The Last Witness boh-11

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Anything on their surveillance cameras?”

  “We got a look at images at the Gas amp; Go, but they were too dark and grainy to tell if she was alone or not when she pumped gas. The pharmacy’s system was inoperable.”

  “Okay, so it sounds like she topped off her gas tank, suggesting she’s hit the road-and is avoiding tolled ones. And the other’s probably for prescriptions? They aren’t cheap.”

  Lowenstein shrugged. “Could be. If I were leaving town for a while, I’d want my meds. We should know shortly-we are waiting for a response from the store as to what its computer system says the itemized receipt shows she bought. But that’s the end of the trail. After that, there is nothing. It’s like she pulled the plug on everything.”

  “What about that stuff they’re all doing on the Internet?” Carlucci said.

  “Social media activity?”

  “Yeah. That produced a number of leads with the other two caseworkers. Is she in touch with anyone through that?”

  “It produced leads,” Coughlin put in, “but none went anywhere. The caseworkers themselves never posted anything on the Internet after they went missing.”

  “And it’s worse with the McCain girl,” Lowenstein added. “We asked everyone-friends, family, neighbors, coworkers-and every single person said Margaret never really embraced social media. She tried one or two, then gave up on them. Her mother said she didn’t think that they were worth the time, that they took away from her privacy.”

  Carlucci looked deep in thought.

  “Okay. Back up,” he then said. “When was the last time she was seen?”

  “As far as we know at this point,” Jason Washington picked up, as he pulled a notepad from his jacket, “the absolute last contact that any family or friends had with her was last night when she left dinner.” He paused and looked at his notes. “That was at Zama Sushi near Rittenhouse Square about ten-fifteen. She was with her cousin, twenty-year-old Emma Scholefield, who is a junior studying dance at University of the Arts.”

  “And did this cousin have anything to offer?” Carlucci said.

  Washington shook his head. “Not much more than Mrs. McCain had already told us she’d told her. The cousin stated that Margaret appeared absolutely normal, upbeat, her usual self. They talked mostly about her sailing trip in the British Virgin Islands and their plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. When they left the restaurant, the cousin said that, as she started walking up the block toward her apartment, she saw Margaret get in her Toyota SUV and drive off toward Walnut Street. Margaret had told her she was looking forward to a good night’s sleep so she could hit the gym first thing in the morning.”

  “Which never happened.”

  “Right. Gym records show she hasn’t been there in three days.”

  “Okay. Then what?”

  “Mrs. McCain said that, at exactly ten thirty-one, she called Margaret’s personal cell phone, got no answer, and left her daughter a voice-mail message. At that time, according to telephone records, Margaret’s work cell phone had been connected for four minutes to the cell phone number that we believe to be the Gonzalez girl’s. It is a pay-as-you-go phone, and we do not know who purchased it.”

  “Gonzalez is the dead girl?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Carlucci considered all that, then said, “And the McCain woman’s fire alarm automatically called in at what time?”

  “Precisely at ten forty-two. That was eight minutes after the call between the work cell phone and the go-phone ended. At ten fifty-one, nine minutes after the firehouse got the call, there was one last call from what we believe was the Gonzalez go-phone to Margaret’s work cell. There have been no other calls on Margaret’s personal cell phone-as noted, it’s off for whatever reason-and none dialed on the work cell phone. The Crime Scene Unit guys found the latter, broken, in a puddle in the alley. It looked as if it had been hit hard, maybe dropped.”

  “And that go-phone?”

  “Phone company records list at least two dozen different numbers the Gonzalez go-phone dialed or texted since last night, including Margaret’s work cell phone three times in a row today just after twelve noon. We traced its signal to West Philly, to the Westpark high-rise at Forty-fifth and Market. That’s of course a Housing Authority property, one in fair shape and full. So, no way for us to pinpoint in which apartment the phone could be. Then Anthony Harris had a great idea. He drove over there and began calling the phone over and over. Some miscreant with attitude finally answered, and when Harris told said miscreant that he had the money he owed him and was waiting with it outside the gate, the miscreant hung up. Then the phone went dead, the signal turned off.”

