The Last Witness boh-11

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Sir, as I’m sure Mayor Carlucci could tell you, there are very capable men, detectives with far more experience than I have, who can do a better job-”

  “Matt, I’m not one for false modesty,” McCain replied sharply. “Particularly right now, when I need results. Everyone knows you’re not one who’s afraid to get his hands dirty and get the job done. There’s a reason that O’Hara character called you the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line years ago and it stuck.”

  “Sir, that’s-”

  He felt a nudge and looked at Amanda.

  As she mouthed, Say yes, Matt felt his phone vibrating. He pulled it from his pocket, checked its screen, then held it up for Amanda to see. She nodded as she read: DENNY.

  “What are you saying, Matt?” Will McCain’s voice came over Amanda’s phone.

  “I was saying, yessir, Mr. McCain. I’ll speak with Commissioner Coughlin right now.”

  –

  Five minutes later, winding up the conversation, Denny Coughlin said, “Be aware, Matty, that Carlucci wasn’t exactly happy with Will McCain’s demand that you be put on the case. He even turned me down this morning when I asked if you could help work it. It’s not that Carlucci doesn’t have faith in you-he is at his core one helluva cop and knows another when he sees one-but he’s also a savvy politician. I think he is worried that the perception of the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line is becoming a bit of a political liability.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, Uncle Denny.”

  “Just keep your nose clean. Jason Washington is including you in the conference call tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.”

  “Got it. So that I don’t come in completely ignorant, can someone send me what we have so far?”

  “Jason is working on that. But for now get some rest. It’s late. What did I tell you a long time ago about fatigue?”

  Matt nodded. “That fatigue shuts down the brain when you overwork. ‘Get rest and then you get results.’”

  “We all want to get the McCain girl back. But let’s be smart. And safe.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good night, Matty.”

  The connection went dead.

  Matt looked at Amanda as he dialed Tony Harris’s cell phone.

  “Well, that’s that,” he said to her, then into the phone said, “Hey, Tony. You awake?”

  Matt listened for a moment, then said, “I’ll be quick. I’m now in on the McCain case. Anything I should know before tomorrow morning’s conference call?”

  So much for me keeping my nose clean.

  He listened for another long moment, and when he heard Harris say that they were coming up with nothing more on Maggie McCain than they had come up with on the other two missing women, Matt thought, Two others? I can’t let Amanda know that. No wonder Jason wouldn’t tell me. He couldn’t.

  Matt looked at Amanda as he said, “Thanks. Okay, Tony, now go on back to sleep. Don’t you know what Denny says about fatigue and getting proper rest?”

  Matt Payne heard Tony Harris then suggest “with all possible due respect” that Payne should perform on himself a sexual act that was a physical impossibility.

  “Yeah, well, same to you, buddy,” Matt replied, but he was smiling. “Sweet dreams.”

  He broke off the call. Amanda raised her eyebrows in question.

  “Nothing new since Maggie’s e-mail,” Matt said.

  Which is not exactly a lie.

  But it’s not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. .

  “Nothing more to do now that’s not being done,” he said. “I’m on it first thing tomorrow.”

  “Well, that does make me feel a little better.”

  He held out his arm for her to take.

  “Let’s go grab dinner. You’re eating for two, you know.”

  [TWO]

  Players Corner Lounge

  Front and Master Streets, Philadelphia

  Sunday, November 16, 10:01 P.M.

  “I can pull over there under the El and wait, Mr. Gurnov,” the driver of the dark blue Audi R8 sedan said, stopping in front of the Fishtown dive bar. A dusting of snow had accumulated on the bar’s dirty redbrick front. Its blacked-out windows, with silver reflective silhouettes of well-endowed naked women holding martinis and poker cards on them, practically rattled with the music system blaring the Jersey rock band Bon Jovi.

  “This won’t take long,” Dmitri Gurnov said, meeting the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  Gurnov, tall and wiry, carried himself with a steel-like intensity. The thirty-year-old had pale skin, sunken eyes, and a three-day scruff of beard. He wore a black leather jacket, a black collarless shirt, blue jeans, and polished black leather boots. He could feel the weight of the compact Sig-Sauer 9mm he carried in the right pocket of his coat.

