The Traffickers

by W. E. B Griffin

“Let me see if I can finish that thought,” Byrth interrupted him again. “Only cops should have guns, right? Because only they can use and care for them reasonably. Because cops never make mistakes.” He paused. “I guess you missed that little anecdote from the Super Bowl. The FBI boys at the Holiday Inn?”

  Matt shook his head.

  Byrth explained: “The hotshots left their cache in the van in the parking lot. Long about oh-dark-thirty, while they were having sweet G-man dreams of their hero J. Edgar Hoover, their van got burgled. The thief made off with four .308-caliber sniper rifles, a pair of fully auto M4 carbines, and—you’ll appreciate this, Marshal—a pair of Springfield .45s. The thief then sold ’em all to his cousin the drug dealer.”

  “Jim, I’m not suggesting that that doesn’t—”

  “Wait,” Byrth interrupted, putting up his hand, palm out, “I’m on a roll here. And maybe you missed that hilarious video clip of the DEA agent with the dreadlocks. He’s in a classroom setting, wearing the obligatory T-shirt with the big D-E-A lettering in case anyone should forget who they are. And he’s warning the students how dangerous guns are, that only the select few should have access to them. Then, to demonstrate, he pulls out his Glock—and promptly puts a round through his foot. Then he commences with what we real professionals call the I-Just-Shot-Myself Silly Dance.”

  “Hey, I’ve got that on my laptop, attached to an e-mail,” Corporal Rapier said. “It is pretty funny. Want me to punch it up on-screen?”

  He immediately regretted speaking when he saw Payne’s expression.

  “Matt,” Byrth said, “I’d suggest you do a little research. Take a look, for example, at our friends in England. They passed a law that pretty much turned every citizen’s gun into scrap metal. And you know what then happened? Crime went up. So now the brilliant political minds in Parliament that brought gun control are tinkering with a law banning the carrying of pocketknives. Why? Because that’s become the punks’ new assault weapon of choice.”

  “That’s a bit of comparing apples and oranges.”

  “Is it really? And when they ban pocketknives, what next? Cardboard box cutters? Those came in pretty handy on the aircraft that the terrorists hijacked on 9/11. The problem is not the weapon.”

  “Look, Jim, I take your point,” Payne said. “I still maintain, however, that this Ruger would not—”

  “Matt,” Rapier now interrupted, “I’ve been trying to tell you that Harold Thompson is a Twenty-fourth District blue shirt.”

  Payne did not say anything for a very long moment. Then he laughed.

  “Okay, okay. I surrender.”

  Jim Byrth sighed, then said, “Matt, I apologize for all that. I’m the guest here.”

  “No apology necessary. I guess I deserved that,” Payne said. He smiled. “Besides, I’ve been known to let loose with some strong opinions myself. Political correctness be damned.”

  He looked at Rapier. “Let’s get back to the images.”

  “You got it,” Rapier said, and clicked on 5.7- X 28-MM SHELL CASINGS.

  An image of scattered spent shell casings popped up in another inset.

  “That 5.7-millimeter round was developed by FN to pierce body armor,” Rapier said. “You don’t see many of them.”

  “That’s because there’re only about five weapons chambered for the five-point-seven round,” Byrth said. “If we find one, odds are those casings will belong to it. Click on the smack link, would you?”

  They watched as Rapier moved the cursor to HEROIN-BASED PRODUCT. The image of the white packets scattered on the concrete floor appeared.

  “Is that the best shot?” Byrth said. “Can you do what you did with the three-dimensional shot of the Ruger?”

  Rapier clicked on a button that had a plus sign on it. The image zoomed in on one of the white packets. Then he used the joystick to turn the packet so that they had a better view of it.

  The packet had a rubber stamp imprint in light blue ink of a cartoonish block of Swiss cheese. To either side of the cheese block were three lines that shot outward. Above the cheese was a legend in blue ink.

  “Queso azul,” Payne read, then said, “That’s the blue cheese you told me about.”

  “Bingo,” Byrth said.

