The Last Witness

by W. E. B. Griffin

  Payne nodded thoughtfully. “Makes you wonder why hers hasn’t been ditched.” He paused, then said, “What else you got on your list, Tony?”

  “Just one last thing. All the neighbors I spoke with last night couldn’t say enough nice things about Maggie. Said she was an extraordinary neighbor, nice and friendly, always taking care of her place. If she saw litter on the sidewalk, she picked it up. They were sick about the home invasion.”

  Matt looked away from the screen in thought.

  “I can smell the gears burning all the way from here,” Washington said. “What are you thinking, Matthew?”

  Payne, rubbing his chin with his thumb and index finger, turned back to the screen.

  “Nothing really. It’s just that the go-phone went live in the NoLibs–Fishtown area.”

  “And?” Harris said.

  “And that’s where the casinos are.”

  “So?”

  “I’m afraid that I’m not following you either, Matthew.”

  Matt shrugged and made a face. “That’s because there’s nothing to follow. Nick Antonov’s name came up at dinner last night. Some SoBe ABC—”

  “Now you’re talking in tongues, buddy,” Harris said.

  “South Beach American-born Cuban, Tony. A guy named Jorge Perez. He was running Antonov’s boat, the casino’s boat, and entertaining a couple of middle-aged goombahs who looked like they could’ve just fallen off the pasta truck in South Philly or South Orange. Or, considering Perez, maybe closer to Havana on the Hudson. Just didn’t smell right. And apparently it’s still bugging my subconscious.”

  “You’ve really lost me, Matt. How does Union, New Jersey . . . ?”

  “Like I said, Tony, there’s nothing to follow. That go-phone could have been anywhere. Including the Hops Haus condo high-rise. And I’m not about to implicate Amanda any more than anyone else.”

  “All right, then,” Harris said. “That’s all we have for now. We should have more details in by the time you come back this afternoon.”

  Payne nodded, then said, “Speaking of this afternoon, Jim Byrth is headed to Philly, too.”

  That caused Washington to change his facial expression.

  His eyebrows went up as he said: “Jim’s always welcome, as I told him. What’s the purpose of his visit this time?”

  Matt repeated the description of the camp by the lake in northeast Texas and all that was found there.

  When he had finished, Jason Washington said, “I’ve heard about those sulfuric acid baths. But the cartels aren’t the first to liquefy their enemies. The head of the Sicilian mob, Filippo Marchese, used lye and called it Lupara bianca. White shotgun.”

  Matt clicked on a file, and the photograph of him in the right bottom corner was replaced with the Cusick ID.

  “This is the ID that the sheriff found in the RV trailer.”

  “Pretty girl,” Harris said.

  Matt went to click it to close the image but instead managed to open the file next to it. The image of the girl in the blue barrel popped up in its place.

  In the upper right window of his screen, Matt watched as Tony Harris’s eyes went wide and coffee sloshed from his cup. He slowly said, “Damn!”

  “Sorry. Hope everyone’s had their breakfast,” Payne said, and clicked to make it go away.

  “As horrific as that is—and it genuinely is—your priority is the McCain case, Matthew.”

  “Understood. Trust me, I have Amanda reminding me of that by the minute.”

  And I’m well aware that the sooner Maggie comes home, the sooner I can come back down here.

  The three images of Washington, Harris, and Rapier started to become pixelated again. Then that snow of tiny multicolored dots turned completely black.

  All that was left on Matt’s screen was his own live image.

  “Are you still there, Matthew?” Washington’s deep voice came through Payne’s laptop speaker. “We lost your picture again.”

  “And I lost all of yours,” Matt said. “Damn it! Why won’t this work?”

  “It’s the ECC’s fault, Marshal,” Kerry’s voice then announced. “It’s why, I think, it took so long for you to get patched in, then that other pixelated burp. I really thought I had the bugs out.”

  “Well, we’re finished for now anyway,” Harris’s voice said.

