The Last Witness
Page 28
The Jamaican walked over and said something to the girl in the sweatshirt. She impatiently waved him off and turned her back to him. He had the last word, an angry one, then went back to the other men.
Byrth glanced at Payne.
“Call me a skeptic,” he said, “but I’m guessing neither girl—or any of them, for that matter—is going to be rushing across the street to confess their sins of the day. . . .”
Payne grunted. “If you mean the pot, the times they are a-changin’, as someone once said. They know nothing’s going to happen. These days the SOP for that would be to charge them with personal possession. Less than thirty grams. That would get them a night in jail, and they’d just pay the fine.”
“That’s what happened with the Cusick girl?”
“Yeah. Twice, as I recall. But she skipped the option of being sent to SAM—Small Amount of Marijuana program. It’s another couple hundred bucks to take a one-day drug class, and then the charge is expunged from the record.”
“All but decriminalized.”
“All but. In these austere times, the powers—particularly the DA, who’s pretty outspoken about it—have decided that spending thousands to prosecute someone with twenty bucks of weed isn’t exactly efficient. They say it’s a money-saver. Frees up courts for bigger cases. Keeps cops on the street, not filling out paperwork or waiting to testify in court and collecting overtime.”
“A couple hundred? These people don’t look like they have a couple bucks.”
“No argument.” He slipped his phone into his pocket and grabbed the door handle. “Come on. Let’s see what they have to say. If anything.”
Byrth cocked and locked the .45 from his hip holster, then pulled his Stetson from the backseat.
As they crossed the street, Payne wasn’t surprised that now all eyes were on them.
“Damn, this cold is miserable!” Byrth muttered.
Like Payne, he had left his coat unzipped. Suffering the wicked weather—like not wearing a seat belt in the event of a wreck—was the trade-off for faster access to their weapons.
—
Toward the front of the line, they walked past a pale-skinned girl with dark hair. She looked maybe eighteen and, though it took a little imagination to see it, had a pretty face. Across her white cheeks was a disturbing pinkish brown web of scarring that looked not quite healed. The lines cut from near her temples to her chin, and from ears to nose. She lowered her head and turned away.
After they passed, Payne looked at Byrth and answered the unasked question: “That’s called a ‘buck-fitty.’ She pissed off someone, probably by saying no to some gangbanger’s girlfriend who was trying to recruit her as fresh meat for her gangbanger buddies. Or maybe to pimp her out. Probably both.”
“She dissed them?” Byrth asked, but it was more a statement.
Payne nodded. “And to make the point you don’t disrespect the gang, they disfigured her. Held her down so the dissed gangbanger’s girlfriend could carve her up with a box cutter razor blade. Buck-fitty is a hundred fifty, the number of stitches they hope it will take to close the wounds.”
Byrth exhaled audibly. “I’ve heard of that happening in Houston’s Third Ward and in south Dallas, just not called that. Barbaric beyond belief . . .”
Payne and Byrth reached the two young women bringing up the end of the line. They reeked of marijuana. Expressionless, they looked numb from the cold, if not the pot, and seemed slow to focus when Payne held out his badge. He saw that under the blue hoodie the woman had a black eye, one that was almost faded.
“Evening, ladies,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Payne. Need to ask you a couple quick questions.”
They did not answer and made no eye contact.
No surprise, Payne thought. No one talks to cops.
But we have to go through the motions . . .
Byrth already had his cell phone out and was holding it up, showing them Elizabeth Cusick’s photograph on the Department of Transportation ID.
“Do you know this girl?” Byrth said, then added in Spanish, “¿Conoces a Elizabeth?”
They both glanced at it, then at each other, then shrugged and slowly shook their heads.
“How long have you been coming here?” Payne pursued.
They shrugged again. Then the line moved forward. They wordlessly turned and quickly shuffled across the snow to close the gap.
Payne looked at Byrth, and nodded toward the door.
“Let’s just work the line. We know where they’re going if we need them.”
Ten minutes later, they had reached the door. Not a single person acknowledged knowing the girl in the ID photograph.