  “What’s blue cheese?” Rapier said.

  “Cold medicine mixed with black tar heroin and sold to kids at two bucks a bump,” Payne said. He looked at Byrth and asked, “What’s with the three lines on either side? They look like cartoon sun rays.”

  “Whiskers.”

  “Whiskers?”

  Byrth nodded. “El Gato. Cat whiskers. That’s his product. So it’s here. But where the hell is he?”

  “Jesus,” Payne said. He added, “You think he shot up the market?”

  “Could’ve been anyone,” Byrth said. “Anyone with a five-point-seven weapon. It’s certainly not outside the scope of what the bastard is capable of doing.”

  Payne was looking back at the bank of screens with the various TV news broadcasts. The feed from the local FOX News channel showed images of the Philadelphia Fire Department at work. Firemen were battling extraordinarily large flames from two vehicles ablaze in a vacant lot adjacent to run-down row houses. Between the roaring fires and the wall of water being pumped at them, it was difficult to distinguish what type of vehicles they were.

  Text along the bottom of the screen read: EARLIER TODAY IN WEST KENSINGTON, FIREFIGHTERS FOUGHT TO EXTINGUISH THE FLAMES FROM TWO VEHICLES. AUTHORITIES SAY ARSON WAS THE CAUSE.

  Matt felt a vibration in the front pocket of his pants. He pulled out his cellular phone and saw that he had a text message. The color LCD screen read: AMY PAYNE—1 TXT MSG TODAY @ 1730.

  He went to it:AMY PAYNE

  We still on for Liberties . . . 6ISH?

  Payne looked again at the time stamp.

  Five thirty.

  That’s right. She said meet at six.

  We can still beat her there.

  He typed and then sent:see u @ 6

  “I think we’re finished here for now, Kerry,” Payne said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Anytime.”

  Payne looked at Jim Byrth.

  “How about we go get a few fingers poured of your choice of adult intoxicants? If we get to Homicide’s unofficial favorite spot early enough, we can enjoy our beverages before She Who Is Always Right arrives. Then we can bounce some of this off her.”

  Byrth nodded appreciatively. “I could use a little something to cut the dust, Marshal.”

  [THREE]

  3900 Block of Castor Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:54 P.M.

  Sitting in the shadows of the trash Dumpsters in the alleyway, Paco “El Nariz” Esteban twice had had to move. The first time was because the big garbage truck had come to empty the three Dumpsters serving as his cover. That had stirred up the trash and caused the receptacles to really reek.

  The second time was because a Philadelphia Police Department squad car came rolling down the alley.

  That had caused Paco Nariz too many thoughts. And they came practically all at once.

  The immediate one was the thought that always came first: Are they looking for me?

  Then he thought: I can tell them about the girls in the store!

  I can show them pictures!

  But would they believe me?

  And would they do anything if they did?

  If the police went in and made an arrest, then El Gato would lose those girls and their guard.

  But he would be free.

  And then I would have to find another way to get to him.

  He had glanced at the cruiser rolling nearer.

  Here they are! Decide, dammit!

  El Nariz had avoided any interaction with the police. He quickly but calmly picked up his mop bucket makeshift seat, then started shaking it in the side door of the Dumpster, pretending to be emptying it.

  When he’d glanced at the cruiser rolling past
, the cops hadn’t even bothered looking back at him.

  And he figured that that was logical. Who would waste time to question a dirty Hispanic male who clearly was carrying out his janitorial tasks? They probably could guess at his biggest crime: smelling like shit.

  That had been about a half hour ago.

  Now El Nariz, back on his bucket between the Dumpsters, heard the sound of another vehicle coming down the alleyway. He looked around the corner of the Dumpsters. He saw a big dirty tan Ford panel van. It had no windows other than the windshield and those on the front driver and passenger doors.

  Paco Esteban heard its brakes squeak. It slowed to a stop beside the back door to the Gas & Go. He could not see from his angle but could hear a large sliding door on the van opening. Then he heard a Hispanic male’s voice. Looking under the van, he could see black boots on the far side of the van, where the sliding door would be.

