“What did she say?”
Amanda thought for a moment, then quoted: “‘Tell everyone I’m fine, I love them, and not to worry. Explain later. Will be in touch soonest. Hugs.’”
“That’s all?”
“That was it.”
Matt grunted. “Pretty damn vague. And doesn’t begin to address what happened at her house.”
Amanda nodded.
“Because the text was sent anonymously,” she then said, “how would they know it’s legit? Couldn’t someone be forcing her to send it?”
“Yeah, there’s always that possibility. But hard to say. What doesn’t make sense is why, if she’s okay, she’s going out of her way not to be reachable. If there was a way to get to her, we could ask for proof of life.”
“What would be proof?”
“A photograph of her holding, say, the front page of today’s newspaper or even holding a laptop with Mickey’s website on the screen with some current news story. Hell, with her story on it. Anything that shows her alive doing something that’s recognizable as right now.”
She thought for a moment, then in a hopeful tone said, “She did begin the text with ‘Spider.’”
“‘Spider’?”
“Mrs. McCain said it’s the nickname Maggie sometimes calls her cousin. It alludes to Emma’s modern dances, to how she moves. And to the spider rolls that are her favorite. They shared one Saturday night at that Rittenhouse sushi place, the one near your apartment.”
Matt shook his head. “Not exactly proof of life. But that could help confirm the message is legit. Not many people know she’s missing. And bad guys, even if they had the cousin’s phone number, would have no reason to contact her, let alone know to call her by a nickname. They’d go right for the big money—her parents.”
“So then that’s probably why it’s being considered legit,” Amanda said. “But it’s clear she’s not ‘fine.’ Not being reached and only sending messages is anything but fine.”
“And that’s been the only communication, just the one text?”
Amanda nodded. “As far as I know. Mrs. McCain did ask me to see what you thought about the police asking if she had any knowledge of Maggie letting girls from Mary’s House stay at her place. That’s suggestive, no?”
Matt nodded thoughtfully.
So, that’s who the ME bagged.
The questions, though, are still: Was she the intended target? Or was it Maggie? Or both? Or someone else?
“What are you thinking, Matt? One of them was there and started it?”
“What I’m thinking is about what Mickey O’Hara said. He was one of the calls I was juggling.”
“What does he know?”
“Not much. He was calling to see what I knew, and I told him what Jason said. But what he did say was that one of the crime-scene guys quietly told him two things. One, that the place was firebombed—”
“Firebombed!”
“Molotov cocktails. Coke bottles filled with gasoline.”
“Oh my God! Then it wasn’t just a home invasion?”
“Doesn’t look that way. At least I don’t think so. And two, that the medical examiner’s van was put in the garage, the door closed, then whoever died in the house was snuck out.”
“A girl from Mary’s House . . .”
“Or girls? But why was it done quietly? And why is Jason not talking?”
They were silent for a long moment. Then Matt exhaled audibly and blurted, “I’ve really had enough of this.”
“What? Enough of what?”
“I’m sorry, baby, but I’m beyond frustrated. And mad. I brought us down here to have a good time. And we were doing that.” He paused and ran his hands through his hair. “But now this has happened, and there’s not a damn thing I can do, even if I knew it wouldn’t make you more upset.”
Amanda stepped toward him and ran her fingertips down his cheek.
She met his eyes.
“I understand,” she said. “I’m torn, too. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Torn? So that’s what I saw in her face but couldn’t figure out.
“Torn about what?”
“We’ve been dodging the issue since we found out that I’m pregnant,” she began softly. “I meant what I said that night at my place. That we’re at a critical time in our lives. That we’ve both been given second chances. That I want us to get this next one right.”
And, he thought, his mind filling with the image of them in the Hops Haus penthouse condominium on the leather couch, I can see you saying it in that stunning sequined dress that shimmered like the ocean is doing right now. You were really in your cups.
“Remember?” she said.
Matt nodded solemnly.
He would never forget her explaining, with uninhibited honesty, that she wanted them to have what Anne Bancroft had said was the key to her happy marriage of a half century to Mel Brooks. Amanda had quoted Bancroft saying that her heart still raced at the thought of her mate, just as it had at the start, because there was both love and excitement in their relationship: “When his tires crunch coming up the gravel driveway, I think, ‘Now the fun begins.’”
Amanda now went on: “Thanks to my dad having been a cop, I deeply understand what it is you do. And why you do it. It’s in your blood, and you do it well, which is a tremendous honor to the memory of your father and uncle. My dad knew them, and you know he speaks highly of them. As does everyone else I highly respect.”
Matt felt his throat constrict.
Amanda inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly.
“But I have to be clear,” she said softly. “You willingly put your life in danger. And you put it on the line for strangers. Damn it, Matt, if you die, the fact remains that it will destroy me. It will destroy our family—but it will really destroy me. And, yes, I know I’m being selfish with all this.”
He cleared his throat and said, “It’s understandable—”
“Let me finish, please,” she interrupted softly. “I could be dead now from the kidnapping. And you have scars from being shot while on duty. . . . It’s a miracle you aren’t dead.”