“Let’s see how much worse our luck can get in here,” Payne said, and stepped through the doorway.
—
The house was warm but had a stale, musty odor.
Just inside the door, a folding table was set up, behind which an obese black woman sat in a folding chair. Her weight stressed the flimsy chair to the point it leaned left. She had her head down and was writing on a yellow legal pad. When she looked up she immediately looked right past Payne, then farther up, at the Hat. The white of her eyes grew impossibly large. Then she tried to recover from the initial surprise.
“What you two want?” she blurted, finally finding her voice as her big eyes darted between them.
“I’m guessing you’re in charge?” Payne said.
“Guess all you want. Who’s asking?”
Matt showed her his badge.
“No offense,” she then said, “but you don’t look like you walk no beat. Never can trust who’s who coming round here.”
“I’m with the Homicide Unit,” Payne said, as he saw Byrth surveying the area.
The dirty living room, with a flight of stairs along the left wall leading to the upstairs bedrooms and baths, had a wooden floor worn bare. A mismatched pair of sagging threadbare sofas faced each other in the middle. A dozen plastic stackable chairs were scattered around a low table that held an old television with an antenna of aluminum-foil-wrapped rabbit ears and a picture that flickered between color and black and white. On the right wall, beyond one of the sofas, a dusty hand-printed poster with faded lettering read: NO SMOKING, NO DRINKING, NO DRUGGING, NO DAM EXCUSE!
“Someone dead?” the woman said, her tone matter-of-fact.
“From the looks of it . . .” Byrth muttered, looking toward the back of the room.
The woman’s eyes went to him, and not pleasantly.
Payne forced back a grin.
“We’re looking into that,” Payne said, “and need to ask some questions.”
She glanced over her shoulder toward the open doorway at the back wall.
“Eldridge!” she called out.
A moment later a muscular black male stood backlit in the doorway that obviously led to the kitchen. Eldridge wore a stained chef’s apron. With a practiced rhythm he was working a large carving knife up and down a foot-long sharpening rod. He had very short gray hair and looked to be in his forties. His bulging biceps stretched the sleeves of his black T-shirt.
The enormous black woman looked at Payne.
“He the man. Talk to him.”
[THREE]
Little Bight Bay
Saint John, United States Virgin Islands
Monday, November 17, 7:10 P.M.
After shutting down the Internet connection and finishing her traditional sunset glass of wine, Maggie had gone inside the cabin and thrown the lighting breakers on the electrical panel. Then, back on the well-lit deck, trying to figure out what she could possibly do next, she busied herself going around the boat methodically making sure everything was as it should be.
She neatly coiled all the lines on the deck—from the mainsail and jib halyards and sheets down to the last docking line—and then re-coiled ones t
hat she thought didn’t look exactly right. She went forward to where the anchor line was cleated, untied it, tugged hard on the line to ensure the hook was still secure in the bay bottom, then re-cleated the line, snugging each wrap before finally tightly cinching the line. Then she neatly coiled the remaining line.
And then she went around the boat a second time.
And then, frustrated, she leaned against the aluminum mast, sighing as she looked out.
Now what? I can’t keep spinning my wheels.
Ricky said two hours. And that was at five-thirty.
So—after what, the next twenty minutes?—he carries out his threat?
Who gets to die now?
Under the thin crescent of moon she watched the navigation lights of sailboats slowly moving in the distance. A blanket of twinkling stars reflected everywhere. Waves crashed just outside the mouth of the bay.
I’m just so damn far away.
She went back inside the cabin and poured another glass of wine.
She saw the notebooks on the table, next to the casino bag with the poker chips and stack of cash she had photographed.
This is absolutely insane.
It’s impossible to physically get those books back.
And even if by some miracle I did give them to those bastards, there is no question that they would kill me. Either right there on the spot, or eventually . . .
She rocked the wineglass stem, slowly spinning the merlot around the glass as she thought, then took a big swallow.
But . . .
—
She quickly went to her computer and got back online.
Signing in to the text messaging website, she found the conversation with the one she considered the Eastern European.
She rapidly typed in the new bubble:
MEET AT LUCKY STARS CASINO AT 10 TONIGHT.