  Matt glanced at the corner of his screen, saw it read MON 8:01 AM, and said, “Okay. If there’s nothing else, time for me to go pack up.”

  “Kerry, log us out,” Washington said, from the darkness of his box.

  Payne stood, felt the black pillowcase brush his head, then yanked it from the ceiling.

  “Yes, sir,” Rapier’s voice said, then added, “Hey, here’s an error message.”

  Payne looked back at the screen. The images of all three men had returned.

  “Nice boat, Marshal!” Rapier blurted.

  Jason and Tony grinned as Kerry placed his head close to the camera. His eyeball now filled his on-screen box, and he rolled it around, pretending to be looking around the Viking.

  Jason chuckled deeply as Tony said, “So you’re doing hard time at Club Fed? Looks rough, buddy.”

  [FOUR]

  Suite 2400, Two Yellowrose Place, Uptown Dallas

  Monday, November 17, 9:30 A.M. Texas Standard Time

  “Hey, Rapp, come on in!” Mike Santos said. “Me and Bobby here were just talking about what a fine time we had getting to know you last night.”

  The office of the chief executive officer of OneWorld Private Equity Partners was penthouse level, twenty-three floors above the Southwest Chop House and the other street-level businesses.

  Bobby Garcia stood looking over Santos’s shoulder at the two side-by-side large flat-screen computer monitors on Santos’s desk. The desk was an eight-foot-long slab of thick, perfectly polished petrified wood with two wide stainless steel cylinders for legs. Santos followed Garcia out from behind it.

  “Good morning,” Rapp Badde said, forcing a smile, and shook Bobby Garcia’s hand, then that of Santos.

  Badde glanced around the office. An impressive space, it was expensively decorated. The walls were filled with large photographs, ones that looked like fine art, of buildings and various commercial developments. And there were artist conceptions of future projects. There had to be more than a hundred. The walls of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over downtown in one direction and out west in the other direction.

  “Can we get you something? Coffee?” Santos said. “Maybe something to kick-start your day? A little hair of the dog?”

  “Tempting, but no, thank you,” Badde said. “That was one helluva nice time last night. Exhausting, though. It was tough getting up this morning, and I slept hard all night.”

  Well, not exactly all night, Bobby Garcia thought, then noticed Badde absently rubbing his wrists.

  “It was a good night,” Santos said. “Glad to hear you got rest, too.”

  “I can get used to that nice scenery last night. What business were those women in? Hospitality?”

  Is he serious? Garcia thought.

  “Right. The service industry,” Santos said. “They come here to train at our hotel across the street—it’s sort of a finishing school—then travel from property to property. It keeps them”—he glanced at Garcia knowingly, clearly enjoying himself—“what’s the word I’m looking for, Bobby? ‘Nimble’?”

  Garcia, literally biting his lip, raised his eyebrows, then nodded.

  Santos went on: “Now that we’re providing the initial hundred million for your little hotel in Philly, and maybe more, I’m sure we’ll be able to have them there—say, for the grand opening?”

  Garcia, watching Badde nod agreeably, thought: The sonofabitch really doesn’t remember a damn thing.

  —

  Santos and Garcia
had spent the previous fifteen minutes reviewing parts of H. Rapp Badde, Jr.’s first night in Dallas.

  “Here’s the footage we got from the chophouse security cameras,” Santos said. “Shows us at the table, having drinks as the girls arrive.”

  Garcia watched the image on the left flat-screen that showed Santos and Garcia and Badde getting to their feet. Introductions were made, and then the group walked out of the lounge.

  The next image picked up their party a moment later stepping out to the outside bar of the chophouse. In a corner of the softly lit area was a stone fire pit, natural-gas-fed and flickering with orange flames, that was surrounded by plush couches with oversized cushions and pillows.

  As soon as they sat, Badde with a blonde on one side and a brunette on the other, a waitress arrived with a bottle of champagne and three crystal stems and another round of the men’s drinks.

  “He really was giddy over those girls,” Garcia said. “I almost feel bad about all this.”