  Carlucci grunted. “Damn. But that was worth the attempt. Has to be pretty good odds that someone owes that punk money. And, even if not, he would have taken the cash off Harris’s hands-even sending some surrogate to get it, in case he smelled it was a setup. Not grabbing the easy money must mean he’s really running scared, and that doesn’t suggest anything good.”

  “We’ve got an unmarked sitting on the Westpark high-rise, in case the phone goes live again and he hits the street,” Lowenstein said. “We also have one keeping an eye on her business, Mary’s House, and one at the residence.”

  “On the chance that the doer will return to the scene?” Carlucci asked, but it was more of a statement.

  “It’s a long shot but we’ve all seen it happen before.”

  Mayor Carlucci looked at Jason Washington.

  “What else did they find at the scene?” Carlucci said.

  “To begin with, the front door was wide open when the firefighters arrived,” Washington said. “The door showed evidence of forced entry-it’d been kicked in. But whoever did it, if they left any other fingerprints, footprints, whatever, we’ll never know. The fire department did their job quite thoroughly-drowning the blaze and trampling the crime scene. They got the fire out, and who the hell knows how much evidence. Neighbors we questioned immediately began calling it a home invasion, and repeating that to the media. We did not go out of our way to disabuse anyone of that.”

  “But?” Carlucci interrupted.

  “But here’s the problem: Who tries to cover a home invasion with Molotov cocktails? There was one broken on the kitchen’s marble counter, the other intact in the middle of the floor. Most robberies are in-and-out jobs. They don’t bother destroying the scene.” Washington pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat and went on: “The medical examiner wrote that the Gonzalez girl did not die in the fire. The autopsy this morning found that her lungs had no fire smoke damage-and that there were two mushroomed.22s inside her cranium.” He mimed a pistol with his thumb and index finger and pointed behind his right earlobe. “Entrance wounds here. Putting a.22 behind the ear is not exactly the hallmark of a home invasion, either.”

  Glances were exchanged as they nodded agreement. They knew that a.22 caliber round, due to its low mass and velocity, was not powerful enough to penetrate the bone of a skull. But it could enter through soft tissue at the ear-then bounce around, effectively scrambling the brain and causing death more or less instantly.

  “It’s more the mark of a professional hit,” Denny Coughlin said.

  Carlucci grunted and nodded.

  “Questions then become,” Washington went on, “Why the girl? Or were they targeting Margaret and the girl got in the way? And of course if they were targeting Margaret, why did she just disappear?”

  “Who is this girl?” Carlucci said. “Gonzalez, did you say?”

  “That’s right,” Washington said. “Krystal Angel Gonzalez, age nineteen. She had an EBT card in the pocket of her blue jeans.”

  He paused, and Carlucci then nodded, affirming that he knew it was an Electronic Benefits Transfer card, which looked and worked like a plastic debit card.

  “Food stamps,” Carlucci said.

  “Now called SNAP,” Washington went on, “for Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. We
ran the card, got off it her name and Social Security number, and that pulled up a hit with CPS. She’d been in and out of foster homes since age six. Before turning eighteen, her Last Known Address was in South Philly, at Mary’s House. She also had twenty-two bucks cash in her jeans-all singles, one rolled up and containing cocaine residue-and two orange fifty-dollar poker chips from Lucky Stars.”

  Washington motioned with the sheet from the medical examiner.

  “The autopsy also found evidence that she was healing from rough sexual activity,” he said. “Most likely that she’d been sexually assaulted, especially considering the welts on the back of her legs that the medical examiner believes were from a wire coat hanger.”

  Carlucci made a sour face as he shook his head.

