The Last Witness

by W. E. B. Griffin

  —

  Payne pushed the key on-screen that read CALL BACK.

  Jim Byrth answered on the first ring.

  “Howdy, Matt. Thanks for getting back so quick. You must be sitting around bored to tears. How are things in Philly?”

  “Hey, Jim. On the contrary, I wish I was bored. Look, I may have to break off this conversation, but I wanted to at least return your call. What’s going on?”

  “I just walked out of a titty bar—”

  “Lucky you. Congratulations,” Payne interrupted, sharply sarcastic. “You called to tell me that?”

  Byrth was quiet a moment, then said, “What’s crawled up your ass, Marshal?”

  “Sorry. I am a little pissed right now.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Not right now. I have to get back to dinner. You go.”

  “Okay, I’ll make this quick. Can you run some Philly names and addresses through your system for me?”

  “Sure. What’s it in regard to?”

  “I reckon it’d be a long shot if I asked you if you knew what Pozole was,” Byrth said, and before Payne could reply, he added, “It’s a Mexican stew.”

  Payne grunted. “So you called to talk about food?”

  “You remember your buddy El Gato?” Byrth said, ignoring that.

  The Cat.

  Payne’s memory flashed with an image of a defiant Delgado, his hands and feet taped to a chair in a hellhole of a Philly row house.

  Having just found Amanda captive there and cut her free, Matt had put the muzzle of his .45 between Delgado’s eyes. He wrestled with the impulse of blowing Delgado away, if not as payback for kidnapping Amanda, then to honor all the young Hispanic girls he had raped and tortured—including cutting off the head of one teenaged Honduran. In the end, Payne had decided against “shooting them all and letting the Lord sort them out,” and allowed the Cat what turned out to be at least his ninth life.

  “Where’s this going?” Payne said. “The bastard’s dead. You saw to that.”

  You tossed a black bean at Delgado’s bound feet—then turned a blind eye when our informant put a bullet in his head.

  Not that the sonofabitch didn’t deserve what he got. Especially considering what he no doubt was going to do with Amanda, whether or not he got a ransom for her.

  You’re probably tumbling another bean across your knuckles as we speak.

  Is it white—or black?

  —

  Byrth had told Payne, also on their way to the airport for Byrth’s flight back to Texas, about the Mier Expedition, led by Texas Ranger John Coffee Hays in the 1840s.

  Hays and Big Foot Wallace had pulled together a group to invade Mexico. South of the border, however, they found that they’d severely underestimated their target.

  They were captured.

  “The order came down to execute every tenth man,” Byrth explained.

  Black and white beans were put in a pot to determine who lived and who died. A man drawing a black bean was shot. Those who drew the white beans lived to carry the tale back to Texas.

  Byrth had then explained why he had no remorse for the informant’s “self-defense” killing of Delgado. Beyond the unspoken fact that it had been what Payne considered payback for all those whom the brutal Delgado had harmed, it also eliminated paying for courts and prisons.

  “El Gato getting himself killed saved taxpayers at least a million bucks.”

  —

  “Los Zetas,” Byrth now explained, “makes El Gato’s little gang look like choirboys. And I may have just found evidence here in North Texas of their handiwork that I’ve witnessed in Mexico.”

  “Zetas? The former enforcers of the Gulf Cartel?”

  “Yeah. Now on their own and worse than ever. If it’s Zetas or someone copying them, it gives new meaning to ‘Don’t go digging up more snakes than you can kill.’ Ergo, CATFU.”

  “What’s worse?”

  “Liquefying young strippers-slash-hookers.”

  “What? How the hell does that happen?”

  Byrth began, “In the woods by a lake we have found a ratty camp with more than a half dozen fifty-five-gallon drums of sulfuric acid. . . .”

  —

  “And,” Byrth finished five minutes later, “Sheriff Pabody, a really good guy, showed me this titty bar’s business card he found in the trailer. It’s got a girl’s handwriting that says when quote April unquote would be working and her phone number. I’ll send you a shot of it and forward the shot that Pabody sent me of her DOT ID.”