She then quickly clicked SEND—and stared at the screen.
The clock in the upper corner showed: 7:14.
Come on, c’mon . . .
It took three minutes for him to reply:
267-555-9100
CASINO IS NOT SATISFACTORY.
I wonder why? Too many people?
Too bad. Then all the more reason to do it there.
My rules . . .
She sent:
I GET TO SELECT THE PLACE. AND THE CASINO IS QUITE SATISFACTORY.
BUT NOT INSIDE.
ON THE BOARDWALK ALONG THE RIVER IS A PIER. WHERE THE CASINO HAS A TOUR BOAT.
She waited, sipping her wine, her eyes darting to the clock as the minutes ticked off: 7:16 . . . 7:17.
Why the hell no reply?
I don’t have much time . . .
She then typed:
OKAY. THE NOTEBOOKS WILL BE IN THE CASINO BAG THAT WAS IN THE PHOTO I SENT YOU EARLIER. I WILL TIE ON ITS HANDLE ONE OF THOSE SMALL PLASTIC BAGS FROM THE DOG PARK THAT’S THERE AT THE BOARDWALK.
YOU WILL GET AN EXACT SAME BAG FROM THE CASINO, PUT THE CASH IN IT, AND TIE ONE OF THOSE PET BAGS TO ITS HANDLE.
AT 10 P.M. YOU WILL WALK TO THE END OF THE CASINO’S PIER, DROP THE BAG IN THE TRASHCAN BESIDE THE LAST IRON BENCH THERE, THEN LIGHT A CIGARETTE. YOU WILL THEN LEAVE THE BOARDWALK AND CIRCLE THE PARKING LOT, FINISHING YOUR CIGARETTE.
EXACTLY 20 MINUTES LATER YOU WILL REALIZE YOU ACCIDENTALLY LEFT SOMETHING IN THE BAG AND RETURN TO RETRIEVE IT.
IF I FIND THAT ALL THE MONEY YOU PROMISED IS IN THE BAG THAT YOU LEAVE, YOU WILL FIND THE NOTEBOOKS IN THE BAG THAT I LEAVE.
I WILL BE WATCHING. WHAT WILL YOU BE WEARING?
She read that over once—Not that I could possibly count two hundred thousand dollars in the freezing dark—then sent it.
Five minutes later she nervously upended her wineglass, then fired off:
WELL?? THESE ARE MY RULES. DO YOU WANT THE BOOKS OR NOT?
The clock now read: 7:23.
Then a bubble popped up:
267-555-9100
I WEAR BLACK PANTS AND A BLACK LEATHER JACKET. ALSO WILL HAVE A GRAY WOOL FEDORA WITH SMALL FEATHER IN HATBAND.
BUT I WARN YOU — DO NOT WASTE MY TIME.
Maggie felt her heart trying to burst through her chest.
Okay, now, Ricky . . .
She went to that conversation thread, then looked at the clock. It turned to 7:25.
Her hands shaking, she quickly typed:
BE AT LUCKY STARS CASINO BOARDWALK TONIGHT.
THE NOTEBOOKS WILL BE IN THE CASINO BAG THAT WAS IN THE PHOTO I SENT YOU EARLIER. YOU WILL GET FROM THE CASINO ONE OF THE EXACT SAME BAGS. THERE IS A DOG PARK BY THE BOARDWALK. TAKE ONE OF THE BLACK PLASTIC BAGGIES FROM IT AND TIE IT TO THE CASINO BAG HANDLE SO MY MAN WILL RECOGNIZE YOU.
THEN AT 10:15 BE WAITING ON THE BOARDWALK FOR THE EXCHANGE TO TAKE PLACE.
MY MAN WILL WEAR BLACK PANTS AND JACKET AND A GRAY FEDORA THAT HAS A FEATHER IN THE HATBAND.
She reread it and clicked SEND.
Five minutes later, a bubble popped up:
215-555-3452
WHO IS THIS MAN? THIS IS BULLSHIT!
I GAVE YOU TWO HOURS!