  “Such a damn shame,” he said. “But the sad fact is that if I had a dime for every time some trick in Philly got whipped with a pimp stick, I could be living the high life like our boy Matty.” He paused. “Which reminds me, Denny, where the hell is he?”

  “To use your phrase,” Coughlin said, “he’s living the high life. They’re in the Florida Keys. Jason was just in touch with him.”

  “They?”

  Washington nodded, and explained, “Mrs. McCain gave us a list of Margaret’s friends. Amanda Law was on it. She said Amanda and Margaret had spoken since she returned from her vacation. Amanda is with Matthew, so I called him and requested that he discreetly inquire if Amanda had heard from her.”

  “Charley’s daughter, the doctor? Any truth to the rumor I heard that they’re getting married?”

  Washington nodded. “Indeed there is. They are.”

  For the first time, Carlucci’s face brightened. “Good. Her old man, like Matty’s, was as solid a cop as they come. Maybe since she understands cops she can keep ole Wyatt Earp out of the headlines.”

  “Jerry,” Coughlin put in, “I wouldn’t mind having him on the case. He runs easily in those social circles-”

  “No,” Carlucci snapped, making eye contact. Then he sighed. “No, Denny, not right now. Maybe later-”

  His cell phone began ringing. He made a look of annoyance, then glanced at its screen, muttered, “Damn, McCain,” then put the phone to his head and answered in an authoritative, even tone, “Carlucci.”

  All eyes were on him as he said: “Who just heard from Maggie?”

  [TWO]

  Off Big Pine Key, Florida

  Sunday, November 16, 4:02 P.M.

  Matt Payne double-checked the lightly laminated NOAA navigation chart, then picked up the binoculars, scanned ahead of the Viking, and after a moment located what he was looking for-the outer markers of the channel that led to Big Pine Key, Little Torch Key, and Little Palm Island.

  If he had wanted, he could just as easily have looked at the screen of the GPS unit, which would have pinpointed the exact location of the markers and the entire channel, and the boat’s exact position relative to them, then dialed in the autopilot. But Matt, as much as he appreciated technology, liked to practice his map and compass, dead reckoning, and other navigation skills-believing that it wasn’t a case of if technology was going to fail but when it would crap out on him.

  As wise ol’ Murphy made law, “If anything can go wrong, it will-and at the worst possible damn time.”

  Only a fool tempts fate at sea. .

  The dark blue of the deeper water now gave way to a glistening aqua green. The depth sounder, confirming what he read on the chart, showed they were running in sixty feet of water. Closer to shore, and the clear, shallower water there, the white of the bottom could easily be seen.

  When he put the optics on the console, he saw his cell phone screen light up and a text message box appear:

  MICKEY O’HARA 4:03 PM

  CALL ME ASAP. I’M CHASING DEADLINE AND NEED INFO.

  Michael J. O’Hara, a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter, and Matt had developed an interesting-if unusual-close friendship over the years. The wiry thirty-seven-year-old, of Irish descent and with a head of unruly red hair, was unorthodox but uncompromisingly fair-and thus had earned the respect of the cops who walked the beat on up to the commissioner himself.

  It was O’Hara who, when Payne had been grazed in the forehead by a ricochet bullet in his first shoot-out, photographed the bloodied rookie cop standing with his.45 over the dead shooter, and later wrote the headline: “Officer M. M. Payne, 23, The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”

  I’m not working any cases, Matt thought as he texted back: “OK. ASAP.”

  What could I know that he wants for a story?

  Matt turned to Amanda, who was reclined on a long cushion beside him, reading a book titled Cruising Guide to the Bahamas.

  “Almost there,” he said.

  “Great!”

  She put down the book and went to stand beside him.

  He pointed to a long narrow outer island.

  “That’s Big Munson. It’s about a hundred acres of little more than mangroves and mosquitoes.”

  “The one where you and Chad reenacted Lord of the Flies?”

  He looked at her. She was grinning mischievously.

