzle of his.45 into the kid’s mouth. The kid’s suddenly widened eyes suggested that he’d instantly understood the message.
As Payne moved closer to enter the door, he looked down at the Hispanic male.
That’s the shooter from the hospital!
The sonofabitch who killed Skipper!
And who I shot!
I should just- Bryrth then quickly jerked Jim?nez down to the van, practically carrying the small teenager. He unlocked one of the handcuffs and clipped it to the sliding door handle.
As Byrth returned, Payne wordlessly signaled Paco Esteban to go to the van. Esteban shook his head, then very reluctantly did as ordered. When Jes?s Jim?nez started to shout a warning, Esteban surprised both Payne and Byrth by punching the teenager in the face, knocking him out cold.
Well, that just earned him monetary payments and certain other tokens…
Payne and Byrth looked each other in the eye. Byrth nodded for Payne to take the lead.
Even with the front door open, it was dark inside because of the front windows being covered.
They walked in a crouch, staying close to the walls. There was almost no furniture.
Payne heard voices coming from the back of the house.
They entered a room that appeared to be the dining room, and which held only a couple of wooden armchairs. On the far wall was a swinging door, with light from the far room leaking around its edges.
Payne moved fluidly toward it, Byrth on his heels. As they approached the swinging door, the voices became louder and more clear.
Payne could distinguish at least two-both males, both with Hispanic accents.
They listened for another minute. There was no additional voice.
Then one of them yelled, “Jes?s! You okay? Who was at the door?”
Matt looked at Jim. They were both half-lit by the dim light bleeding around the door. Jim signaled for them each to take a side of the door.
Matt moved to the left, Jim to the right.
Matt could see the rusty gold-colored hinge by his head. He tried to peer into the kitchen, but the gap between the door and its frame wasn’t large enough and there was a piece of painted wooden trim on the far side.
Then they heard the first voice again. He barked: “Go look!”
And a second later, the door swung into the dining room, as Omar Quintanilla sauntered through, absently holding a pistol along his right leg.
When the door had opened, light momentarily flashed into the dark dining room, almost blinding Matt and Jim.
Then the door swung shut. Jim, his eyes not quite adjusted from the sudden light, instinctively jumped in Omar’s direction. He hit him square, getting his left arm around Omar’s throat.
They then went to the floor, making a helluva noise.
“Omar!” the male inside the kitchen yelled. “What the hell’d you just do?”
As Jim punched Omar in the face, Omar’s pistol went off. The round went into the ceiling.
Matt had his pistol aimed at the pair, but could not see well enough in the dark to get a good aim.
Then he heard Jim mutter, “You sonofabitch.”
The pistol went off again. This time, the round found Omar, who suddenly stopped fighing. He moaned and clutched at his chest.
Then Payne suddenly heard and saw the swinging door get kicked open-and he saw and felt it hit him, pushing him back against the wall.
He instinctively kicked the door back.
And there he saw the other Hispanic male. He was bringing up the muzzle of a bullpup-style weapon, about to get an aim on Jim Byrth.
Matt Payne followed Jim Byrth’s lead-and jumped at the man, wrapping his left arm over the man’s left shoulder and grabbing the forearm of the weapon. As he pulled it upward, the gun went off, the muzzle spraying a stream of lead up a wall and across the ceiling.
Payne began pummeling the man’s head with his pistol, and threw him to the ground. And then he felt another pair of hands on the man’s body-Jim Byrth was stripping him of the bullpup weapon.
Payne hit him in the head again. And the man went limp.
Payne cuffed him and left him on the floor.
Matt and Jim stood. Jim had the P90 submachine gun slung on his right shoulder.
“Nice work, Marshal.”
“You okay?”
“Yup. No more holes in me than I came with.”
“Let’s clear the kitchen and the rest. Then you can get this asshole trussed up.”
They found the kitchen clear but for one person who looked to be a woman. There was a pillowcase over her head, and she was taped to a chair. They immediately deemed her not a threat.
Payne went to the back door and looked out the window. He just barely saw Tony Harris to the side of the door, waiting for someone to flee.
“It’s me, Tony!” he called. “Matt Payne!”
Matt thought he heard the woman whimper.
He unlocked the door and opened it.