She looked at that for a long moment, took a deep breath, and then sent:
CALM DOWN, RICKY. JUST BE THERE. 10:15.
The next minute felt like it lasted forever. Then came the reply:
215-555-3452
THIS IS THE LAST CHANCE!
DO NOT SCREW UP. YOU OR YOUR MAN.
OR HER BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS.
Her?
Almost immediately another message bubble popped up.
Maggie gasped.
The message had no words, only an image.
It was a close-up photograph of the face of a very young brown-skinned girl, maybe ten or eleven, her head turned at a sharp angle. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth. Her big dark eyes were looking as far left as they could possibly turn—toward her temple, where the muzzle of a big black pistol was pressed.
Oh my God . . .
Maggie’s mind flooded with thoughts.
The first, which caused Maggie to begin tearing up herself as she stared at the young girl’s tearing eyes, was: That is the look of total terror.
The next was: I can’t tell who that is. It could be Janine. But does it matter who it is?
Then: What have I done? This is crazy. Completely out of control.
And finally: I give up. Now there’s only one option. . . .
[FOUR]
New Hope House
Hazzard Street, Philadelphia
Monday, November 17, 6:22 P.M.
After Payne and Byrth made their introductions, Byrth showed Eldridge his phone with the photograph from the Department of Transportation ID.
“Elizabeth Cusick,” Byrth said, “age twenty, five-one, one-ten, blonde, blue eyes. The address on this ID is this address.”
“Beth?” Eldridge said, nodding. “Sure. She was here maybe two months ago. And most girls use this address, especially when they apply for SNAP?”
Payne nodded and said, mostly for Byrth’s benefit, “Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. Food stamps.”
“Right,” Eldridge said. “She came with a friend, nice-looking girl afraid of her own shadow. Hardly ever talked, this girlfriend. Beth did most of the talking. But when she did, it was with an accent. I’m guessing Russian?”
Payne and Byrth exchanged glances.
Byrth then said, “How long were they at your flophouse—”
“‘Transitional housing,’” he interrupted. “We prefer that. Lots of folks winding up here first got referred to other homes right out of jail. To get in those, though, they got to be clean. Which sometimes the jail time does for them. But when they sometimes slip—and most times they slip—they’re thrown out. Tragic cycle, sad to say. That’s how come we tell them to be clea
n, just don’t demand it. We’re hoping they can ease off the addiction.”
“Does that work?” Byrth asked, his tone skeptical.
“Sometimes. It ain’t easy. Ever. Believe me, I know. I’ve been fighting my own monkey on my back longer than I care to say.”
“What about this Cusick girl?” Byrth said.
He shrugged. “A runaway at some point is what I’m thinking. She never said outright. But some signs were pretty clear. She was hiding from a pimp. Both girls were. Some figure it out faster than others.”
“Figure out . . . ?” Payne said.
“That they ain’t gonna last long. Pimp makes them charge fifty bucks for fifteen minutes of screwing, thirty bucks for a blow job. Twenty, thirty tricks a day. Day after day. And then maybe split that money with the pimp, or he takes it all? Bastard who beats them, maybe sells them to another pimp, and worse?” Eldridge looked between them, then added, “You’re cops. You know they wind up dead all the time.”
“Wish I could say that’s the first I’ve heard of that,” Payne said, nodding.
Byrth said, “So, any idea what happened to Beth and her friend?”
“Only that it was same as most. One day here, next never heard from them again. Till you guys showed up.”
“They leave anything behind?”
Eldridge cocked his head. “You kidding me? Place like this?”
“I have to ask. You never know. And we need something we could run for fingerprints—a hairbrush, toothbrush, razor—or DNA off, say, a pair of used panties.”
Eldridge shrugged. “It’s been two months. If it ain’t nailed down, it’s stolen in minutes. Even clothes, old underwear, too. Still, we’re better here than a lot. We take in only twenty, four to a room, each paying three hundred a month. Some places it’s forty or more packed in. Plus we feed them and preach the . . .”
His voice trailed off as he looked past them toward the front door.
“Don’t be coming in here causing no trouble!” the big woman at the table then called out.