  Gurnov glanced up and down the snow-covered street, then opened the right rear door. He stepped onto the sidewalk that was little more than crumbling concrete. He looked across the street, where an overflowing industrial dumpster sat in front of another old bar. The space was being gutted. A new sign on one of the boarded-over windows announced that a wine cafe was coming soon.

  We can’t keep this shithole bar here much longer with that going on.

  Especially with the girls working.

  The Fishtown section of Philly, bordering the Delaware River, was beginning to feel the benefits of the gentrification of neighboring Northern Liberties. In addition to NoLibs’ many small independent businesses similar to the wine cafe, nearby were the two busy casinos overlooking the river and, a dice throw away across the expressway from them, the upscale Schmidt’s Brewery apartments, movie cinemas, and the Hops Haus complex of high-rise condominiums and trendy retail stores and restaurants.

  The deterioration of Fishtown had started decades earlier. With the loss of jobs went the loss of community, first the tight-knit families of Italians moving out and then many of the tough working-class Irish who had taken their place following. Some hung on, but the first wave of bohemian outsiders were moving in, buying at affordable prices and pushing the ’hood to rise up, mirroring the success of NoLibs.

  With a wealth of new development being planned out on various architects’ blueprints-including, Gurnov knew, ground finally broken on a Diamond Development entertainment complex just blocks away at Jefferson and Mascher-the clock was ticking on the old pockets of Fishtown that remained seedy.

  A dive bar like the Players Corner Lounge was but one example of what the changing demographics would eventually push north into the harder hit areas of Kensington and Frankford, sections that long had been-and likely would continue to be-in a really bad way.

  The moment the car door shut with a thunk, the Audi pulled a quick U-turn.

  The dive bar’s dented metal door was set back in what would have been the corner of the old three-story building. As Gurnov started toward it, a SEPTA train on the Frankford-Market El loudly rumbled and screeched overhead. He briefly looked up at the brightly lit railcars, then down at the Audi parking beneath the El and killing its headlights. He grabbed the metal bar that served as the door handle and pulled. The loud thrumming music poured out as if it had been trapped in the small confines of the dusky, dank room.

  It took a moment for Gurnov’s eyes to adjust. The lounge was mostly dark except for dimmed lighting behind the wooden bar that was along the left wall and a pair of bright red and blue floodlights harshly illuminating the stripper pole on the small stage to the right. An olive-skinned brunette, with obvious stretch marks on her pudgy belly, was hanging upside down near the ceiling from the chromed pole, pumping her arm to the beat of rock star Jon Bon Jovi belting out It’s! My! Life!

  Of the twenty tables filling the floor, only five or six had anyone sitting at them, the patrons all males except for one young female clinging to her hipster date at a back table. Near the stage, Gurnov saw a table of four who looked like they were college kids, probably fraternity brothers. Another stripper, a platinum blonde La
tina down to only a T-back thong, was working their table, vigorously rubbing her ample hip against one of the drunken guys as she tried to sell lap dances. . and more.

  None of the customers paid the tall, wiry man any attention as he moved across the room in the direction of a half dozen electronic poker machines.

  He came to a dusty gray curtain on the wall at the end of the bar.

  “Yo, bro, you call about a girl?” a rough-looking woman Gurnov hadn’t noticed behind the bar called out loudly. “You can’t go back there!”

  She was in her thirties, short and dark-haired, wearing tight white shorts and a black low-cut T-top. Tattoos covered both arms and her entire chest. She was pouring vodka into a shot glass that was on the bar. Beside it a cell phone was lit up with an incoming call.

  “The hell I can’t,” Gurnov snapped, pulling back the curtain.

  She stared at him, tossed back the shot, and, pouring another, said, “Yeah? Fuck it, then. You deal with whatever happens.”

  Gurnov uncovered a swinging door with NO ADMITTANCE stenciled on it in large letters. He swung it open inward and entered a short hallway. It was lined with cases of cheap alcohol and mixers stacked along one side and led to another door at the other end.

