The Last Witness boh-11 Read online

  Matt looked at Chad. “You landed at Key West last Friday morning.”

  Chad nodded as the Lear came to a stop and its engines began winding down.

  “Okay, Kerry,” Payne said. “I’m not sure what I learned. But thanks. See you in a bit. I’m begging a ride to the Roundhouse from my buddy.”

  “The party is going on here in the war room.”

  “Got it.”

  Payne ended the call, then said to Chad, “You’re a corporate bigwig type. Do you block your tail number?”

  “We don’t need to. We’re not a publicly traded company with everyone second-guessing our every business decision, including how we use our planes. Although I have to admit I agree with the activist shareholders who want true transparency from the hypocritical politicians screaming about carbon footprints-and sticking it to me to pay what essentially is a luxury tax on a business tool-while they’re secretly jetting around in corporate aircraft.”

  Payne grunted as he looked at the casino’s jet.

  “Transparency and politicians? Dream on, buddy.”

  [TWO]

  Locust Near Fifty-fifth Street, West Philadelphia

  Monday, November 17, 2:47 P.M.

  Dmitri Gurnov had slipped back behind the wheel of the Audi, which was parked a block down the street from the address that Ricky had said was the place called the Sanctuary.

  A three-story brick-faced building, the facility looked from the outside like a small apartment complex with an interior central courtyard. It was much bigger-maybe three times the size-than the two row houses on Girard Park that made up Mary’s House.

  Like Mary’s House, the Sanctuary had no signage that said what the facility was. It did have one reading RESIDENTS ONLY. NO TRESPASSING. SMILE! YOU’RE ON CAMERA! And, also like Mary’s Place, the intercom buzzer was answered by a woman well practiced at not answering questions, particularly those of strangers.

  Neither woman had admitted to knowing a Ms. Mac or a Krystal Gonzalez.

  And when he tried pressuring the woman at Mary’s House, saying he knew that Ms. Mac worked there, the woman sternly but calmly said that he had exactly ten seconds to leave the property or she would call the police and have him arrested for trespassing. And she began counting, Ten, nine. .

  He’d used the first five of those seconds to quickly apologize if he in any way had offended her-then headed for his car parked around the corner.

  Sitting in the Audi now, he watched people coming and going from the Sanctuary building. They mostly were teenagers, both male and female, and the occasional adult with a child in tow. To enter the locked door, he saw that they used some sort of electronic card key.

  Getting inside the facility would pose Gurnov no challenge whatever-the teens, for example, were standing there and talking while holding the door wide open with no care in the world-but gaining entry would serve no purpose other than drawing the wrong kind of attention.

  What he needed was information.

  When he had asked Ricky if there were any other girls recruited from these two facilities, he’d said only the two who were gone.

  “What do you mean ‘gone’? They’re working in Florida or Texas?”

  “They were.”

  “And now?”

  “Now they’re gone. For good.”

  I should check on him.

  Gurnov’s go-phone vibrated. He looked at its small screen. It showed a text message from Julio:

  215-555-3582

  MULE AT BAG CLAIM

  Finally! Good news!

  Gurnov, waiting for an update, went back to watching the activity at the Sanctuary.

  Ten minutes later, Gurnov’s primary cell phone rang.

  He looked at it and answered in Russian: “Everything okay, Nick?”

  “I’ve been thinking. I need you to handle the product.”

  Product?

  “Okay. What is going on?”

  Gurnov’s go-phone vibrated. He read Julio’s update:

  215-555-3582

  MULE JUST LOST LOAD

  Gurnov blurted, “Shit!”

  “What happened?” Nick said, still in Russian.

  “Nothing. Just realized I lost something.”

  He texted back:

  LOST??? HOW WAS IT LOST?? ARE YOU SURE?

  It was a moment before Nick said, “Jorge Perez is up to something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I keep replaying what was said during the call this morning.”

  Me, too, Nick.

  “And what, Nick?”