  “Maybe Chad. He’s never shied away from power grabs. For me it was more like Treasure Island mixed with Crusoe, thank you very much. Anyway, Little Munson, which is all beach and palm trees and dripping with creature comforts, is next to it.”

  As he made a slight course correction to the north, putting the Viking on a compass heading of 310 degrees, another pack of the go-fasts appeared ahead. It was headed for the same channel, and after the first boat began slowing to idle speed for the approach, the others a moment later dropped their speed almost at the same time. Matt counted nine boats.

  He then eased back on the Viking’s throttles. As the big boat slowed, her hull settling lower in the water, he thought he heard the faint sound of a police siren.

  Immediately, he muted the music, looked back over his shoulder, and exclaimed, “What the hell?”

  There was in fact a siren. And it clearly was coming from a Florida Marine Patrol boat, its emergency light bar flashing over the center console’s aluminum tube T-top roof.

  About two hundred yards ahead of the police boat was a twin-engine, thirty-foot-long center console fishing boat. Matt grabbed the binoculars. He could make out a lone, shirtless, dark-skinned man aboard, his dreadlocks flying almost straight back as he stood with a death grip on the steering wheel.

  “What’s that boat doing?” Amanda said.

  “Not to sound like a smart-ass, but I’d say he’s running. He’s got to have that thing at wide-open throttle. There’s little more than the props in the water. But why? You can’t outrun the cops here.”

  “Looks like he’s headed for those Poker Run boats.”

  The go-fasts now were beginning to form a single-file line as they approached the channel’s first outer marker.

  In no time, the fleeing boat caught up with the back of the pack of go-fasts, the police boat in hot pursuit. It began weaving in and out of the line, coming dangerously close to colliding with the first two that it passed. The captains of some of the other boats, realizing what was happening, quickly maneuvered to get out of the way. A few lay on their horns, shouted, and, fists pumping, made obscene gestures as the boat flew past.

  The police boat broke off its high-speed chase but still followed.

  The burly man with the dreadlocks, not slowing, then entered the channel.

  Matt saw that a thirty-three-foot Coast Guard boat with triple outboards and its emergency lights flashing had appeared farther up the channel near the end of a small island. It turned sideways, effectively shutting down the channel.

  “See? Nowhere to run,” Matt said, his tone incredulous. “He’s headed right into the hands of the Coast Guard.”

  The boat then made a hard turn to the right, leaving the channel.

  “I’ll be damned! He’s trying to cut across the shoal at Big Munson!”

  The boat’s propellers began churning up se
a grass and sand as it entered the shallow, maybe two-feet-deep, water. Another center console police boat-this one with a large golden badge and the words MONROE COUNTY SHERIFF on its white hull-then appeared ahead of it, at the far end of the thickly treed key.

  The speeding boat started to make a zigzag course, the man with the dreadlocks clearly trying to come up with some evasive course.

  Then he suddenly made a hard 90-degree turn to the left.

  “He’s going to run ashore!” Amanda said.

  The boat was headed directly for the sandy white beach and thick vegetation that edged Big Munson.

  Just as the boat got close to the beach, the driver throttled down.

  The boat appeared to settle softly in the shallow water-then shot up onto the sandy shoreline and suddenly pitched up. It went airborne briefly before landing in a more or less cushion of mangrove trees, stopping with the bow pointed skyward. The impact had thrown the man with the dreadlocks to the deck.

  The boat’s twin outboard engines, their exhausts no longer submerged and muffled, made a deep pained roar. After a long moment, the stunned man was able to get up and, one at a time, shut them down.

  Matt could now see that the area forward of the center console had some sort of cover. And people had started scurrying out from under it.

  Then, from the tree line twenty yards away, one, then two, then a half dozen more boys in T-shirts and dark green shorts suddenly ran out onto the beach, then turned and went as fast as they could toward the boat. Slung on the shoulder of the last one in line was a medium-sized white duffel bag with a red cross on it.