The Last Witness

by W. E. B. Griffin

  Byrth felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and read the text message:

  GLENN PABODY

  JUST GOT WORD THAT THEY FOUND IN THAT RV TRAILER A BUNCH MORE IDS AND THOSE STRIP CLUB BUSINESS CARDS.

  FIFTEEN IDS WERE MEXICO NATIONAL ONES, ALL BUT TWO OF THEM GIRLS IN THEIR EARLY 20S.

  THE STRIPPER CARDS WERE FROM THE HACIENDA BUT ALSO FROM CLUBS IN HOUSTON AND, HERE’S WHAT YOU’RE GONNA WANT TO HEAR, FOR A PLACE CALLED PLAYERS CORNER LOUNGE.

  Byrth looked at the message for a long moment and thought, And how many more girls were killed and then put in those barrels of acid?

  That bastard probably called himself “El Pozolero,” too.

  He shook his head as he replied:

  THANKS, GLENN.

  I’LL SEND YOU SHOTS OF WHAT WE JUST FOUND IN PHILLY. AND CATCH YOU UP ON WHAT WE LEARNED ABOUT THE FIRST GIRL’S ID YOU FOUND.

  SO, WHAT PART OF HOUSTON IS PLAYERS IN?

  A moment later Byrth read:

  GLENN PABODY

  NOT HOUSTON, JIM. IT’S GOT A PHILLY ADDRESS. I’LL SEND A PHOTO WHEN I CAN.

  As Byrth typed the bar’s name into an Internet search on his phone, he said, “You ever hear of a strip club called Players Corner Lounge, Marshal?”

  “Sounds just like my kind of place. Sorry. Never heard of it.”

  “Apparently it’s at Front and Master.”

  “That’s Fishtown. Not far. What’s the significance?”

  “Sheriff Pabody just said they found more of those stripper cards in the trailer, and this Players place was one of them.”

  Payne checked his phone. There was no message—not from Maggie, not from anyone.

  “It’s more or less on the way home. Should be hopping at this hour. Crime Scene’s got this place. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  [THREE]

  With the exception of Payne issuing the most basic of directions as Byrth drove—“Two blocks hang a right,” then “Left here,” then “Straight a couple miles”—they were quiet, lost in their thoughts. To break the silence, Byrth turned on the radio, its volume low but clear. The station was broadcasting the national news.

  Payne listened for a moment, then his mind flashed back to the macabre image it had created—thanks to Dr. Mitchell’s vivid alkaline hydrolysis description—of the case workers being boiled down.

  They basically turned into a vat of Valvoline 10-W-40 . . . Jesus!

  There’s no way Maggie could’ve known about that hell and not said something to someone.

  With the girl’s murder and the firebombing of her home, I damn sure can’t blame her for wanting to control everything.

  But this?

  How do I begin explaining this to her parents?

  And Amanda? I don’t want to lie to her, but until we catch these bastards I’m going to have to come up with some cover story she won’t see right through. . . .

  From the radio speakers, the familiar grating voice of the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security filled the vehicle. It was a news report from Capitol Hill, and Payne heard the DHS head declare in a politician’s dispassionate monotone, “Our borders, sir, are more secure than ever.”

  “Bullshit!” Jim Byrth blurted, practically spitting it out.

  Payne glanced over and said dryly, “You really should learn to speak your mind, Jim. Holding things inside is not healthy.”

  Byrth grunted. “I just get tired of the damn political lies. You know how long the border with Mexico runs, from the Pacific to the Gulf?”

  “A couple thousand miles?”

  “Right. The reality is there’s no way that’s secure—and certainly not ‘more secure than ever.’ At the San Ysidro entry plaza, the border checkpoint just across from Tijuana, eight million pedestrians cross into the U.S. every year. Another twenty million come in cars. That’s just one border checkpoint. Texas’s busiest, Laredo, has a daily average of five thousand trucks coming in from Nuevo Laredo, which happens to be the main smuggling route of the Gulf Cartel. We don’t know how much contraband gets through our checkpoints—only what we catch—therefore it’s impossible to quantify how much crosses at uncontrolled points. Which is why it’s disingenuous at best to declare the border secure.”

  A couple of minutes later the United States attorney general’s voice could be heard over the speakers: “. . . these financial institutions, Senator, have become so enormous that we can only fine them, because we have found that if we in fact brought criminal charges there would be a negative impact on the United States economy, and, to coin a phrase, as goes the U.S. economy so goes the world economy . . .”

  “You been following this?” Payne said, pointing at the radio. “Banks caught methodically violating laundering laws? Then fined only a couple billion dollars after moving tens of billions in cartel money?”

  Byrth nodded. “Congress should have never done away with the Glass-Steagall Act. Banks in bed with investment brokerages? Banks used to be just banks, and could only operate intrastate. Now we have an alphabet soup of corporate finance giants, some headquartered here, some in other countries, with branches around the world.”

  “And laundering money.”

  “Laundering money and who the hell knows what else,” Byrth said, reaching over and punching the dash button that turned off the radio.