The door to the bar opened, and she went suddenly silent.
Out walked an attractive couple who looked to be in their fifties. They sipped at cocktails as they held hands. The husband, smiling broadly, quietly said something to his wife that caused her to laugh, then to move in closer and kiss his cheek.
Amanda forced a thin smile as she and Matt stepped aside and the couple passed and went down the steps. They watched them, still hand in hand, start walking the tiki-lined path toward the beach.
Matt then met Amanda’s eyes.
You may know what she’s thinking—“That could be us in twenty years, if you don’t get killed”—but keep your mouth shut, Matty.
That way you won’t have to spend the rest of the night trying to extricate your foot from it.
“’Tis better to remain mute and thought the fool than to speak and confirm it. Again.”
She gathered her thoughts, then went on: “I said I’m torn because I without question believe in what I said about us being given second chances. We can’t lose that. I want a million days like we had today on the boat.”
“Yeah!” he said. “And so do—”
She held up her hand.
Try it again, Matty: Mouth shut!
“I’m not finished. Matt, I never thought I’d say this, but I want you to go back to work. Not for strangers—for Maggie. Find her. But for God’s sake”—she paused and placed his left palm on her dress over her belly—“and especially for ours, promise me that you will be careful.”
Her belly rose and fell with her breaths. He felt its warmth through the soft linen fabric. He looked in her eyes as she squeezed his hand.
Tears were wellin
g as she whispered, “Now the fun begins.”
He leaned in, put his arms around her, and kissed her on the lips softly and slowly.
They had not finished when her phone began ringing. It wasn’t until the fourth ring that she pulled back and glanced at its screen.
Then she handed the phone to him.
“Answer it,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.
“Who . . . ?”
Matt took it and saw that the caller ID read: MRS. MCCAIN.
She knew this was coming. . . .
Matt cleared his throat, then spoke into Amanda’s phone: “Mrs. McCain? Hello, this is—”
A male’s stern, gravelly voice cut him off.
“Hello? Who is this?” he demanded. “Matt? Matt Payne?”
Matt looked at Amanda. She was watching intently.
“Yes, sir. Matt Payne speaking.”
“Will McCain here,” he went on, his tone impatient. “Listen, it’s been one long, hellish day. I’ll cut right to the chase. I want you to find my girl and get to the bottom of whatever the hell is going on. I’m not getting the answers in the manner I’m accustomed. I was about to hire the best private detectives my people could find. Then I overheard my wife speaking with Amanda tonight, and she mentioned your name. When can you get here?”
Matt was quiet for a moment.
How can I possibly do this outside of the department? Without its resources, I’m at a huge disadvantage.
“Matt? You there? Hello? Hello? Damn these phones!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. McCain. I’m here. I would do whatever I possibly could to help. But please understand that right now there are limits as to what I’m able to do. For one, I’m in Florida—”
“Not a problem.”
“Yes, sir, I agree that’s minor. But there’s more. I’m assigned to the Homicide Unit, and I’ve been taken off the job—”
“I understand that you’re on leave. I just talked to Jerry about that. If he doesn’t have you put on this . . . this situation . . . I told him that I’ll hire you privately.”
No surprise he has a direct line to the mayor.
That’s the way it works at that level. Call in a favor or a contribution—or, if necessary, a threat.
“Sir, as I’m sure Mayor Carlucci could tell you, there are very capable men, detectives with far more experience than I have, who can do a better job—”
“Matt, I’m not one for false modesty,” McCain replied sharply. “Particularly right now, when I need results. Everyone knows you’re not one who’s afraid to get his hands dirty and get the job done. There’s a reason that O’Hara character called you the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line years ago and it stuck.”
“Sir, that’s—”
He felt a nudge and looked at Amanda.
As she mouthed, Say yes, Matt felt his phone vibrating. He pulled it from his pocket, checked its screen, then held it up for Amanda to see. She nodded as she read: DENNY.
“What are you saying, Matt?” Will McCain’s voice came over Amanda’s phone.
“I was saying, yessir, Mr. McCain. I’ll speak with Commissioner Coughlin right now.”
—
Five minutes later, winding up the conversation, Denny Coughlin said, “Be aware, Matty, that Carlucci wasn’t exactly happy with Will McCain’s demand that you be put on the case. He even turned me down this morning when I asked if you could help work it. It’s not that Carlucci doesn’t have faith in you—he is at his core one helluva cop and knows another when he sees one—but he’s also a savvy politician. I think he is worried that the perception of the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line is becoming a bit of a political liability.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, Uncle Denny.”
“Just keep your nose clean. Jason Washington is including you in the conference call tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.”
“Got it. So that I don’t come in completely ignorant, can someone send me what we have so far?”
“Jason is working on that. But for now get some rest. It’s late. What did I tell you a long time ago about fatigue?”
Matt nodded. “That fatigue shuts down the brain when you overwork. ‘Get rest and then you get results.’”