  El Nariz started to get his camera ready, then decided it wasn’t a good idea with so much daylight still. Whoever was behind the wheel of the van might see him.

  He looked at the bumper and saw the Pennsylvania tag there. It read GSY- 696. He thought that he could write down the license plate number—until he realized he’d left his pen in the minivan.

  Dammit!

  There was more movement on the far side of the van. Visible beside the black boots were two more pairs of shoes. They were very small and low-heeled. Then the back door of the Gas & Go opened. The boots moved in its direction first, and the two pairs of shoes followed.

  For a split second, El Nariz had a clear view of the three people—two young girls, one in a black dress and one in a schoolgirl skirt and top, and a very thin young Hispanic male in jeans, black boots, and a T-shirt.

  I need to get back to my minivan if I am to follow them. . . .

  Then El Nariz had an inspiration.

  The phone!

  He scrolled through its menu. He reached the screen that asked if he wanted to add a new telephone number. He clicked the key for OK, then keyed in GSY696.

  Then he picked up the mop bucket. He put it on his right shoulder so that it would block his view of the dirty tan Ford van—and block his head from the view of whoever was driving the van. He started walking across the alleyway until he was out of sight of the van, then trotted back to the minivan.

  It was ten minutes before Paco Esteban heard the sound of the Ford panel van accelerating down the alley. He started the engine of his minivan—and just in time, as the Ford van flew out of the alley.

  I do not know if the girls are in there.

  And I do not know where they go next.

  But what else do I do?

  He put the minivan in drive, checked for traffic, then followed the tan Ford van down Castor Avenue. He tried to maintain a safe distance back. But not so far as to lose sight of the van.

  The Ford van made the turn onto Erie Avenue, headed toward Broad Street. At Broad, it went south.

  This is the way I just came, but backward.

  About a mile later, he thought, Are they going where I think?

  A block later, at Susquehanna, the van made a left, driving past the Temple Gas & Go and the adjoining Sudsie’s. At the next corner, which was North Park, it turned right.

  Yes!

  They are going to that Gas & Go!

  And using the alley.

  El Nariz knew that that alley gave access to both the Gas & Go’s back door and the loading dock of the laundromat. He also knew it was a dead end; the way in was the only way out.

  He drove straight through the intersection where the van had turned right, then eased up to the curb and stopped. He put the minivan in park and adjusted the mirror on the windshield so that he could see the alley entrance behind him.

  Fifteen minutes passed before the dirty tan Ford panel van came roaring out the alley. It made a right turn.

  Damn!

  Paco Esteban quickly put the minivan in drive and spun the steering wheel counterclockwise. He glanced over his shoulder as he started his U-turn. A blaring horn caused him to slam on the brakes. A pickup truck blew past, the driver angrily pumping his right fist at El Nariz.

  El Nariz looked over his left shoulder again and hit the gas.

  He made the turn onto Park, and as he passed the alley he saw the dirty tan Ford panel van far ahead. It approached the next intersection, which was Diamond Street, and went left.

  El Nariz pressed harder on the accelerator, then braked heavily at the intersection. He blew through the stop sign, turning left onto Diamond. Then he smashed the accelerator, the aged minivan’s engine bucking.

  Don’t quit on me.

  A dozen blocks later, crossing Germantown Avenue, El Nariz could see he was closing fast on the Ford van. He eased up on the accelerator.

  After another dozen or so blocks, the brake lights of the Ford van lit up for a moment. The van turned left in front of a small park.

  As El Nariz followed, he saw that the street was marked HANCOCK.

  The Ford van crossed over Susquehanna, then three blocks later its brake lights lit up. And stayed lit.

  Paco Esteban saw that it had pulled to a stop along the right curb. A block back, he did the same. Then he watched as a Hispanic male jumped from the front passenger door, slammed it shut, and trotted across the street.

  The man went to the gate of a wooden-slat fence that surrounded a lot next to an old row house. A heavy chain was looped on the gate, with a lock on it. The man unlocked the gate, then slid it open.

