We still on for Liberties… 6ISH?
Payne looked again at the time stamp.
Five thirty.
That’s right. She said meet at six.
We can still beat her there.
He typed and then sent: see u @ 6 “I think we’re finished here for now, Kerry,” Payne said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime.”
Payne looked at Jim Byrth.
“How about we go get a few fingers poured of your choice of adult intoxi cants? If we get to Homicide’s unofficial favorite spot early enough, we can enjoy our beverages before She Who Is Always Right arrives. Then we can bounce some of this off her.”
Byrth nodded appreciatively. “I could use a little something to cut the dust, Marshal.”
[THREE] 3900 Block of Castor Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:54 P.M.
Sitting in the shadows of the trash Dumpsters in the alleyway, Paco “El Nariz” Esteban twice had had to move. The first time was because the big garbage truck had come to empty the three Dumpsters serving as his cover. That had stirred up the trash and caused the receptacles to really reek.
The second time was because a Philadelphia Police Department squad car came rolling down the alley.
That had caused Paco Nariz too many thoughts. And they came practically all at once.
The immediate one was the thought that always came first: Are they looking for me?
Then he thought: I can tell them about the girls in the store!
I can show them pictures!
But would they believe me?
And would they do anything if they did?
If the police went in and made an arrest, then El Gato would lose those girls and their guard.
But he would be free.
And then I would have to find another way to get to him.
He had glanced at the cruiser rolling nearer.
Here they are! Decide, dammit!
El Nariz had avoided any interaction with the police. He quickly but calmly picked up his mop bucket makeshift seat, then started shaking it in the side door of the Dumpster, pretending to be emptying it.
When he’d glanced at the cruiser rolling past, the cops hadn’t even bothered looking back at him.
And he figured that that was logical. Who would waste time to question a dirty Hispanic male who clearly was carrying out his janitorial tasks? They probably could guess at his biggest crime: smelling like shit.
That had been about a half hour ago.
Now El Nariz, back on his bucket between the Dumpsters, heard the sound of another vehicle coming down the alleyway. He looked around the corner of the Dumpsters. He saw a big dirty tan Ford panel van. It had no windows other than the windshield and those on the front driver and passenger doors.
Paco Esteban heard its brakes squeak. It slowed to a stop beside the back door to the Gas amp; Go. He could not see from his angle but could hear a large sliding door on the van opening. Then he heard a Hispanic male’s voice. Looking under the van, he could see black boots on the far side of the van, where the sliding door would be.
El Nariz started to get his camera ready, then decided it wasn’t a good idea with so much daylight still. Whoever was behind the wheel of the van might see him.
He looked at the bumper and saw the Pennsylvania tag there. It read GSY- 696. He thought that he could write down the license plate number-until he realized he’d left his pen in the minivan.
Dammit!
There was more movement on the far side of the van. Visible beside the black boots were two more pairs of shoes. They were very small and low-heeled. Then the back door of the Gas amp; Go opened. The boots moved in its direction first, and the two pairs of shoes followed.
For a split second, El Nariz had a clear view of the three people-two young girls, one in a black dress and one in a schoolgirl skirt and top, and a very thin young Hispanic male in jeans, black boots, and a T-shirt.
I need to get back to my minivan if I am to follow them…
Then El Nariz had an inspiration.
The phone!
He scrolled through its menu. He reached the screen that asked if he wanted to add a new telephone number. He clicked the key for OK, then keyed in GSY696.
Then he picked up the mop bucket. He put it on his right shoulder so that it would block his view of the dirty tan Ford van-and block his head from the view of whoever was driving the van. He started walking across the alleyway until he was out of sight of the van, then trotted back to the minivan.
It was ten minutes before Paco Esteban heard the sound of the Ford panel van accelerating down the alley. He started the engine of his minivan-and just in time, as the Ford van flew out of the alley.
I do not know if the girls are in there.
And I do not know where they go next.
But what else do I do?
He put the minivan in drive, checked for traffic, then followed the tan Ford van down Castor Avenue. He tried to maintain a safe distance back. But not so far as to lose sight of the van.
The Ford van made the turn onto Erie Avenue, headed toward Broad Street. At Broad, it went south.