  “He’s up to something. I smell it. If I caught him smuggling those Cubans, who knows what else he is up to. That could have blown everything, the girls and the coke.”

  “No argument.”

  “Good. That is why I need you to arrange to meet Perez’s cousin and secure the product.”

  Jorge said Carlos left this morning, so he will not get here until tomorrow morning. At the very earliest.

  “Not a problem. I will handle it.”

  Gurnov’s go-phone vibrated again, adding a new text:

  215-555-3582

  DEA HERE. . DOG MUST HAVE SNIFFED IT OUT

  DUDE LOOKS BAD

  This time Gurnov stopped himself from saying anything.

  But he thought: Bad? Of course!

  As one should when he realizes he has just screwed up and got his beautiful young wife and son killed!

  Damn it!

  “Dmitri, are you there?”

  “Sorry. I was distracted.”

  “You must have lost something big.”

  If only you knew. Which I cannot let happen.

  “You have Perez’s number, yes?”

  I actually have his and Carlos’s.

  “I do.”

  “Call me, Dmitri. Let me know how it goes. And find whatever it is that you lost-you need your head straight.”

  “Of course.”

  He hung up and looked out the windshield, thinking.

  Then his go-phone vibrated.

  Now what the hell is Julio going to tell me?

  He looked.

  Who. .? he thought, as he read:

  831-555-6235

  MAYBE I HAVE YOUR BOOKS. MAYBE I DON’T.

  WHO IS THIS?

  Dmitri Gurnov felt his anger flare. It bordered on fury.

  Do not dare to play games with me.

  You are dead!

  Five minutes later, after firing off a string of messages, he got what would be the last one from the woman. Two minutes after that, beyond furious, he was still looking at it:

  831-555-6235

  I NEED $200,00 °CASH BY TOMORROW.

  I’LL BE IN TOUCH.

  This dollar amount, it is not random.

  She knows. She does have the books.

  I should kill Ricky.

  But first this woman.

  He wrote:

  IT WILL TAKE A LITTLE TIME TO GET THAT MUCH IN CASH.

  BUT YOU SHOULD HAVE WHAT YOU WISH BY TOMORROW.

  IF YOU WOULD MEET ME WITH PROOF THAT YOU HAVE WHAT IS MINE?

  A PAGE WOULD SUFFICE.

  AND OF COURSE IT SHOULD BE A PUBLIC PLACE OF YOUR CHOOSING.

  He read it over.

  Not all a lie.

  Cash will be short now that I have to pay for the coke that was lost.

  And she can pick any place she wants to die.

  Dmitri Gurnov hit SEND, then threw the go-phone onto the passenger seat.

  He yanked the transmission into drive and sped toward Chestnut Street, trying to decide if it was the fastest route to the Fishtown dive bar.

  [THREE]

  The Roundhouse

  Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia

  Monday, November 17, 3:15 P.M.

  Matt Payne approached the heavy wooden door of the Executive Command Center on the top floor of police headquarters. He could hear the low hum of activity inside.

  When he pulled the door open, it didn’t surprise him to
find maybe twenty men and women, both sworn officers and civilian staff, in the brightly lit room. Most were seated at the T-shaped conference tables, busily working at the rows of laptop computers and multiline telephones. On the ten-foot-tall wall before them, the three banks of sixty-inch flat-screen monitors, twenty-seven total, were all glowing, their screens reflecting on the glass-topped conference tables.

  Payne felt some people glancing at him as he entered. He exchanged nods with those who made eye contact with him-including Kerry Rapier, seated across the room at the ECC’s control bank, who greeted him by raising one of Matt’s coffee mugs and mouthing Marshal-then they turned back to their computers and phones.

  Being called the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line cut both ways. While Matt had widespread support-beginning with Mayor Carlucci-he was acutely aware that not everyone thought he should be a cop. There were more than a few who felt his privileged upbringing and high connections gave him, put very politely, an unfair advantage. And his reputation for headline-grabbing O.K. Corral shoot-outs that left a long trail of dead bad guys only poured fuel on what was their fiery rhetoric.