“We all want to get the McCain girl back. But let’s be smart. And safe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good night, Matty.”
The connection went dead.
Matt looked at Amanda as he dialed Tony Harris’s cell phone.
“Well, that’s that,” he said to her, then into the phone said, “Hey, Tony. You awake?”
Matt listened for a moment, then said, “I’ll be quick. I’m now in on the McCain case. Anything I should know before tomorrow morning’s conference call?”
So much for me keeping my nose clean.
He listened for another long moment, and when he heard Harris say that they were coming up with nothing more on Maggie McCain than they had come up with on the other two missing women, Matt thought, Two others? I can’t let Amanda know that. No wonder Jason wouldn’t tell me. He couldn’t.
Matt looked at Amanda as he said, “Thanks. Okay, Tony, now go on back to sleep. Don’t you know what Denny says about fatigue and getting proper rest?”
Matt Payne heard Tony Harris then suggest “with all possible due respect” that Payne should perform on himself a sexual act that was a physical impossibility.
“Yeah, well, same to you, buddy,” Matt replied, but he was smiling. “Sweet dreams.”
He broke off the call. Amanda raised her eyebrows in question.
“Nothing new since Maggie’s e-mail,” Matt said.
Which is not exactly a lie.
But it’s not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. . . .
“Nothing more to do now that’s not being done,” he said. “I’m on it first thing tomorrow.”
“Well, that does make me feel a little better.”
He held out his arm for her to take.
“Let’s go grab dinner. You’re eating for two, you know.”
[TWO]
Players Corner Lounge
Front and Master Streets, Philadelphia
Sunday, November 16, 10:01 P.M.
“I can pull over there under the El and wait, Mr. Gurnov,” the driver of the dark blue Audi R8 sedan said, stopping in front of the Fishtown dive bar. A dusting of snow had accumulated on the bar’s dirty redbrick front. Its blacked-out windows, with silver reflective silhouettes of well-endowed naked women holding martinis and poker cards on them, practically rattled with the music system blaring the Jersey rock band Bon Jovi.
“This won’t take long,” Dmitri Gurnov said, meeting the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
Gurnov, tall and wiry, carried himself with a steel-like intensity. The thirty-year-old had pale skin, sunken eyes, and a three-day scruff of beard. He wore a black leather jacket, a black collarless shirt, blue jeans, and polished black leather boots. He could feel the weight of the compact Sig-Sauer 9mm he carried in the right pocket of his coat.
Gurnov glanced up and down the snow-covered street, then opened the right rear door. He stepped onto the sidewalk that was little more than crumbling concrete. He looked across the street, where an overflowing industrial dumpster sat in front of another old bar. The space was being gutted. A new sign on one of the boarded-over windows announced that a wine café was coming soon.
We can’t keep this shithole bar here much longer with that going on.
Especially with the girls working.
The Fishtown section of Philly, bordering the Delaware River, was beginning to feel the benefits of the gentrification of neighboring Northern Liberties. In addition to NoLibs’ many small independent businesses similar to the wine café, nearby were the two busy casinos overlooking the river and, a dice
throw away across the expressway from them, the upscale Schmidt’s Brewery apartments, movie cinemas, and the Hops Haus complex of high-rise condominiums and trendy retail stores and restaurants.
The deterioration of Fishtown had started decades earlier. With the loss of jobs went the loss of community, first the tight-knit families of Italians moving out and then many of the tough working-class Irish who had taken their place following. Some hung on, but the first wave of bohemian outsiders were moving in, buying at affordable prices and pushing the ’hood to rise up, mirroring the success of NoLibs.
With a wealth of new development being planned out on various architects’ blueprints—including, Gurnov knew, ground finally broken on a Diamond Development entertainment complex just blocks away at Jefferson and Mascher—the clock was ticking on the old pockets of Fishtown that remained seedy.
A dive bar like the Players Corner Lounge was but one example of what the changing demographics would eventually push north into the harder hit areas of Kensington and Frankford, sections that long had been—and likely would continue to be—in a really bad way.
—
The moment the car door shut with a thunk, the Audi pulled a quick U-turn.
The dive bar’s dented metal door was set back in what would have been the corner of the old three-story building. As Gurnov started toward it, a SEPTA train on the Frankford-Market El loudly rumbled and screeched overhead. He briefly looked up at the brightly lit railcars, then down at the Audi parking beneath the El and killing its headlights. He grabbed the metal bar that served as the door handle and pulled. The loud thrumming music poured out as if it had been trapped in the small confines of the dusky, dank room.
It took a moment for Gurnov’s eyes to adjust. The lounge was mostly dark except for dimmed lighting behind the wooden bar that was along the left wall and a pair of bright red and blue floodlights harshly illuminating the stripper pole on the small stage to the right. An olive-skinned brunette, with obvious stretch marks on her pudgy belly, was hanging upside down near the ceiling from the chromed pole, pumping her arm to the beat of rock star Jon Bon Jovi belting out It’s! My! Life!
The Last Witness Page 12