This is the way I just came, but backward.
About a mile later, he thought, Are they going where I think?
A block later, at Susquehanna, the van made a left, driving past the Temple Gas amp; Go and the adjoining Sudsie’s. At the next corner, which was North Park, it turned right.
Yes!
They are going to that Gas amp; Go!
And using the alley.
El Nariz knew that that alley gave access to both the Gas amp; Go’s back door and the loading dock of the laundromat. He also knew it was a dead end; the way in was the only way out.
He drove straight through the intersection where the van had turned right, then eased up to the curb and stopped. He put the minivan in park and adjusted the mirror on the windshield so that he could see the alley entrance behind him.
Fifteen minutes passed before the dirty tan Ford panel van came roaring out the alley. It made a right turn.
Damn!
Paco Esteban quickly put the minivan in drive and spun the steering wheel counterclockwise. He glanced over his shoulder as he started his U-turn. A blaring horn caused him to slam on the brakes. A pickup truck blew past, the driver angrily pumping his right fist at El Nariz.
El Nariz looked over his left shoulder again and hit the gas.
He made the turn onto Park, and as he passed the alley he saw the dirty tan Ford panel van far ahead. It approached the next intersection, which was Diamond Street, and went left.
El Nariz pressed harder on the accelerator, then braked heavily at the intersection. He blew through the stop sign, turning left onto Diamond. Then he smashed the accelerator, the aged minivan’s engine bucking.
Don’t quit on me.
A dozen blocks later, crossing Germantown Avenue, El Nariz could see he was closing fast on the Ford van. He eased up on the accelerator.
After another dozen or so blocks, the brake lights of the Ford van lit up for a moment. The van turned left in front of a small park.
As El Nariz followed, he saw that the street was marked HANCOCK.
The Ford van crossed over Susquehanna, then three blocks later its brake lights lit up. And stayed lit.
Paco Esteban saw that it had pulled to a stop along the right curb. A block back, he did the same. Then he watched as a Hispanic male jumped from the front passenger door, slammed it shut, and trotted across the street.
The man went to the gate of a wooden-slat fence that surrounded a lot next to an old row house. A heavy chain was looped on the gate, with a lock on it. The man unlocked the gate, then slid it open.
Paco Esteban suddenly got a knot in his stomach.
The fence that Rosario described!
From his angle and distance, Paco Esteban could just make out that the lot was paved with gravel.
Another thing that Rosario described-tires on rocks!
The dirty tan Ford van then rolled through the open gate. The man swung the gate closed after it. Then it looked as if the chain was being locked on the inside of the enclosure.
Paco Esteban took his foot off the brake. The minivan rolled forward. He slowly drove up to the house.
Except for what he’d just witnessed, there were no other visible signs of activity. No motion. And no lights. It took some effort, but he finally saw numbers on the wall beside the front door: 2505.
Hancock Street. 2505.
Keep driving! 2505 Hancock…
A few blocks north, he again pulled to the curb. He was just shy of Lehigh Avenue. His heart was pounding against his chest. He had to force himself to inhale, then to exhale.
He crossed himself.
Dear God!
To be so close to such evil!
El Nariz reached for the ink pen that was wedged into the vent on the dashboard. He found a scrap of paper.
He started to write “2505 Hancock Street” but found that his hands shook so badly he could barely read his own handwriting.
Does not matter.
I will always remember where that house is.
He reached for his cellular telephone and pushed the key that speed-dialed his wife’s phone.
When Se?ora Salma Esteban answered, he said with a shaky voice: “My love, please do not ask me any questions right now. Just listen-”
He paused at the interruption.
“Salma, please! Listen to me! Tell Rosario that I will be there in about twenty minutes. Tell her I will pick her up-”
He paused again.
“Yes, it is good. Now, please see that she is ready when I get there.”
[FOUR] 705 North Second Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:55 P.M.
As the bird flew, the distance from the Roundhouse to Liberties was about four thousand feet. During the very short drive in Matt Payne’s rental Ford sedan, Jim Byrth had said: “Two questions, Matt.”
“Shoot.”
“One, this is a rental, right?”
“Yeah. The insurance company is paying for it. Because my car got shot up?”