“C’mon in, and clear the rest of the house with Jim!”
Tony Harris entered and said, “Jesus, Matt! What’s with all the gunfire?”
“Just another day at the OK Corral, Tony.”
Through the open swinging door, Harris saw a stream of blood on the floor. He moved for a better look, then saw the dead body of the Hispanic male on the floor of the next room.
He raised his eyebrows. Then he raised his pistol and followed Byrth out of the kitchen.
Matt Payne glanced at the kitchen table and saw a plastic storage box containing a score or more of used cell phones. On the table itself was a battered fancy phone with a big glass touch-screen.
He slipped his.45 in the small of his back and turned to the woman bound to the chair.
“It’s going to be okay,” Payne said softly. “I’m a Philadelphia policeman.”
As he pulled out his folding pocketknife, he thought he heard her start sobbing heavily.
“I’m going to cut open the top of this pillowcase, okay?”
Her head bobbed enthusiastically, the pillowcase moving in a rapid manner.
“Okay, now don’t move your head.”
Taking great care, he grasped the pillowcase’s seam at the top of her head, pulling it up and away from her head so that if she suddenly did move again, his knife blade would be a safe distance away.
Very carefully, he slipped the tip of the serrated blade into the fabric. He sawed slightly, and the blade slit the fabric all along the seam.
Well, she’s a blond, was the first thing that he thought.
Then he tugged the case down so it fell to her shoulders.
“Jesus Christ!”
Payne had to force himself to go slowly while unbinding Amanda Law, first removing the strip of gray duct tape from her beautiful face-the strip literally went from ear to ear-then removing the tape from her wrists and ankles.
What made it harder was that he was shaking.
Are my emotions taking over?
Not good.
It’d be better if it’s just the adrenaline kicking into overdrive…
He started by kissing her on the forehead and saying, “This might hurt…”
Then, as gently as possible, he began pulling the tape from her left cheek and, a moment later, her right cheek.
“Oh, Matt!” Amanda cried out.
Excitedly, she tried to sit up higher so that she could kiss him, but, still bound to the chair, she collapsed back into it.
“Slow down, baby!” Matt said, smiling, then leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips.
He looked her in the eyes. They were all puffy and wet from the crying.
“Are you okay?” he said in a soft tone. But there was anger in it, too. “Did they… do anything to you?”
Her eyes were big and expressive. She shook her head vigorously.
“Thank God,” he said, then kissed her again. “Now, let me get the rest of this tape off.”
She nodded gently.
He put the knife blade on the tape securing her left wrist.
“You heard the girl screaming on your voice mail?” Amanda asked.
Matt paused and looked at her.
“No,” he said, shaking his head, slightly confused.
“They left a terrifying message on your voice mail. They were holding me for ransom. But it wasn’t me. On the message, I mean.”
Matt nodded as he tried to digest that.
A voice-mail message?
I wouldn’t have gotten it because my battery is dead.
He glanced at the box on the table, then went back to cutting the duct tape. He was really worried he might accidentally cut her in his haste. He had to saw slowly through the tape. They had made at least four wraps of each wrist and ankle, and it took more slow sawing than he could believe.
Paco Esteban came into the kitchen.
“Sergeant Byrth-he said tell you ‘house clear,’ ” Esteban said.
“Thank you.”
Payne reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“Paco, would you look in that box of phones and see if you can find a battery that works with this phone? Or maybe a charger, if there’s one in there.”
“S?.”
Jim Byrth walked into the kitchen.
“Okay, I’ve got El Gato secured in there,” he said, and grinned. “Taped to the chair just like he likes.”
He handed Payne’s handcuffs back to him.
Then he said, “The guys in Dallas described that stash house they raided. This place is set up just like it. It’s a damn prison. Actually, our Texas prisons are nicer.”
Byrth then tossed a nice tan leather wallet on the kitchen table. And two State of Texas driver’s licenses.
“El Gato is one Juan Paulo Delgado, aka Edgar Cisneros. I called it in to the office. He’s got a few priors, but nothing serious like this. Born at Parkland in Dallas at taxpayer expense-both parents undocumented Mexican nationals, later given amnesty in that law President Reagan signed-and educated in Dallas at taxpayer expense. Too bad he learned all the wrong lessons.”