  He found that the second door, stenciled with ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE! was shut. But when he tried the knob, it was unlocked.

  Moron! Gurnov thought. I’ve told him over and over the office stays locked!

  He shoved that door open-and was greeted by the sight of very large, very brown, and very hairy male buttocks.

  He quickly looked around the small dirty office. With minor differences-the very large brown hairy buttocks notwithstanding-he noticed nothing had really changed since a week, if not a month, ago.

  It held an old steel safe and a battered wooden desk, the latter’s top strewn with various papers and forms, a couple of matchbox-sized clear plastic packets containing white powder, a black laptop computer, a small box holding used cell phones, and a small digital camera. There were two chairs, one with the seat covered in old newspapers. A dim light came from a lone bare lightbulb hanging overhead from a short length of electrical cord.

  The large brown hairy buttocks were thrusting rhythmically with the mechanical moans of a skinny bleached-blonde teenaged girl. She had a young, pretty face, somewhat childlike, and was bent over the wooden desk, her black and white checked skirt hiked up, and a pair of high heels beside her bare feet. Her white shirt was unbuttoned, her tiny breasts pressing on the desktop. She licked at a white powder residue on her index finger.

  “What the fuck, Ricky?” Gurnov announced from the open door.

  Ricardo Ramirez-a chunky five-foot-eight twenty-seven-year-old Puerto Rican with a pockmarked face-quickly glanced over his shoulder as he continued the thrusts. His dark, hard eyes were glazed.

  When he recognized who it was standing in the doorway, he stopped. He slapped the girl’s left buttock.

  “Want some of this, man? It’s new.”

  Are you kidding me? Gurnov thought.

  The teenaged girl jerked her head around. Her hollow eyes were also glazed.

  “You done yet, Ricky?” she said, her voice sleepy.

  Ramirez shrugged as he looked at the girl, and went back to thrusting.

  Gurnov shook his head, more than a little disgusted and annoyed.

  He felt the weight of his Sig in his jacket pocket.

  I should pistol-whip the bastard-one good whack.

  But then I’d have to get the blood off.

  He crossed the dirty office to the chair that was stacked with tabloid newspapers. He saw they were old copies of Philly Weekly. He rolled up one, then marched over and smacked Ramirez across the back of his head.

  “Knock it off! I have dogs better behaved than you.”

  Then Gurnov looked at the girl, who was looking over her shoulder to see what the loud noise had been.

  “You,” he ordered, “get the hell out of here!”

  The girl then looked at Ramirez, who was backing away, shuffling his feet while reaching down to pull his jeans up from his ankles.

  “Do what he says, Summer,” Ramirez said, zipping his pants. “Go on up front. Talk to Ashley. See if any work’s come in for you. Tell her the room in the basement’s open.”

  Dazed, Summer stood, dropped her black and white checkered schoolgirl skirt back in place, and tied the front of her shirt in a knot. She grabbed one of the plastic packets of cocaine while working her feet into the high heels, then wobbled on them toward the door.

  “And back off the blow, bitch,” Ramirez said, taking the packet from her hand as she went through the door. “You need to start making money tonight to pay your bill!”

  Ramirez closed the door.

  “Lock that damn thing,” Gurnov snapped. “I tell you that over and over.” Then he added, “Another ‘Summer’? How old is that one?”

  “Eighteen,” Ramirez immediately said, grinning at his automatic lie. “She’s good. She’ll earn her keep. She’s already in the hole almost a grand, countin’ her bed and rubbers and shit. Everything. And, yeah, Summer, April, whatever-you know dudes love bitches named that.”

  He reached for a black laptop computer on the desk. Its scratched plastic case was covered in liquor advertisement stickers. He opened it and pointed to the screen as it flickered to life.

  “Here. Check out her ad I put online today,” Ramirez said, trying to focus on the screen. “She’s a ‘private massage therapist’ with ‘best hands in the business.’ I got really creative.”