  Santos chuckled.

  He fast-forwarded the image. The girls fawned over Badde, laughing and touching his hand. After a short time, Badde glanced over his shoulder, looking around the bar area, then stood, put his drink on the table, and with the now empty hand motioned to excuse himself. The brunette grabbed his hand and playfully tugged him back. He grinned broadly, then broke free and went out of camera view.

  Bobby Garcia watched himself on the video take a sip of what then was his fifth club soda and lime.

  “I should have been the one going to take a piss,” he said, and laughed.

  The young women emptied the champagne bottle and talked among themselves.

  Garcia put his drink beside Badde’s. Both glasses looked identical with the flickering orange flames reflecting on them. Garcia then discreetly pulled from his coat pocket a glass vial the size of a cough drop. It contained a double dose—two ten-milligram tablets—of zolpidem dissolved in water. After a long moment, he reached for Badde’s drink. He popped the vial’s plastic top, emptied the clear liquid into the drink, then stirred it. He then returned the cocktail to the table, tossing the vial into the fire pit. The heat almost immediately caused it to shatter and disappear.

  When Badde reappeared five minutes later, Garcia retrieved his club soda as Badde sat back down between the girls.

  Badde grabbed his drink, took a healthy swallow, then leaned over and whispered in the brunette’s ear. She tilted her head back and laughed. Badde grinned broadly as she touched her champagne stem to his glass.

  “He really fell all over himself. And them. Literally. Check out later.”

  He clicked to another box that was on the right flat-screen. This video showed the interior of a luxuriously furnished condominium. The camera angle was from a high corner of the living room. The blondes and brunette now wore only panties. Badde was trying to get his pants off, but was having difficulty because he still had on his shoes. He was wobbling on his right leg, tugging at his left, and falling toward the brunette as she tried to help him keep his balance.

  Santos clicked on the FAST FORWARD button, and the image blurred as more and more clothes came off.

  Then no one wore anything.

  Santo clicked FAST FORWARD again, blurring the image a bit more.

  There next came some enthusiastic kissing and petting. Then Badde paired off with the brunette while the blondes turned to one another. The brunette lay on the leather couch, then reached for a wooden box on the coffee table. She pulled from the box a small packet, emptying its contents on her breast.

  Shortly after snorting the cocaine, Badde lost all inhibition. The women were more than compliant to his wishes. Even with the video moving fast, the various acts left little to the imagination.

  “I really would rather you not slow that down, Mike. I don’t want to see any detail.”

  Santos clicked on the STOP button, and the screen became a black box.

  “Thank you.”

  “But here’s the coup de grâce,” Santos said.

  Santos clicked a PLAY button that was in another box on the left screen.

  “What the hell?” Garcia said, then sighed. “You know, Mike, some might suggest that this is borderline over the edge.”

  Santos looked up at Garcia. He looked serious.

  “It’s always good to have insurance, Bobby. Always. Yuri said Badde could be damn difficult, and to be careful with him. But until we met Badde in person, I didn’t know if Yuri said that because Yuri can be a pain in the ass. Now, since Yuri is connected to him with Diamond Development, we have something on both of them.” He looked back at the screen. “I got the idea for this from pictures I saw on the wall of that gayborhood bar we foreclosed on.”

  “That’s a little comforting, I guess. I seriously was beginning to worry. I don’t think I could handle you coming up with this all by yourself. I mean, a piñata?”

  Badde was lying on his belly on the white comforter of the bed, trussed up with his wrists and pudgy ankles tied above his buttocks with the soft fabric belt of a dressing robe. He was naked except for being wrapped in lengths of bright yellow and blue and green papier-mâché. There was a small sombrero on his head.

  “Hey,” Santos said, “I bet your sorry half-gringo ass didn’t know that the Chinese had their own piñata first.”

  “They didn’t call it that.”