  “That’ll work,” Matt said. “So, you went to the strip club and—”

  “Yeah. The card said she was supposed to work there just these last three nights.”

  “And let me guess—nobody knew nothing.”

  “‘Nada,’ as it’s said in ol’ Ess-pan-yole. It took me some time to get anyone to even admit they could speak English. Finally I was handed a napkin with a phone number written on it. When I called, sounded like a white guy who answered. Identified himself as Todd Lincoln and said that he was the owner of the club. And he of course offered to cooperate completely. He might have some local Dallas cops bought to look the other direction but knows that I can really bring in the heat.”

  “And?”

  “And what else? I got the usual BS runaround. Anyone can get ahold of those cards and write whatever they want on them. He said he would ask his managers about any girls named April. ‘But it’s probably a stage name, if she exists at all.’”

  “And since you don’t know what she looks like . . .”

  Byrth’s mind flashed with what was left of the face of the girl in the barrel.

  “Not unless she’s the one pictured on the ID. Even showing everyone in the titty bar that image blown up on my phone I came up with zilch.”

  Matt felt his phone vibrate once.

  “Well,” he said quickly, clearly trying to wind up the conversation, “send those to me, and I’ll get them right up to Philly.”

  “‘Up to Philly’? Where are you?”

  “In the Keys with Amanda. But some shit’s just hit the fan, so I don’t know what’s next.”

  “Is she okay?”

  Matt could hear genuine concern in the Texan’s deep voice.

  “Thanks, man. She’s fine. Someone we know is missing after her house was firebombed last night.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry. I won’t hold you up any longer. Get back to me when you can.”

  “Will do.”

  “Good luck, Marshal.”

  “You, too, Jim.”

  Matt broke off the call, then checked the screen:

  AMANDA 9:22 PM

  WHERE ARE YOU? WE NEED TO TALK.

  Oh shit, he thought as he typed: “Meet in bar?”

  Is this good or bad?

  Either way, I’ll need a drink.

  Then maybe we can get back to dinner . . . and everything else.

  He hit SEND, and another message box popped on-screen:

  BYRTH 9:23 PM

  GOOD HEARING YOUR VOICE. IMAGES FOLLOW.

  GIVE AMANDA A KISS FOR ME. TAKE CARE OF HER . . . LADIES LIKE THAT ARE RARE INDEED.

  As Matt smiled and nodded appreciatively, his phone vibrated twice. Each of the messages contained only an image. He studied the Hacienda business card, then the girl’s Department of Transportation ID.

  Beautiful girl . . .

  Hazzard Street? That’s in Kensington.

  He hit the FORWARD key, found Tony Harris’s phone number, and typed: “Our brother-in-arms the Texas Ranger needs whatever we can find out about this girl. Can you have someone run it ASAP? Maybe Kerry Rapier can crack it open beyond the obvious. Thanks.”

  The girl’s bright eyes seemed to stare out at him as his finger touched the SEND
key and the image went away.

  He then looked out past the palm trees and the groomed white sand beach to the Atlantic Ocean, and the majestic moon and blanket of stars above it. The wind was picking up. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the cleansing feel of the salty air, then exhaled and shook his head.

  So much beauty in this world. And so much hell.

  You never know what’s coming next.

  As Amanda’s friend Carl Crantz said just before his lungs gave out: “Live every day like it’s your last.”

  He turned and started to walk up the tiki-torch-lined path toward the bar. Another message came in with an image.

  A third?

  He read it:

  BYRTH 9:23 PM

  MATT, THIS IS IT FOR NOW. FIGURED YOU NEEDED TO SEE WHAT WE’RE DEALING WITH. GOT THIS FROM THE SCENE.

  FWD: GLENN PABODY 8:03 PM

  JIM . . . HERE’S THE LAST IMAGE.

  And then he tapped the image.

  “Oh shit!” he blurted.

  He stopped and stared at the photograph of the acid-burned teenage girl’s face looking up from inside a blue barrel.