  Matt knew that no matter what he did, some opinions would never change. He didn’t dwell on his detractors, but he also made sure he didn’t forget that they were there-and would love nothing better than to see him fail.

  Preferably in a very public way.

  I don’t give a damn what they think about me.

  But failure for me would mean failure for Maggie and the others.

  He glanced around.

  So far as I know no one in here has knives out for me, he thought, turning to the big wall.

  He scanned the banks of monitors. There were four prominent images of females, each with her name in white letters on a red bar across the top. The one he recognized immediately was that of Maggie McCain. It was a very attractive shot of her, fashionably dressed for a children’s charity fund-raiser, standing on the wide steps in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

  From their files that Kerry Rapier had e-mailed him that morning, Payne also recognized the others. The name bars above them identified them as Krystal Gonzalez, Emily Quan, and Jocelyn Spencer. Each had a box at the bottom that listed her height, weight, date of birth, last known address, aliases (all had “none”), and police file number.

  The Gonzalez girl’s photograph was a self-portrait. It came from her Mary’s House file and showed her, at age seventeen, standing in front of a bathroom mirror holding a small digital camera. She wore snug shorts, a very tight New York Yankees three-quarter-sleeve shirt, and she was flashing a radiant smile.

  The image of the twenty-six-year-old Quan was of her sitting at an office desk, her straight black hair framing her thin ivory face and doe eyes and falling to the black cardigan sweater she wore over a white T-shirt.

  The tall, somber-faced Spencer, who was twenty-seven, had been photographed on a city neighborhood sidewalk. She wore blue jeans and a red Temple University sweatshirt. A gold sequined purse, hanging from her shoulder by a thin chain of gold links, glinted in the sunlight.

  The other monitors displayed a wide variety of information from the files that were being updated constantly-Matt saw the forensics report on the Molotov cocktail stating that the fingerprint analysis ultimately had failed-to crime-scene photographs of Maggie McCain’s burned home, to exterior shots of Mary’s House and the West Philadelphia Sanctuary, and more.

  Payne felt a massive hand on his shoulder, then behind him Lieutenant Jason Washington’s deep voice said, “Glad you made it back safely, Matthew.”

  Payne turned and held out his right hand.

  “Thanks, Jason.” He nodded toward the high wall of monitors. “So we’re working all four cases as one.”

  “With the CPS thread, it’s clear that the disappearances are connected. They have to be. We just haven’t yet turned over the rock beneath the rock that has the link from them to the miscreant.”

  “Or miscreants plural?”

  Washington nodded. “My instinct tells me that solving one will lead to solving them all. Worst case: If I’m wrong, at least we’ve solved one. Which is more than has been accomplished thus far.”

  Matt looked back at the banks of monitors.

  “Let’s hope we find the others alive,” he said.

  “Did you see the e-mail from this morning that Maggie sent her family?” Washington said.

  “The one by way of India? Yeah, I did. And, taking a shot in the dark, I sent her one saying she has to communicate with us. At least send some proof of life.”

  Washington nodded. “And?”

  “And so far nothing but absolute silence.”

  “Well, it certainly was not a wasted effort. You know what Franklin said, ‘One catches more fish with more hooks in the water.’ Or perhaps it was my father who said that.”

  Payne chuckled, then said, “I see the fingerprints failed. Anything else come up?”

  “A couple items of note,” Washington said. “One, Mickey O’Hara was the first in the media to figure out it was Maggie’s house that had been hit.”

  “He told me last night. The connection goes back to when she contacted him about his series of articles that triggered reforms in Child Protective Services. Mick likes Maggie. He wants to help.”

  “I know. After you called and talked to Tony, I talked with Mickey about that. Because he likes Maggie, and also has a deep appreciation for what she does at Mary’s House, I got him to agree to embargo her name.” He paused, then added, “That all changed when Maggie’s father called today and said he wants his daughter’s face in every newspaper and on every newscast. Said if we didn’t make the call, he would. Carlucci failed to dissuade him. So, for giving us a little time by not releasing Maggie’s name, I gave Mickey the murdered girl’s name and the promise of another scoop. He just broke the story on Maggie and the girl.”