Earlier, Payne had related to Byrth the story of his shoot-out in the Italian restaurant parking lot. The one that had left his Porsche blasted by shotgun fire and sent into some sort of insurance adjustor hell. Which at more than one point had caused him to wonder:
It’s been a month. How damn long does it take to determine if it’s fixable or if they’re going to write me a check for a total wreck?
A check that no doubt will be as small as they can possibly make it.
Maybe that’s it. The older the car, the less it’s worth. So the longer they wait… But that’s absurd. I put no miles on it. And Porsches, particularly Carreras and Turbos, hold their value.
So then they probably don’t know what to do with it. Or with me.
Jesus, do I hate insurance companies.
“Right,” Byrth said. “But why are you using your personal vehicle on the job? None of my business; just idle curiosity how it’s done here.”
Good point, Payne thought. I hadn’t given it much thought.
Maybe because there hadn’t been time to think about it.
I’ve only been back on the job this one day.
“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Payne said. “I guess since the insurance company is footing the bill, it’s not coming out of my pocket. I could put in for reimbursement. Not that that’s going to be any big wad of cash.”
“They won’t issue you a Police Interceptor?”
“We have the Crown Vics. They’re just hard to come by. There’s a shortage. But if you need one, I’m sure we could get a loaner. Or something close. Maybe an undercover car from the pool at Special Operations. I’ve got a connection there.”
Matt Payne had been in Special Operations when he’d made the top five list for promotion to sergeant, and had then to go to Homicide. The commanding officer of Special Operations was one Inspector Peter Wohl, who of course was Payne’s rabbi. There also was another connection: Payne’s sister and Peter Wohl sometimes considered themselves a couple.
Byrth shook his head. “No. Thanks. Like I said, just curious.”
Payne glanced at him and nodded, then made the turn onto Second.
Then he said, “Shit! She beat us here. So much for our drink in peace.”
Byrth saw only two vehicles parked in the angled spaces. Payne pulled in next to the nearest vehicle, a nearly new black Honda Accord coupe with deeply tinted windows. On the other side of it was a two-year-old, somewhat battered, GMC Yukon XL. Its right rear tire was up on the curb, causing the massive SUV to sit at an awkward pitch, like a ship that had run aground.
“She?” Byrth repeated.
“Amy. That’s her Yukon.”
“Back home, that and its twin, the Suburban, is called the National Truck of Texas. Damn near every elementary and middle-school drop-off/pickup lane is packed bumper to bumper with those twice a day.”
“Not Amy. No kids.”
“That’s a late-model Yukon,” Byrth said. “What the hell happened with all those dents and scratches? A Demolition Derby? And was it parked there-or deserted?”
Payne looked at it and chuckled at the observation.
The SUV had originally belonged to Brewster Payne. He had made it a gift to his daughter, Amelia Payne, MD. It wasn’t that she needed it for its large size. She had yet to marry and, appropriately, she had no children. Which may have been fortuitous in and of itself, as any husband or child would have been terrified to be a passenger of a motor vehicle operated by Amy Payne.
Amy Payne had many fine qualities. For whatever reason, being a decent driver was not among them. And it baffled everyone why she even bothered getting behind the wheel. Her mishaps with her various motor vehicles on (and occasionally off) the roads of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania bordered on the legendary. No curb, street sign, light pole, or other vehicle in her path was safe.
And knowing all this, Brewster Payne passed his Yukon to her in the hope that the big truck just might keep her alive.
Matt Payne put the rental Ford in park, turned off the engine, and looked at Jim Byrth. “You know, if you’re feeling brave, I’ll let you ask its owner. My sister just loves nothing more than to talk cars.”
“Why do I suspect you’re setting me up?” Byrth replied.
Payne’s cellular phone started ringing.
“Excuse me.”
He pulled it from his pants pocket and saw from the screen who was calling. He pushed the key to answer. “Yes, sir?” he said into it. There was a pause. Then he said: “No, Jason, no problems in the ECC. Thanks for asking. We left it not twenty minutes ago. I’m about to introduce Jim to the stubby Statue of Liberty-” He paused again.