  “And that makes me think of that poor bastard Garvey,” Byrth then said. “What kind of world is it when a guy just doing his job gets busted as a mule moving two lousy keys while worrying that the cartel will kill his family? Meantime, these big boys in their ivory towers, willingly moving cartel money and counting their profits, get a Get Out of Jail Free Card from no less than the AG himself.”

  “They’re calling that ‘too big to fail, too big to jail.’ Apparently Garvey’s mistake was he didn’t move enough volume.”

  Byrth shook his head. “I fear we are slowly selling our collective soul to the highest bidder.”

  “I fear you’re right,” Payne said, then added, “Master is next street after the light.”

  Maybe that’s what I need to do to get a response from that bastard—raise the bid.

  Payne looked back at his phone and reread the first message he had sent to the number on the grease-stained note. He started typing:

  YOU HAVE ONE HOUR TO REPLY TO THE FOLLOWING OFFER . . .

  Then his phone began vibrating, the screen showing the call was to his personal phone number. The caller ID read: UNKNOWN.

  He sighed, then switched over to that number and answered it.

  “Yeah?” he snapped, unintentionally.

  “Matt?” a female voice said, clearly distressed.

  “What?” he said impatiently. Then, slowly, added, “Wait . . . Maggie?”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I need help. Fast. In twenty minutes . . .”

  [FOUR]

  Lucky Stars Casino & Entertainment

  North Beach Street, Philadelphia

  Monday, November 17, 9:55 P.M.

  Dmitri Gurnov walked out of the revolving doors of the casino carrying one of the big black bags. He glanced up, saw the security camera, then looked forward, snugging his fedora lower.

  What are the odds Antonov is watching . . . ?

  Gurnov followed a crushed-rock path that wound through the snow-covered park-like area and out to the boardwalk. A stiff wind was coming down the Delaware River. The cold cut to his bones.

  As he walked his eyes scanned the area. He did not notice another soul anywhere.

  He approached the dog park. It had artificial turf, a series of wooden ramps for exercise, and an oversized red plastic fire hydrant in its center. It was surrounded by a four-foot-high fence, in each corner of which was a pole that held a plastic bag dispenser and, below that, a trash receptacle.

  He walked toward the closest pole,
took one of the small bags—I cannot believe I’m doing this—and tied it to the handle. Then, turning up the collar of his coat, he walked to the boardwalk and out on the short pier.

  It, not at all surprisingly, also was deserted.

  And colder, if that’s possible.

  He passed a series of iron benches, then came to the end of the pier. There, next to the last bench, he saw the heavy metal trashcan. It was square, with a horizontal slit on each side just below its flat top.

  A gust of wind blew, and he stepped quickly to the can.

  He tried stuffing the bag into one of the horizontal slits. It would not fit.

  Damn it!

  His hands bare, he moved around the stacks of cash, then folded the bag over and tried shoving it in the slit. It still did not fit.

  He looked at it for a long moment, considered throwing the cash bundles in loose, then decided against that. Then he grabbed the slit—the cold metal almost burning his bare skin—and with some effort pulled up the heavy lid, tilting it. He shoved the bag in through the gap, then dropped the lid back in place with a loud clang.

  What if she cannot get that out . . . and if she does, then I have to dig out the bag she puts in?

  Damn this!

  The wind gusted again.

  He turned his back to it, crouched, and tried to light a cigarette. It took three tries, but he finally had it going. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and started off the pier.

  —

  Matt Payne had already started to open his door as Jim Byrth brought the SUV to a skidding stop in the casino parking lot. They both jumped out. Then Byrth gave Payne a thumbs-up gesture as they heard the faint wop-wop-wop of the rotor blades of the police helicopter coming from the direction of Northeast Airport.

  When Payne had called in for backup, Kerry Rapier said he also would alert the Aviation Unit to have Air Tac One circling nearby.

  “That helo will light up the place like it’s daytime,” Rapier had said.

  Byrth and Payne, guns drawn and staying in the shadows, began running toward the river. As they’d planned in the SUV after pulling away from the Fishtown dive bar, Byrth moved southward, to the far side of where the pier went out from the boardwalk, and Payne to the north.

  —

  After a ten-minute circle of the parking lot, Dmitri Gurnov flicked the butt of his third cigarette into the dog park.

  And then he noticed a man standing on the boardwalk. The man held one of the casino’s bags.

  And then Gurnov recognized what was tied to its handle.

  I will be damned! He has the money!

  He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the Sig 9mm.

  As he approached the man, he raised his pistol.

  He heard someone behind him yell.

  He quickly fired two shots, then a third.

  The man went down. He rushed to him and knelt to grab the bag.

  Then he saw the man’s face. It was that of a swarthy, fortyish Latino. Bright red blood flowed down his hard face from the hole in his forehead.

  Who the hell are you? Gurnov thought.

  As Gurnov stood, he heard running on the boardwalk. Another man was rushing him, holding a Kalashnikov at hip level.

  He saw his face as bullets fired.

  “Ricky?”

  —

  Matt Payne watched the man in black clothing and the gray fedora raise a pistol at another man on the boardwalk.

  Payne speed-dialed Rapier.

  “Send the damn helo, Kerry!”

  “On its way, Marshal.”