Payne raised his eyebrows at that.
So he is a U.S. citizen, and preying on illegals, ones like his parents. Unbe lieveable.
But an animal’s an animal, no matter the circumstances.
“Here, Sergeant Payne,” Paco Esteban said, holding out Payne’s cell phone.
Payne took it and saw that Esteban had already pressed the 0/1 button. The phone was coming to life.
It vibrated three, then four times. Its small screen announced that he had five missed calls, including two voice-mail messages and two text messages from Amanda Law.
Payne hit the speakerphone key. He played the first voice mail; it had been blank.
The second voice mail was El Gato’s threat, with the screaming boy and girl recording and the threat to kill Amanda.
Payne saw Amanda start to shake visibly.
He knelt and held her as he turned off the telephone.
When she’d stopped, he stood. He looked at the beers on the table.
He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, and found it packed with bottles of beers. He grabbed three and brought them back to the table. When he opened one, it made the sound of gas escaping. He thought he saw Amanda recoil at it. But when he handed her the open bottle, she quickly grabbed it and took a big swallow.
He opened another and offered it to Byrth.
“Maybe in a minute. Thanks.”
He offered the bottle to Esteban, who took it.
Then he opened the third. He put it to his lips and turned it upside down, drinking at least the first third.
He then kissed Amanda again on her forehead.
“I’ll be right back, baby.”
Juan Paulo Delgado looked up when he heard Matt Payne enter the dining room. Byrth had taped his wrists palm-up, and Matt saw the “D” tattoo. Payne felt a level of anger he did not know was possible.
“So now what?” Juan Paulo Delgado, his head bruised and bloody, said with an odd smile.
His tone did not reveal any fear. In fact, it sounded taunting.
With the beer bottle in his left hand, Payne pulled his Colt from the small of his back with his right hand.
He took another healthy drink of the beer, then looked the animal in the eyes.
What did Amy say about psychopaths?
You can’t rehabilitate them. They’ll kill again and again.
And in prison they’ll be thrown in solitary.
So why not just fucking kill him now?
He probably was going to do that to Amanda… after doing God knows what.
The image of the girl’s head in Paco Esteban’s freezer flashed in his mind.
Sonofabitch!
No one will miss you, Delgado.
No one will give a rat’s ass you’re dead and gone and burning to a crisp in hell.
Payne raised his pistol, pointing the muzzle at Delgado’s forehead. He thumbed back the hammer.
He saw him flinch, if only slightly.
And shits like you get killed every day in drug deals gone bad.
Payne held the gun there for what seemed like five minutes.
But I can’t do it.
Even as badly as he deserves it.
It would make me little better than him.
I am not judge and jury.
Stanley Whatshisname is wrong.
We can’t just shoot ’em all and let the Lord sort ’em out.
Payne brought down his pistol. He locked it.
“This is your lucky day, you sonofabitch.”
El Gato grinned defiantly at him.
Payne added, “You really must be a goddamn cat. But you just burned one of your nine lives. Eventually, you’ll run out.”
Payne looked down a moment. At Delgado’s feet he noticed there was a bean, similar to the one Jim Byrth tumbled across his fingers. But this one was black. He shook his head.
Payne turned.
Byrth and Esteban were standing there, backlit in the open doorway to the kitchen. Both now wore the tan-colored surgical gloves the crime-scene technicians used.
Nice and professional of Jim.
And what the hell… time to move this case to the next phase.
Payne looked between them, then wordlessly walked back into the kitchen.
Payne saw that Tony Harris was handing his handkerchief to Amanda Law. She was standing, leaning against the counter by the sink.
She ran toward Matt. He went to her, his arms open, and wrapped them around her. She sobbed uncontrollably.
Payne then heard Jim Byrth enter the room.
Payne whispered to her, “It’s okay, baby. It’s all over.”
And then there was the sound of a gun going off in the dining room.
[FIVE] Terminal D Philadelphia International Airport Thursday, September 10, 5:21 P.M.
“Well, Matt,” Jim Byrth said. He wore clean slacks and shirt, his white Stetson atop his head. “I’d say Juan Paulo Delgado got his wish.”
Payne looked at him a long moment. “I don’t follow you.”