  [FOUR]

  Love Field Airport, Dallas

  Sunday, November 16, 8:55 P.M. Texas Standard Time

  The manager of Lone Star Aviation Services—a tall man in his late thirties, with almost a military buzz haircut and dressed in slacks, well-shined brown loafers, knit shirt, and a brown leather A-2 flight jacket—walked with purpose over to the medium-dark-skinned man who stood stiffly, hands on his hips, staring out the bank of windows that overlooked the busy airfield.

  Lone Star was a fixed-base operator—an enormous limestone-faced steel building that was the hangar, and a limestone two-story building that served as its corporate offices and lobby reception area, and a concrete pad that could hold fifteen to twenty jet aircraft and two big red fuel trucks—in the northeast corner of the airfield, in the general aviation section. It was separate from the airport’s main terminal building, visible in the distance with orange-bellied 737s lined up at the gates.

  “Tango Romeo is on the ground, Mr. Badde,” the manager of Lone Star Aviation Services announced.

  H. Rapp Badde, Jr., thirty-two years old, was a city councilman-at-large with a well-earned reputation in his native Philadelphia for being alternately arrogant and charismatic. Somewhat fit—he had a bit of a belly rounding out the fabric of his white silk shirt—Badde stood five-eleven and two hundred pounds. He wore a custom-cut two-piece black suit and his trademark narrow black bow tie. A brand-new roller suitcase, a cheap counterfeit Louis Vuitton, black with pink accents, stood at his feet.

  “Tango Romeo?” Badde automatically repeated. “What the hell is that? Sounds like some kind of Roman lover’s Latin dance.”

  He flashed his politician’s bright cap-toothed exaggerated smile, his belly shaking as he chuckled at his own wit.

  “My apology, sir. I should have said Mr. Antonov’s aircraft has landed.”

  “Then what’s Tango Romeo?”

  “The aircraft’s identification number is N556TR. In the language of aviation, ‘T’ is said ‘Tango’ and ‘R’ is said ‘Romeo’ for clarity, to avoid confusion in radio communications.”

  The look on Badde’s face suggested anything but clarity.

  The manager pointed out the window at a Cessna Citation X.

  “There it is now,” he said.

  The twin-engine jet aircraft was turning off the runway onto the taxiway. On the side of the engine that was visible Badde saw: N556TR.

  The aircraft’s paint scheme featured a pair of undulating bright red ribbons. They ran along its gleaming white fuselage, ending on the T-tail, which had two bright red dice, the face of each showing two rows of three white pips.

  “Railcars,” Badde automatically said aloud to himself.

  He had been more or less studying the various games of gambling since becoming involved with the ongoing development of the new Lucky Stars casino, and was quietly impressed with himself for remembering.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Badde?”

  “Those dots on the dice,” he then said loudly, with authority, “those are called railcars when there’s twelve of them.”

  The manager hesitated before replying, “If I’m not mistaken, I believe, sir, that it’s boxcars.”

  Badde turned his head in thought, then said, “That’s what I said. Boxcars.”

  “Of course. My mistake.”

  “Wonder if there’s any significance to their being boxcars?” Badde went on. “It’s not a train, it’s a plane. Guess it probably just looks good.”

  The manager didn’t reply.

  “What kind of plane is that?” Badde then said. “One of those Boeings?”

  “Boeings are much bigger, sir.” He pointed toward the 737s at the main terminal gates. “Those are Boeing airliners.”

  “I came here on that.” Badde pointed to the nearest business jet parked on the pad with eight others, a couple at least twice its size. “It’s a what?”

  “A Hawker.”

  “And this one coming in?”

  “Tango Romeo is a four-month-old Citation Ten, the latest version. It’s a midsized jet, a little bigger than the Hawker.”

  “And faster?”

  “Yes, sir. A little. At flight level four-nine-zero it cruises around four-sixty, four-seventy knots.” He paused, then added, “That’s an altitude of forty-nine thousand feet, and speed just over six hundred miles an hour. With the headwind light tonight, it made the trip from Key West in right at two hours. And that included a stop, a brief one, in New Orleans.”