  “I forget what it was called. Probably couldn’t pronounce it if I did. Anyway, a version of whatever it was called made its way to Mexico in the 1500s, when the Catholics started making them with seven points for the seven sins. Beating one with a stick till it broke represented man’s struggle—good versus evil—and the treats inside were the reward for keeping the faith.” He glanced at Garcia, then back at the screen. “He looks pretty festive, don’t you think?”

  As Badde squirmed on the bed, a short, effeminate Hispanic male wearing a ridiculously small white cowboy hat strode into view. The camera angle was such that only his backside was visible—but it was a great deal of backside, as he wore only a pair of leather chaps with a holstered revolver hanging from each hip. He had a very well-defined and muscled body.

  Then he turned and placed his groin in close proximity to what in role-playing would be considered the piñata’s face.

  “Damn! He’s hung like a horse, an angry one!”

  The camera then captured the “cowboy” removing the sombrero and performing on the “piñata” a sexual act that Garcia thought could never be described in polite company.

  Garcia shook his head.

  “You are one sick sonofabitch, mi amigo.”

  “Thanks to that zolpidem, Bobby, he’ll never know that this ever happened—as long as he does what he’s supposed to. I haven’t decided if I’ll get a snipped version of it to Yuri or not. But we’ll have the whole thing here for safekeeping.”

  —

  Garcia studied Badde, who looked severely hungover. He knew that it was from all the alcohol and cocaine—and there had been a lot of it—because the zolpidem left no side effects. Garcia also found it interesting that one of the results of Badde being so badly bent was that he didn’t exhibit his usual flashes of arrogance.

  Still, no matter how hard he tried, Garcia simply could not look at Badde and shake the vision of him trussed up in the video.

  Maybe he’s lucky he doesn’t remember a thing about it. . . .

  “I’m going to run down to my office, Rapp, and get the papers for you to take back to Philly for your people to review and for signature,” Garcia said, and moved toward the door. “Sooner we get the paperwork in motion, the sooner we can get preapproval of your project for the EB-5 funding. I’ll be right back.”

  After Garcia went out the door, Badde turned to Santos.

  “You know, Mike,” he said agreeably, “you could have just overnighted those papers to me. You really shouldn’t h
ave gone through all the trouble of bringing me here to Dallas.”

  Santos grinned.

  “It just wouldn’t have been the same, Rapp. And it was no trouble at all.”

  “Well, I am glad you did.”

  “And I’m glad we did, too.”

  VI

  [ONE]

  Cyril E. King International Airport

  Saint Thomas, United States Virgin Islands

  Monday, November 17, 10:30 A.M.

  “Mr. Garvey, nice to see you again. Headed home for the holiday?” the U.S. Airways desk agent said, her tone genuinely sincere. She was a pleasant-looking dark-skinned Crucian (one born on Saint Croix) who was maybe thirty. “I thought you might treat your family, get them out of Philadelphia by bringing them here to our paradise. Weather says it’s snowing there again.”

  John Garvey, thirty-six years old, was a fit five-eight. Fair-skinned, he had a scholarly, angular face with a full head of sandy blonde hair. He wore starched cuffed khakis, a white collarless shirt under a linen blazer, and tan loafers with no socks. His business card that was on his luggage tag identified him as John A. Garvey, Jr., Associate, D. H. Rendolok LLC, Historic Restoration & Preservation, Phila., Penna.

  “Nice to see you, too,” Garvey said, putting his black fabric suitcase at her feet, then automatically handing over his ID. He then lied, “Flying here was discussed, but the issue became how much of the family would get to come. When the wife’s side exceeded ten, I said sorry. Can’t afford that.”

  She made the obligatory look at his driver’s license, handed it back, then noticed that he was sweating.

  “Are you well, Mr. Garvey?”

  “Just a touch of rock fever, I think,” he said, and forced a smile.

  Rock fever was the island equivalent of cabin fever—the overwhelming feeling of being stuck in a small place for too long.

  “Now, that’s just not possible!” she said, smiling. “You’ve been visiting us how long?”

  “Almost six months now. Two weeks every month.”