  Washington stepped over to an unattended laptop, opened it, and pulled up CrimeFreePhilly.com.

  The website, which O’Hara had developed with the backing of communications giant KeyCom, was what he described as “a clearinghouse of all things related to reducing crime in the city.” It aggregated articles and more-everything from lists of the Most Wanted to sending out crime news alerts-making it easier for the local citizenry to stay informed and involved. With CrimeFreeLA and CrimeFreeNYC in development, O’Hara, ever the enterprising journalist, also had recently launched PhillyNewsNow.com, which covered not just cops and criminals but all news in the city.

  Washington pointed at the computer screen. “It’s now the lead article.”

  Matt, reading over his shoulder, saw that CrimeFreePhilly had picked up Mickey’s story from the new website:

  BREAKING NEWS FROM PHILLY NEWS NOW

  Update: Society Hill Home Invasion

  By Michael J. O’Hara

  A Philadelphia Police Department source has confirmed that the Society Hill townhome invaded last Saturday night and set on fire is the residence of Margaret McCain, the twenty-five-year-old scion of one of Philadelphia’s founding families.

  The police source also confirmed that a nineteen-year-old, Krystal Angel Gonzalez, had been killed in the kitchen. She was the only person found in the burning home. The cause of her death was a gunshot to the head.

  The police, who do not consider Ms. McCain a person of interest, are asking anyone with information on the crime to call 215-686-TIPS (8477) or send a text message to PPDTIP (773847).

  Click here for the original news report. And check back for further updates on this developing story.

  Payne, looking from the screen to Washington, then noticed a familiar face in a corner of the room. The tall, muscular thirty-one-year-old was at the far end of a T-shaped conference table and talking on one of the multiline telephones.

  Washington followed his eyes.

  “That was the other item of note,” Washington said. “We have a visitor.”

  Jim Byrth wore a navy blazer, white dress shirt,
and dark necktie. Upside down on the seat of the chair on the other side of him was his white Stetson.

  Matt knew that, under the blazer, Jim wore a silver badge, a star within a circle engraved with TEXAS RANGERS, pinned just above his shirt pocket.

  “He asked if I minded him having a look at what we were doing,” Washington said.

  Payne nodded appreciatively.

  “I have to admit that I hoped that would happen. He’s one helluva cop. And with murders up and budgets slashed, we can’t afford to turn down free help.”

  Byrth looked their way, noticed Payne was with Washington, and nodded. He stood while still on his call, then hung up and headed their way.

  Matt turned as Jim approached. More than a few sets of eyes followed the two men as they shook hands and then patted each other on the back.

  “Nice tan, Marshal.”

  “Not nice enough. But I’m here now. Good to see you, Jim.” He glanced at Washington, and added, “I hear you’re earning your keep.”

  Byrth shook his head as he looked at the big wall of monitors. “I don’t think so. There is a lot of solid information.” He looked back to Matt. “But I’m just a simple country boy. I’m not coming up with what to make of it.”

  “Welcome to the club, country boy,” Payne said, then turned to Washington.

  “What else are you going to give Mickey?” Matt said. “That other scoop?”

  “The names of Emily Quan and Jocelyn Spencer,” Washington said.

  Payne considered that, then said, “You don’t think it will trigger serial killer headlines? Mickey won’t sensationalize it, but others will jump to conclusions.”

  “All we can do is stress that the women are missing, not dead. And then Mickey, and the others, can run with ‘Police need your help in locating. .’”

  Payne nodded.

  “And giving him the names would be a good time to pick his brains on CPS,” Washington said. “He really knows it well, the good and the bad.”

  “Liberties?” Payne asked, but it was more a statement.

  Jason was nodding. Liberties Bar was the official watering hole of the Homicide Unit.

  “I’ll buy,” Byrth said.