The Last Witness

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “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 $200,000 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 th
an 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.

  “I was expecting you to,” Matt said. “The best drinks are ones that someone else pays for.”

  Byrth chuckled.

  “I may even let you buy dinner,” Matt added.

  “And maybe afterward we can swing by that flophouse?”

  Payne looked to Washington for his input. He had not forgotten that when Jason had seen the image of the girl in the blue drum of sulfuric acid in that morning’s videoconference call, he had said it was horrific but that Matt’s priority was the McCain case.

  Washington hadn’t forgotten either.

  “Since Jim is devoting time to working these cases,” Jason said, “I believe it’s fair that you spend time on his. I have confidence in your ability to simultaneously chew gum and walk.”

  Payne nodded as he pulled out his cell phone and sent a text message to O’Hara: “Liberties at 4.”

  “Thank you, Jason,” Byrth said.

  Payne’s phone vibrated. He looked and saw O’Hara’s reply.

  “Mickey says he’ll be there in thirty.”

  “I’ll try to catch up with you,” Washington said, checking his watch. “Denny has requested my presence. The mayor is dealing with Commissioner Gallagher.”

  Payne looked at Byrth. “When Gallagher—the Commish—retired, Carlucci took the job. Like Hizzoner, the Commish is a cop’s cop.”

  “He is a very good man,” Washington said.

  Byrth nodded.

  “So, what’s Gallagher’s problem?” Payne said.

  “Does the name John Garvey ring a bell?”

  Payne shook his head. “Should it?”

  “And here I thought you knew everyone. Garvey was arrested this afternoon at PHL and just brought in. They put him in an interview room downstairs. Denny wants me to look in
with them as he’s being questioned.”

  “What’s he charged with?”

  “Drug smuggling.”

  “John Garvey?” Payne said, clearly searching his memory.

  “John Garvey,” Washington confirmed. “He’s in his mid-thirties. An architect-slash-historian. His specialty is restoration of historic buildings. He travels the world doing it. He looks like a well-dressed professor, a bookish type who would release a bug outside before squashing it in the house. I met him when my better half had me attend a museum function. I learned then that he’s married to the daughter of his boss, Harvey Rendolok.”

  “A-ha!” Payne said. “Harvey, I know. Damn decent guy. Longtime member of the Union League. And his wife is running for judge. Needless to say, they’re big supporters of the military and police.”

  “Right. And Harvey’s father-in-law is?”

  Payne’s eyebrows went up as the connection was made.

  “The Commish . . .” he said slowly, and then was silent for a moment. “My God! And now the Commish’s grandson-in-law, or whatever the hell that would make him, has been arrested for smuggling drugs?”

  “I was told that for the last six months he’s been working on the renovation of Saints Peter and Paul Cathedral.”

  Payne pointed. “The one down Race, over by Logan Circle? What’s it called? Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul?”

  “There happens to be more than one in the world, Matthew,” Washington said dryly. “And this particular one happens to be in the Virgin Islands. On Saint Thomas.”

  Payne’s face brightened.

  “He’s been working in the Caribbean for six months? Now, that’s something I could get used to.”

  “Not a solid six months. He was going down for two weeks at a time.”

  “Still beats being stuck in this miserable winter weather.”

  “And he got caught smuggling what?” Byrth said.

  “Two one-kilogram bricks of cocaine to PHL.”

  “No offense,” Byrth said, “but grabbing two keys is a slow morning on the Texas border. The Rangers alone average that. The Customs and Border Patrol guys get even more.”