  “Police!” Payne shouted. “Drop the gun!”

  There were two shots. With each muzzle flash, the man on the boardwalk staggered back a step. Then a single shot followed, causing his head to jerk backward. He dropped the bag he was holding, and then his knees buckled.

  The man in the gray fedora grabbed the bag.

  Then a third man ran up. He was firing an AK-47 from his hip. The man in the gray fedora fell backward. The third man knelt briefly by the first man, then bolted down the boardwalk.

  Payne heard Byrth shout, “Stop!”—and fire a two-shot burst.

  —

  Payne, pounding down the boardwalk, heard the wop-wop-wop of Air Tac One’s rotor blades growing louder. He looked over his shoulder and saw the beams of the floodlights from the helo’s belly sweeping the surface of the dark river.

  Payne ran in the direction he’d seen Byrth’s muzzle flashes.

  A moment later, a floodlight beam washed over him, then moved up ahead. It lit up the man, who was still up and moving fast.

  Byrth took another two-round volley at him. That caused the man to suddenly turn back.

  He was now running straight for Payne.

  The helo hovered, its lights now brightly illuminating the entire boardwalk and most of the park. The pitch of its rotors changed with the wind gusts. Payne saw Byrth moving in his direction but away from the boardwalk.

  Then Payne saw the dot of a red laser bouncing wildly across the boardwalk near the man.

  Too damn windy for the sniper . . .

  The man suddenly looked up and fired a half-dozen shots at the helo, then continued in Payne’s direction.

  “Police! Stop!” Payne yelled, taking aim.

  The man took two wild blind shots in his direction.

  Payne squeezed the trigger. His first round hit the shooter in the shoulder. But he continued running. Payne squeezed off two more rounds, the shots hitting the man in the left chest.

  He was now within thirty feet—and still advancing.

  Payne squeezed off his next five rounds in rapid succession, and when the slide locked open, he smoothly thumbed the magazine release, replaced the empty mag with a fully charged one, then thumbed the slide release, chambering a new round as he brought the sights back on the shooter.

  Just as he was beginning to squeeze the trigger, the man collapsed at his feet.

  —

  Five minutes later, with more backup units arriving, their sirens screaming and lights flashing, Matt Payne waved off Air Tac One. Just as the helo’s floodlight went dark, the Texas Ranger flicked a small black bean on the dead shooter’s back.

  Byrth turned and saw that Payne was staring at his hands. And that they were trembling.

  “That was good work, Marshal. Sometimes these bastards—full of adrenaline, drugs, whatever—just won’t go down.”

  Payne nodded. “Someone once told me, ‘Always, always, always empty your mags.’”

  [FIVE]

  Off Key West, Florida

  Thursday, November 20, 10 A.M.

  The Viking, its engines at idle speed, skimmed almost silently across the glass-slick Atlantic Ocean. Matt Payne, at the flybridge helm talking on his cell phone, turned the wheel as the sleek Sport Fisherman passed the outer markers of the Boca Chica channel. That put the bow just to the right of the sun on the horizon, its golden rays glowing brighter and brighter.

  “Yeah, Tony, last night Amanda got a nice photograph from Maggie McCain. It’s of her and her parents on the sailboat leaving Saint Thomas.”

  “Speaking of Saint Thomas,” Anthony Harris said, “I got a call from one of the DEA guys. He reported that they found Captain Jack floating in the harbor. And it wasn’t pretty.”

  “How so?”

  “You know boats have those emergency signal guns . . .”

  “Sure.”

  “. . . well, someone wanted to send a signal, all right. They fired a twenty-five-millimeter white phosphorus one into his chest.”

  “Damn! That’s an illumination flare. Once it starts burning it doesn’t stop until it burns out. That’s fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  “Yeah, and apparently he lit up the harbor pretty good. They said folks from a cruise s
hip got video of it and put it online, thinking it was part of some celebration.”

  “Well, in a warped way I’m sure it is cause for celebration. For Garvey at least. But what about the coke?”

  Tony chuckled. “Damnedest thing, Matt. You know the men’s room over the evidence room? Night before last, a waterline to one of the shitters broke loose. Initial blame went to maintenance—or lack thereof. Then someone said it looked like the line might’ve got cut. Who knows? Regardless, the result was three feet of standing water. Flooded the shitter and, a floor below, all the evidence brought in during the previous forty-eight hours.”

  Matt heard steps and turned to see Amanda approaching the helm with a cup of coffee and a copy of Cruising Guide to the Bahamas. She slipped the cup into the holder on the console, then put the book in with the towels that were in a beach bag at Matt’s feet.

  Matt smiled at her and said, “Well, Tony, I guess once in a great while there is a little justice in this screwed-up world. Talk to you later.”

  He broke off the call.

  Amanda tugged the phone from his grip. She turned it off.

  “No more talking,” she said, then tossed it into the bag. It disappeared under a towel. “Enough with the phone.”

  She then turned up the sound system.

  Bob Marley was singing “Is This Love.”

  She put her arms around his waist and leaned in. They kissed.

  “Now the fun begins,” Amanda said, putting her hand on the throttles and shoving them forward.