Byrth grinned as he looked out the windshield. On the sidewalk in front of the bar’s window was a scale model of the Statue of Liberty. It was green and stood about five feet tall. The bar itself was a narrow three-story brick-faced structure that was at the end of a block-long building. Its wooden front door was on the left, under a half-circle canvas awning.
Payne went on: “Right. And he’s about to meet our favorite family shrink. I thought we could combine a welcome party with some shop talk. Care to join us?” Payne listened a moment. “Great. See you shortly.”
Payne ended the call and looked at Byrth. “Good news. The Black Buddha is going to join us.”
Byrth laughed aloud at that.
“You’ve got the cojones to call him that behind his back?”
Payne, now that he knew the translation, grinned at the term.
“I’ve got the co-hone-ees to call him that to his face,” Payne said. “It doesn’t offend him. He once told me that he believed Buddha to be a very wise man. Then he added, ‘And, Good Lord, there’s no denying I’m black.’ ”
Byrth chuckled. “He strikes me as a good man.”
Payne, his tone serious, said, “Yeah, a very good man. He’s one of my favorite people. And one of the best homicide detectives anywhere. I’m glad he’s joining us.”
They got out of the car. As they started for the door to the bar, Payne motioned at the stubby Statue of Liberty.
“Meet Miss Liberty,” he said formally. “And welcome to Liberties, sometimes referred to as the preferred watering hole of Philly’s Homicide Unit.”
Inside Liberties, Matt found the place was maybe a third full. Along the left wall were wooden tables with booths. They all were taken by patrons. A large wooden bar ran a good part of the opposite wall, from the front window almost back to the wooden stairs leading upstairs. It was mostly empty. In the middle were more tables and chairs. There, Matt saw Amy sitting at a table, her head down. She apparently was reading the screen of her cellular telephone.
“There she is,” Payne said to Byrth.
Byrth followed him across the room. He saw that Amy Payne looked to be about thirty years old, petite and intense, her brown hair snipped short. She wasn’t necessarily pretty, but was an attractive, natural-looking young woman.
As they approached Amy’s table, she looked up from her cell phone. Byrth was removing The Hat from his head, and she was unable to hide her surprise.
“Hi, Amy,” Matt said. “I want you to meet a friend of Liz Justice’s.”
Amy Payne well knew the family and police connections with the Justice family. She recovered from her initial shock and smiled warmly.
“Jim Byrth, this is my sister, Amy Payne. Amy, Jim.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Byrth said, offering his hand.
Amy took it.
“Jim is a sergeant with the Texas Rangers.”
“Really? I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds impressive.”
“It is,” Matt said, then added, “The Black Buddha is going to join us.”
“The more the merrier,” Amy said without much conviction.
Jesus Christ. Is she in one of her moods?
It’s been too long a day for that.
Matt looked at her. “Everything okay?”
“Should I be asking the same of you, Wyatt Earp?”
“You two want to be alone?” Byrth asked.
Matt made a face. “No, Jim. You’re fine.”
“Sorry about that, Jim,” Amy said. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
“No apology. I’m a big boy. I just thought you might want some privacy for when you punched Matt.”
She looked at him and smiled. It was a genuine one.
“C’mon, Amy,” Matt said. “That was a good shooting. For Christ’s sake, that sonofabitch pumped thirteen rounds into Skipper. It was an assassination. And there’s video that proves I got shot at.”
He stared at her.
After a moment, he said, “Can we not get into this right now? It’s been one helluva day, and Jim and I could use a drink. Or three.”
He looked at the table. All that was there was the usual centerpiece. It held salt and pepper shakers and a container with packets of sugar and sugar substitute. But there was no drink, not even water.
“You’re not drinking, Amy?”
“We haven’t ordered. We just got here.”
We? Matt thought.
She glanced toward the back of the bar, where the steps led to the second-floor dining area and, beyond the steps, the men’s and ladies’ rooms.
Matt’s eyes followed hers back there-and he thought he was going to have a heart attack.
Coming out from the very back, by the restrooms, was an absolutely gorgeous blonde who was running the fingers of her right hand through her thick, luxurious hair.
Good God! Amanda Law!
In Liberties!
Be still, my heart!