The Last Witness

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “The mule trying to smuggle the cocaine didn’t have a chance with this dog on the job,” the police spokesman added.

  Police have not released the name of the man arrested. He now faces felony charges for possession with intent to distribute, which carries a mandatory four-year sentence.

  More details to come.

  —Michael J. O’Hara

  Washington looked back at O’Hara.

  “Good idea, Mickey. Do it, please.”

  “What?” Payne said.

  O’Hara turned the computer so Payne and Byrth could read it.

  “It’s worth the chance,” Byrth then said. “Getting it in the news could help get Garvey off the hook with the bad guys. Whoever they are.”

  “Then he’s back to dealing with going to jail,” Payne said. “I wonder how many innocent mules wind up serving time.”

  “Or get whacked,” Washington put in.

  [FIVE]

  Matt’s cell phone rang as Mickey, having quickly sent the drug bust article to be posted, was putting up his laptop computer.

  When Matt saw the caller ID, he said, “Perfect,” then answered the phone with, “Hold that thought, Kerry. I need you to drop everything and punch up Philly News Now. Go to Breaking News, then ‘leak’ to every other news outlet in town the article on the drug bust that Mickey just posted there. Anyone asks why he got the scoop, blame me. Say I called them but their number was busy.”

  “Matt—”

  “Got it?”

  “Got it, Matt. But—”

  “But what, damn it?”

  “We just got a couple units responding to a nine-one-one shots-fired call, on the scene at Mary’s House. Came in hours after Special Operations pulled their unmarked. Tony Harris is en route.”

  “What scene? A homicide?”

  Matt saw that that question caused eyes to turn to him.

  “Almost. Two guys on a motorcycle shot up the place pretty good trying to take out one of the girl residents. Left a trail of nine-millimeter casings.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Not this time,” Kerry said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The shooters left a message—here, I’ll read it.”

  After Kerry finished, Matt said, “What the hell? I’m guessing no word from Maggie?”

  Eyes turned to him again.

  “No. And there’s only thirty minutes until the hour is up. They have six girls unaccounted for. And the woman who is Maggie’s assistant, and witnessed the shooters on the motorcycle, sent an e-mail to Maggie and called her cell phone. It’s all she knows to do.”

  Matt pulled the pen from his pocket, then stole Washington’s cocktail napkin. “Give me that phone number again.”

  Kerry did, and added, “We are running it down. But dollars to doughnuts it comes up a go-phone dead end.”

  Matt stared at the number. “Kerry, get word out right now that nobody calls or otherwise communicates with the number without my permission or Lieutenant Washington’s. Give whoever is in charge of the scene my number and instructions to call. And shoot me a copy of that note, please.”

  “Done, Marshal. Last one first.”

  Matt felt his phone vibrate.

  The guy is good.

  “And don’t forget to feed the drug bust article to the media, Kerry. Keep me posted.”

  Matt broke off the call and went to pull up the image of the note left at Mary’s House. He found Rapier’s e-mail at the top of his in-box, right above an e-mail from Will McCain that was a forwarded e-mail of the one below it—Maggie’s reply to Matt.

  “Shit!” he blurted. “How did I miss this?”

  “What, Matthew?”

  “Maggie answered my e-mail,” he said, as he opened her reply.

  Matt saw that it had been sent almost a half hour earlier. He scanned through it, made a face as he shook his head in frustration, then opened the image she had attached.

  “Huh,” he said. “Well, she appears to be okay. But she really is starting to piss me off with this control issue of hers.”

  He forwarded it to Amanda—Maybe it will ease her mind, he thought—then he went to Kerry’s e-mail and opened the image of the greasy handwritten note.

  He handed Jason the phone and said, “You were right. Again. They are connected. Looks like Maggie may be the last witness. But witness to what? To what was stolen? At least we have some idea as to motive.” He took a sip of his drink, lost in thought, then said, “But it doesn’t track that the same person who would professionally take out the Gonzalez girl with .22 rounds behind the ear would attempt pulling off a third-world assassination stunt with a motorcycle and a spray and pray of nine-millimeter.”

  “And do not forget the note in the pizza box,” Washington said dryly, nodding as he looked at it all.

  Then he passed Matt’s phone to Byrth, who then gave it to O’Hara.

  “Congratulations, Michael,” Jason said, gesturing at the image that Maggie McCain sent as her proof of life. “You’re now part of the story the breaking details of which you have to sit on.”

  O’Hara nodded thoughtfully as he handed the phone back to Payne.

  Washington then said: “We need details back on both Mary’s House and the West Philadelphia Sanctuary.”

  At the thought of another attack, Matt felt his temper flaring, and forced it back.

  “That Sanctuary has at least twice as many residents as Mary’s,” he said, his tone frustrated. “It is going to be a helluva lot harder to secure—if we can find enough blue shirts available for however long it will take.”

  He then rapidly replied to Maggie’s e-mail: “I have seen the note about blood on your hands. Who is this guy? He will kill again. You may be safe now, but that can change. And your girls are at grave risk. I need your help, Maggie. Call my cell phone now.”