  Paco Esteban suddenly got a knot in his stomach.

  The fence that Rosario described!

  From his angle and distance, Paco Esteban could just make out that the lot was paved with gravel.

  Another thing that Rosario described—tires on rocks!

  The dirty tan Ford van then rolled through the open gate. The man swung the gate closed after it. Then it looked as if the chain was being locked on the inside of the enclosure.

  Paco Esteban took his foot off the brake. The minivan rolled forward. He slowly drove up to the house.

  Except for what he’d just witnessed, there were no other visible signs of activity. No motion. And no lights. It took some effort, but he finally saw numbers on the wall beside the front door: 2505.

  Hancock Street. 2505.

  Keep driving!

  2505 Hancock . . .

  A few blocks north, he again pulled to the curb. He was just shy of Lehigh Avenue. His heart was pounding against his chest. He had to force himself to inhale, then to exhale.

  He crossed himself.

  Dear God!

  To be so close to such evil!

  El Nariz reached for the ink pen that was wedged into the vent on the dashboard. He found a scrap of paper.

  He started to write “2505 Hancock Street” but found that his hands shook so badly he could barely read his own handwriting.

  Does not matter.

  I will always remember where that house is.

  He reached for his cellular telephone and pushed the key that speed-dialed his wife’s phone.

  When Señora Salma Esteban answered, he said with a shaky voice: “My love, please do not ask me any questions right now. Just listen—”

  He paused at the interruption.

  “Salma, please! Listen to me! Tell Rosario that I will be there in about twenty minutes. Tell her I will pick her up—”

  He paused again.

  “Yes, it is good. Now, please see that she is ready when I get there.”

  [FOUR]

  705 North Second Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:55 P.M.

  As the bird flew, the distance from the Roundhouse to Liberties was about four thousand feet. During the very short drive in Matt Payne’s rental Ford sedan, Jim Byrth had said: “Two questions, Matt.”

  “Shoot.”

  “One, this is a rental, right?”

  “Yeah. The insurance company is paying for it. Because my car got shot up?”

  E
arlier, Payne had related to Byrth the story of his shoot-out in the Italian restaurant parking lot. The one that had left his Porsche blasted by shotgun fire and sent into some sort of insurance adjustor hell. Which at more than one point had caused him to wonder:

  It’s been a month. How damn long does it take to determine if it’s fixable or if they’re going to write me a check for a total wreck?

  A check that no doubt will be as small as they can possibly make it.

  Maybe that’s it. The older the car, the less it’s worth. So the longer they wait . . . But that’s absurd. I put no miles on it. And Porsches, particularly Carreras and Turbos, hold their value.

  So then they probably don’t know what to do with it. Or with me.

  Jesus, do I hate insurance companies.

  “Right,” Byrth said. “But why are you using your personal vehicle on the job? None of my business; just idle curiosity how it’s done here.”

  Good point, Payne thought. I hadn’t given it much thought.

  Maybe because there hadn’t been time to think about it.

  I’ve only been back on the job this one day.

  “I hadn’t given it much thought,” Payne said. “I guess since the insurance company is footing the bill, it’s not coming out of my pocket. I could put in for reimbursement. Not that that’s going to be any big wad of cash.”

  “They won’t issue you a Police Interceptor?”

  “We have the Crown Vics. They’re just hard to come by. There’s a shortage. But if you need one, I’m sure we could get a loaner. Or something close. Maybe an undercover car from the pool at Special Operations. I’ve got a connection there.”

  Matt Payne had been in Special Operations when he’d made the top five list for promotion to sergeant, and had then to go to Homicide. The commanding officer of Special Operations was one Inspector Peter Wohl, who of course was Payne’s rabbi. There also was another connection: Payne’s sister and Peter Wohl sometimes considered themselves a couple.

  Byrth shook his head. “No. Thanks. Like I said, just curious.”

  Payne glanced at him and nodded, then made the turn onto Second.