  Badde nodded as he wondered, What did they do in New Orleans? Their casino downtown is at least a half hour from the airport.

  “Had to stop for gas?” he said.

  “They weren’t on the ground long enough for that. Besides, the Citation’s range is around thirty-five hundred miles. Depending on winds, that’s New York City to Los Angeles and halfway back again.”

  “You’re just full of interesting flying facts,” Badde said. “How do you keep up with it all?”

  “It’s my job, of course. But aviation is addictive.”

  “Yeah. So I’m seeing! This Citation, how many can it hold?”

  “In addition to the two crew, up to twelve passengers, depending on the cabin configuration.”

  “What’s one worth?”

  “New, around twenty million—”

  “No kidding?”

  “—but there are plenty of nice older ones to be had for eight, ten. We have a couple for sale in that range in the hangar, as well as others.”

  Badde nodded, impressed. There had been plenty of general aviation airplanes at the fixed-base operator at Northeast Philadelphia Airport when the Hawker arrived that afternoon to pick up Badde. Most of the ones he’d seen, though, had propellers, not jet engines, and were much smaller than the Hawker.

  There had to be some.

  Maybe, like the Russian’s here, they’re gone somewhere.

  The giant doors on the hangar began sliding open. The interior was brightly lit, and Badde could see even more aircraft inside. Enormous red, white, and blue flags—one of the United States of America with its fifty stars and one of the State of Texas with its Lone Star paying homage to when it was its own sovereign nation—hung in the middle from the steel beam rafters. A tractor tug drove out and connected to the Citation’s nose gear.

  Looks like what they say about everything being bigger in Texas is true!

  And this place is cleaner than the one today in Philly. That glossy floor looks clean enough to eat off of.

  “Well, Mr. Badde,” the manager said, “welcome again to Texas. And please let me know if there’s anything else that we can do for you and the City of Philadelphia. Particularly if you’re in the market for a f
ine aircraft.”

  “Now, that would be a very nice thing to get!” Badde said. “And none of that TSA security nonsense. Just hop onboard and go. I can get used to this kind of lifestyle.”

  The manager smiled, then left.

  H. Rapp Badde, Jr., watched with almost childlike fascination as the impressive Citation rolled up to near the limestone-faced hangar and was wanded to a stop on the well-lit pad. He heard the whine of the engines winding down.

  Idling nearby was a highly polished black Cadillac Escalade ESV with darkened windows and shiny chromed wheels. The big SUV’s Texas license plate read Y-ROSE-5. It began moving slowly, then stopped alongside the aircraft as the jet’s stair door opened and rotated downward. The driver’s door swung open and a clean-cut brown-skinned young man in a two-piece black suit and collarless white dress shirt stepped out. He opened the door behind the driver’s.

  Jan would like this kind of living large, too, Badde thought.

  It’s a shame she already had the meeting set up for tomorrow and couldn’t come. But Santos assured Jan there would be more opportunities.

  On paper, Janelle Harper, a graduate of Temple’s Beasley School of Law, was Badde’s executive assistant. In reality, the curvy, full-bodied (five-six, one-forty) twenty-five-year-old with silky light brown skin was his paramour.

  Although Badde adamantly denied that they had a relationship that was anything but professional, the truth of the matter was not exactly a well-kept secret in Philadelphia. Months earlier, for example, a photograph of them on a Bermuda beach had appeared in the local media. Thus, it was known—though mostly ignored—by Wanda Badde, Rapp’s wife of six years.

  He had spent the previous night with Jan, in the luxury Hops Haus twentieth-floor condominium he provided for her, after a furious Wanda had thrown him out of their house.

  When Jan got the call that the Hawker would pick up Rapp at Northeast Airport that afternoon, he’d had enough clothes at the condo for the trip. But he’d found it necessary to borrow the counterfeit Louis Vuitton suitcase he had bought on the street in New York City for Jan as a surprise, not expecting she could tell it was a fake.