  He hit SEND and then looked at Washington.

  “I just told Maggie we have the note and to call me.” He picked up the cocktail napkin. “This number really is our only good lead now. But if we contact it, we could make things worse for her.”

  “Agreed, Matthew,” he said, watching him shred the napkin, the pieces floating to the bar. “Stating the obvious, this is a desperate act on the miscreant’s part to get to her. And he has the advantage of using violence to draw her out.”

  Payne glanced at his wristwatch.

  “While we know he is capable of it,” Matt said, “we don’t know if he will act on his threat after this first hour, or the second, or whenever. We also don’t know if Maggie is even aware of the note, of its threat. And if she is, if she has called the number.”

  He then met Washington’s eyes. “What am I missing, Jason?”

  Washington raised his eyebrows.

  “The rules have changed, Matthew.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maggie, with her need for control, created an impasse for everyone looking for her. What she did not—perhaps being in fear for her life could not—anticipate was that her stall tactic would force the miscreant to act again.”

  “Which, as Matt notes, could happen in a minute, a day, a week,” Byrth said.

  Matt looked at him, then Mickey, then Jason.

  Then he checked his e-mail.

  “No reply from Maggie. Fuck it. I’m calling the number.”

  X

  [ONE]

  Kensington, Philadelphia

  Monday, November 17, 5:13 P.M.

  Ricky Ramírez, draining his bottle of Yuengling lager, watched as Héctor Ramírez reached into the rusty refrigerator and pulled out two more beers. Ricky threw his empty bottle across the bare kitchen. It smacked the far wall, leaving a wet mark on the peeling tan paint, then landed in a cardboard box in the corner that served as a trashcan.

  “That a
in’t bad stuff,” Ricky said, “but we need something better. Something stronger, like some good dark rum. Or . . .”

  He looked past Héctor at the warped kitchen counter. The dark green Formica had separated from the wooden backing. On the counter, next to the rust-stained porcelain sink, were two zip-top plastic bags packed with dried marijuana buds. A squat ceramic pipe, its bowl crusted with dark resin residue, sat between them.

  Ricky stepped over and opened a bag. He dug into it with his fingers, pinching off a thumbnail-sized piece of the gold-veined green leaf. He tamped that in the bowl of the pipe, then lit it, inhaling deeply.

  Héctor popped the cap off one of the Yuenglings, then handed the bottle to him. Ricky heard his go-phone make a ping.

  Still holding his breath, he put the beer on the counter, handed the pipe to Héctor, then pulled the phone from his pocket.

  He read the text message—and suddenly exhaled, the smoke billowing out.

  Staring at the phone screen, he slowly rubbed his fingertips across his chunky pockmarked face.

  Héctor was right!

  Wide-eyed, he held out the phone to show Héctor the message.

  “It fucking worked, man! It’s her.”

  He picked up his beer and took a big swallow.

  “And you had a doubt, mi amigo?” Héctor said, smiling, and tapped the neck of his beer bottle against Ricky’s.

  Ricky grinned back and shrugged. Then he suddenly felt even more light-headed, the buzz from the marijuana now rising far above that from the beer.

  And that hydro is really good shit.

  This is all coming together!

  Especially with getting Dmitri off my back.

  Ricky read the next text, then fired back a reply.

  There was the sound of a motorcycle pulling into the backyard. They briefly turned to it.

  “And here come your sicarios. They made it happen,” Héctor said.

  “Should we reward them?” Ricky said.

  “I will think of something. Not too much too soon. Or they begin believing they really are assassins.”

  Ricky’s phone then began ringing. He didn’t recognize the number and pushed the key to send it directly in voice mail.

  A moment later—ping—his phone suddenly lit up with another text message box, this one from the number that had just called:

  215-555-4525

  I HAVE YOUR NOTE.

  AND I HAVE WHAT YOU WANT.

  NO MORE KILLINGS.

  What the hell? Who is this?

  How can this person have the books?

  Or . . . was she shitting me?

  “What?” Héctor said, putting the pipe to his lips.

  Ricky held the phone back up to show him.

  After a moment Héctor nodded thoughtfully. He exhaled.

  “You believe that first one is the woman?” he then said.

  Ricky nodded. “And I gave her two hours.”

  “So ignore this one. For now. First work the woman.” He thought for a moment, then said, “We will give her more incentive. Where’s your car?”

  “Not far. Blocks. Why?”

  The back door began opening.

  Héctor reached back into the refrigerator. He came out with two more beers.

  Tito and Juan sauntered inside. They acted more cocky than usual.

  “You did good,” Héctor said, handing them the bottles.

  Héctor grabbed his Kalashnikov and looked at Ricky.

  “You and I go,” he said, then added to Tito and Juan, “When you finish those, go out and keep watch till Jaime gets back with more halcónes.”

  Ricky started to follow Héctor, then turned back and grabbed one of the bags and the pipe from the counter. He tossed the other bag to Tito.

  “A little bonus for you two,” Ricky said, smiling.

  [TWO]

  New Hope House

  Hazzard Street, Philadelphia

  Monday, November 17, 6:01 P.M.