  Photographs showed the body of the young girl. She wore the same schoolgirl outfit and high heels. The white top was tied up tight, revealing her midriff and accentuating her breasts. The black and white checkered skirt also was tight on her curves, and short enough to reveal the bottom edge of her buttocks. There were close-up shots of her youthful hands and thighs and chest. Everything but a photograph of her face.

  “I wrote here ‘I like what I do and so will you. In call, out call.’ And that she loves to travel and to please. That’s true, too.” He grinned. “Anyway, she said she’s from Bucks County, and out on her own. Tried to get in that flophouse up in Frankford. Lighthouse Life? They were full up and I got the call from Tony. Cost me a hundred bucks for that. Now, a little of Cuzzin Hector’s hydro, at worst some coke, and she’s good to go.”

  Gurnov bristled at hearing Hector’s name and the hydroponic weed. He already regretted fronting Ricky any money. And he really was pissed when Ricky loaned Hector-who really wasn’t Ricky’s cousin; he was a Ramirez from Cuba-the twenty-five grand to set up the house in Kensington. Growing pot indoors, using artificial lighting, guaranteed a steady nearby supply of the highly potent marijuana to move. Gurnov recognized that it also was one more thing that could blow up in his face. Hector was already on the run after someone ratted out the grow house he’d worked near Miami.

  “The girl looks sixteen,” Gurnov said.

  Ricky shrugged. “I got ID saying she’s eighteen.”

  The bastard never learns, Gurnov thought.

  This is what caused the problem in the first place.

  They’re too damn young-and too stupid to not talk.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “What’re you on? You look like shit, Ricky.”

  “A little blow. And some E to stay awake. Last night was rough.”

  Gurnov thought Ramirez looked like he’d need at least Ecstasy to have been up the whole time.

  “Look, I’m serious. You need to be careful. Tell me what happened last night.”

  Ramirez’s expression changed.

  “I’m. . I’m really sorry, man. I thought I had that fuckin’ thing under control. Really!”

  What?

  “What do you mean by that?” Gurnov said, his tone ice cold. “You take care of it or not?”

  Ramirez avoided making eye contact.

  “I shot that puta Krystal, man,” he said, nervously kicking his
shoe tip against a desk leg. “In the back of the head, behind the ear, just like you said to.”

  “What about the other. .?”

  Looking at his shoe, Ramirez slowly shook his head.

  He then said: “Damon thought Krystal was it, man. So he threw the Molotovs. We had to get out.”

  “Damn it, Ricky!” Gurnov blurted. “Tell me you got the books back. I don’t care about the other shit.”

  Ricky silently shook his head.

  Gurnov inhaled deeply, then exhaled, trying to keep his composure.

  “You know there’s gonna be hell to pay for this,” he said. “Mr. Antonov does not like surprises. Especially one like this.”

  And that’s why I never told him about any of it.

  I knew better than to let Ricky drag me into his running drugs and girls.

  The damn money was just too easy to pass up. .

  Ramirez looked up. There was terror in his eyes.

  “I know! I know! I’m sorry, man. I’ll find her. Promise. I’ll get the books and the money back.”

  “You’ll find her?” Gurnov exploded. “Where’re you looking? Up some little whore’s ass? What the hell are you thinking?”

  Ramirez’s hazy eyes were tearing. He rubbed them.

  Gurnov shook his head.

  Fuck! This cannot get back to Nick.

  It’s probably time to shut this place down. .

  “No, Ricky. I’ll take care of it. You. . you get the girls out of town as planned.”

  [THREE]

  Washington Dulles International Airport, Virginia

  Sunday, November 16, 10:17 P.M.

  “Just one more second and we should be done,” the gray-haired, plump female American Airlines desk agent said helpfully, smiling as she tapped keys on the computer terminal. “You really should consider joining our frequent-flyer program. It keeps all your information handy to speed up this process. Plus you get miles toward trips, so as you zip right through the process, eventually you’ll travel for free!”

  The woman looked up and smiled broadly at the nicely dressed young woman with the pleasant face, intense green eyes, and, under a GEORGETOWN HOYAS ball cap, chestnut brown hair that fell softly to her shoulders. There was a backpack hanging by one strap over her right shoulder.