“ ‘Death before dishonor’?”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “I dunno, Jim. He looked pretty dishonored in that chair.”
Byrth grinned. “My granddaddy had an expression. He told me, ‘Jimmy, in life you’ll find three kinds of men. There’re the ones who can learn by reading. And there’re the ones who can learn by observation.’”
He paused to let that sink in.
“And?” Payne said.
“ ‘And then there’s the rest of them who have to pee on the electric fence to find out for themselves.’ ”
Payne laughed aloud. “Sounds like one of Ron White’s lines.”
Bryth and Payne looked at each other. “ ‘ You can’t fix stupid,’ ” they said, simultaneously quoting the Texas comedian.
“And thankfully, most bad guys are stupid,” Byrth said.
“That.45 Officer’s Model had the serial number ground off,” Payne said, but it was more of a question.
“What.45?” Byrth said with a straight face. After a long moment, he added: “Oh, the one a certain informant carried?”
Payne nodded.
“No idea what you’re talking about, Marshal.”
After a moment, Payne said, “So, what’s with the beans?”
“Beans?”
“The ones you tumbled on your hand.”
Byrth nodded. The Hat accentuated the act.
“John Coffee Hayes?”
Payne shook his head.
Byrth explained: “He became a captain in the Rangers round about 1840. Helluva reputation for dealing with lawless Mexicans and marauding Indians. A couple years later, one of his men, who guessed he was as good as his boss, got involved with a bunch of other Texans who were planning an invasion of Mexico. The Mier Expedition?”
Payne shook his head again.
“Well, they failed miserably. The Mexicans captured them, including Samuel H. Walker-that was Hayes’s man-and a fellow named Big Foot Wallace. The order came down to execute every tenth man.”
Payne was nodding. “Then they let the rest loose to take the message back to Texas. ‘Don’t mess with Mexico.’ ”
“Exactly. You know, Texas actually uses that in an antilitter campaign. But that’s another story.”
“But what about the beans?”
“To decide who died, they had a drawing. The prisoner who drew a white bean lived. A black bean meant death for the poor bastard. Both Walker and Wallace drew white ones, and that’s how the story got back to Texas.”
Payne had a mental image of the black bean at Delgado’s feet.
Byrth looked in his eyes and sensed it.
“Look, Matt, the way I see it, our informant friend just saved the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and the Lone Star State countless dollars in the housing, feeding, and prosecution of the deceased gangbanger. Plus, my favorite part-no more paperwork.”
Payne did not look convinced.
“Prosecuting a capital murder charge,” Byrth went on earnestly, “costs from two hundred thousand to three hundred thousand bucks. If you get a conviction and a long jail sentence, then it’s about thirty grand a year per inmate. That’s another three hundred grand every ten years.” He looked at him. “The way I figure it, El Gato getting shot when he attacked the Philly PD’s confidential informant saved the lawful taxpayers a million bucks. At least. You ought to factor that in when you compensate Paco. It was self-defense.”
Payne shook his head.
“Matt, you really don’t think that I came here planning on taking that piece of shit back to Texas?”
Payne said nothing.
Byrth grinned, and quoted, “ ‘All warfare is based on deception.’ ”
Payne nodded. “Sun Tzu.”
“Yup. So you do know this has been going on for millennia.”
Byrth held out his hand. As Matt shook it, Byrth said, “Come visit us in Texas, Marshal. We could use someone like you. We’ve got plenty more bad guys like Delgado. And it’s only going to get worse.”
Texas Rangers Sergeant James O. Byrth then affectionately patted Philadelphia Homicide Sergeant Matthew M. Payne on the shoulder. He turned and joined a crowd walking down the concourse.
And then The Hat was gone.
As he was driving out of the airport, Matt Payne thought about what Jim Byrth had said. He couldn’t quite reconcile all of it. At least not yet. But he already was seeing there was some truth to it.
Cops have held the line between civilized society and the barbarians forever.
And that’s not going to change as long as there’re bad guys.
Even Amanda said she understood that.
He felt his cell phone vibrate. And the Pavlovian response was triggered.
As he looked to the screen, his pulse quickened.
He read: -no number -
Dinner gets delivered at 7 o?clock.
Just found this cute cottage on the Internet.
To hell with lunch… -A