  “Next block make a right,” Matt Payne said, as Jim Byrth drove the rental Ford SUV through Kensington. When they had made the turn, it was not difficult, even in the shadows, to make out the flophouse and the small crowd outside it midway down the snow-crusted street.

  Byrth saw Payne looking at his cell phone, which he had put in the right cup holder of the console.

  After going into the phone’s mobile multi-line application and activating a new number—giving him a third line, in addition to his personal and office ones—Payne had used it to call the number on the grease-stained note, then to send it a text massage.

  “Like Jason said, Matt, it was worth the chance. There could be any number of reasons why there’s been no reply yet.”

  Payne shook his head. “It just makes me wonder what—if any—dominoes it started toppling. My call going right into voice mail and then no reply to the text could mean the phone is out of range or dead or . . .”

  “Or it could mean nothing. Maybe it’s just because the badass—‘Yo, talk to me’—didn’t recognize the number and didn’t want to answer. At some point he will get the text.”

  “Meaning no news is good news. . . . You’re probably right. But something needs to break with this.” He looked up ahead. “What makes me think our luck here will be just as crappy?”

  New Hope was in a two-story row house that had seen some really bad days—not unlike the neighboring properties that were in even worse shape—and certainly far better ones in its hundred years. Its brick exterior looked as if it had been painted in the last year or so. Faint graffiti was still visible through the whitewash, and there was new graffiti tagging the sign that read “New hope—for a new life.” Industrial steel roll-up doors, painted canary yellow, covered the two first-floor windows and the front door. The ones over the windows were rolled up, and the tall one over the door was halfway open, and moving upward.

  “Well, look at that,” Payne then said, “at least we’re just in time for high tea.”

  Byrth pulled to the curb across the street from the flophouse. As he put the SUV in park and turned off the engine, they took in the scene.

  Ten women, standing close together on the snow-packed sidewalk, formed a crooked single-file line that began at the door of the house. They appeared to range in age from their late teens to maybe early forties. Some were smoking, some talking—all of them clearly bitter cold despite wearing multiple layers of ill-fitting thrift shop clothing.

  A ragged group of a half dozen men—mostly brown-skinned and gaunt, with sullen looks—milled near the end of the line.

  A few of them glanced at the dirty SUV. They quickly lost interest. They were focused on the opening door, obviously more concerned with getting inside, out of the cold.

  “First come, first served?” Byrth said.

  “Yeah, some places will give women priority. But if they don’t get here early, and before they later lock the door, they’re going to have to find another place, even if they’ve paid for the month. Demand for an empty bed far outstrips supply.”

  “Like that guy?” Byrth said.

  Just up the street a gray-haired man, his clothes filthy, was curled up on the stoop of a row house. He clutched a brown liquor bottle to his chest. On the front door above the uneven hand-painted lettering that read “House of Lord Fellowship” there was a simple golden crucifix.

  “A church across the street from a flophouse?” Byrth then said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “Amen to that, Brother Byrth,” Payne said. He pointed over his shoulder, adding, “And there’s a middle school two blocks thataway. Think any of these pillars of the community ever stagger past the playground? Is it any wonder the kids growing up here think that crackheads, drunks, and hookers are the norm of society?”

  Matt pushed back the tail of his coat and pulled his
.45 off his right hip.

  Like Byrth, he was sitting on his seat belt, its tang inserted in the buckle behind him. The practice of securing the belts in such a way—which of course violated Section 4581 of the Pennsylvania Vehicle Code requiring the wearing of passive restraints, and accordingly was “officially” prohibited by the department—not only stopped the damn seat sensor from incessantly sounding its annoying ding-ding-ding warning. It more importantly also allowed them faster access to their pistols and to exiting the vehicle.

  With a shooter fast approaching, being “safely” strapped to a seat could turn a vehicle into a coffin.

  Payne, aiming at the floorboard, thumbed the hammer back, then flipped up the lever to lock it, then slipped the pistol back behind his waistband.

  Looking out the windshield and studying the crowd, Matt said, “You ever hear that a pistol is like a parachute?”

  Byrth grinned. “Tell me. How?”

  “When you need one, and you don’t have one, you’ll never have the need for one again.”

  Byrth chuckled.

  “Pabody,” he said, “the sheriff who found this Cusick girl’s ID in that trailer in the woods? He served in Special Forces and had his share of jumps—he’ll appreciate that one.” He looked at the group of men. The tallest one—who wore a multicolored knit cap and had thick dreadlocks and a scraggly beard—was jabbing his finger in another man’s face. “It’s like having to deal with the pissed-off Rastafarian there. Pabody’s always saying, ‘We’re trying to win hearts and minds, but we’re willing to splatter ’em if necessary.’”

  At the end of the line were two Latinas who looked about thirty but could have been younger. One had on an oversized faded blue sweatshirt, the hood covering her head. The heavier one wore a patched black knee-length woolen coat. They were passing a stub of a joint between them. After a moment, the heavier of the two took the last toke, a very short one, and tossed the sliver of glowing paper to the ground, crushing it into the snow with the toe of her once white sneaker.