He clicked on the icon for the Firefox Internet browser. In his computer coding class in high school, he’d learned that Firefox was a very intuitive and clean interface, far better than the crappy ubiquitous Internet Explorer. All those gee-whiz self-congratulatory messages—“IE Just Denied an Unknown Program Unauthorized Access!” or “IE Just Successfully Sold You Yet Another Program You Don’t Need!”—along with the other annoying inflated features made the program more sizzle than steak.
More important for Delgado, Firefox also had a far more complex code for security. Between the flash drive and Firefox, he could encode and decode—then wipe absolutely clean—anything he did on the computer.
He typed PHILLYBULLETIN.COM and hit the RETURN key.
A second later, the screen was awash with articles and photos, updated on the quarter hour, of the day’s news.
The biggest and brightest image was that of a motel in glorious flames. It was surrounded by various emergency vehicles, their lights flashing. Delgado grinned. Then his eye caught the red text of a ticker across the top of the page, the words crawling from right to left: Breaking News . . . 2 Dead & 4 Injured in Shooting at Reading Terminal Market. Police Said to Release More Details Shortly. . . .
Delgado nodded knowingly.
Don’t fuck with me, he thought, and these things won’t happen.
Assholes. They all think they can rip me off and get away with it. . . .
His cellular phone vibrated for a second, indicating a received text message. He picked it up. The tiny LCD screen, beginning with the sender’s cellular phone number, read:
609-555-4901
ALL CREWS WORKING
WHAT U WANT DONE 2 VAN??
Delgado picked up the phone. Using his thumbs on the tiny keypad, he punched out:
TELL OMAR 2 FILL TANK, PARK IN KENSINGTON W/ ANY 2 OTHERS & LIGHT 3 TIGERTAILS
Delgado grinned at the mental image that came with “tigertails.” It had been a tigertail that had got him sent for his brief first and only visit to the Dallas County Jail in Texas.
He’d just turned eighteen years old and had started to move a lot more product on his own. He needed some help. In order to trust the help, he put the guys through some tests. And one of those tests was torching the cars of some of their East Dallas neighbors. The damn picky people were making louder and louder noises about traffic—both foot traffic and the lawn care trucks and trailers—in and out of Delgado’s house and property.
The term “tigertail” came from a gasoline company and its cartoon tiger mascot. One of the company’s giveaway promotions was a foot-long fake furry black-striped orange tail to tie to the gas tanks.
For a while, judging by all the tails flapping from gas caps, it seemed cars everywhere had “a tiger in their tank.”
Delgado had stolen that idea, but there were a couple of critical differences with his. He had taken a wire coat hanger, straightened it out, then wrapped it with a gas-soaked strip of bedsheeting, bending a hook in the wire’s end to secure the fabric. The sheet-covered wire was then stuck down a target vehicle’s gas tank. Then the “fuse” was set afire.
The neighbors’ cars became blackened hulks in minutes.
As a message sender, the tigertail had been an effective tool. Too much of one, in fact, because Delgado’s boys began torching enough vehicles that the Dallas Police Department had decided it necessary to put together a small task force. And the first night out, the cops caught one of Delgado’s boys—a fifteen-year-old who shit his pants the moment the cuffs were slapped on.
And he quickly fingered Delgado.
Delgado’s lawyer had been able to convince the prosecutor that discrediting the kid’s word would be effortless—“He shit his pants, for chrissake! He’d roll over on his own grandmother if it got him out of this. No one’s going to believe him!”—and that resulted in the charges against Delgado being dismissed.
Delgado never saw that kid again. That, of course, did not stop the unfortunate event that followed—the car belonging to the fifteen-year-old’s mother being tigertailed.
Delgado’s cellular phone vibrated again, and he read the screen:
609-555-4901
OK U GOT IT
Delgado then thumbed:
& U GO 2 TEMPLE LIKE WE TALKED . . . DO IT NOW
A second later, the incoming reply vibrated Delgado’s phone:
609-555-4901
SI . . . SI
Delgado put down the phone and turned to the computer monitor.
Going to the website for Southwest Airlines, he punched in PHL and DAL, checking for flights out of Philadelphia International Airport going into Dallas Love Field.
“Shit!” he said, seeing he’d missed the nine-thirty departure that morning.
He clicked on the next-most-direct routing, Southwest Flight 55, and booked it, paying for the ticket with a Visa credit card. The bill would go to a post office mail drop in a shopping strip center in East Dallas.
Then he picked up the cellular phone and sent another text to a different cellular phone number:
PLAN 2 PICK ME UP @ 730PM @ LOVE, SW#55
As he went to put down his phone, he saw a kid enter the coffee shop.
Delgado guessed that the short boy, who was black and overweight, could not be more than fifteen and was very likely closer to twelve. And that extra weight was probably baby fat. He had on very baggy blue jeans that were hanging loosely, a white T-shirt with a silk-screened image of a hip-hop singer, white sneakers, and a solid white ball cap with the bill turned sideways.
He looked awkward—and not exactly what Delgado would have considered a regular coffee drinker.
After entering the café slowly, the boy made a beeline for the register at the counter. He kept his head down as he went, looking mostly at his feet with an occasional glance around the room.
The short fat kid dug deep into his jeans pocket and produced a folded paper bill. He slapped the money on the counter. The bony male clerk then pulled two coffee cups from a tall stack upside down on the counter, and quickly but casually reached under the counter. It was near where he had put Delgado’s FedEx envelope. He came back up with the cups, but now one was inserted in the other. The clerk turned to the sink behind him, then filled the top cup with tap water and snapped a lid on it.
Delgado glanced at his own coffee sitting beside the computer monitor. The steam-hot double espresso had been given to him in only a single cup.
Delgado looked back to the counter as the clerk was handing the stacked cups to the kid. The boy took them, then, without waiting for change, turned and went out the door somewhat quicker than he’d entered.
Once outside the door, the boy pulled the top cup out and tossed it in the trash receptacle next to the outside seating, then took off down the sidewalk in a trot.
Delgado made eye contact with the clerk, who smiled knowingly back.
The phone vibrated in his hand, and he read the incoming reply:
214-555-7636
C U THEN . . .
Delgado thumbed back:
GET SUBURBAN READY 4 TRIP SOUTH
His screen then read:
214-5-155-7636 ITS IN GARAGE N READY NOW
Delgado thumbed:
BUENO . . . C U 2NITE
He put the phone back down, then looked back at the computer monitor.
A link under the photograph of the burning Philly Inn went to the article. He clicked on it and waded through screen ads for a King of Prussia Chevy automobile dealer, casinos in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and a Center City brew pub.
MASSIVE EXPLOSION, FIRE ENGULFS MOTEL
At least two known dead and two injured after the Philly Inn blew up and burned early Thursday morning
By Jim Striegelvich
Bulletin Staff Writer
Photographs by Jack Weinberg
Bulletin Photographer
Posted Online 09/09 at 8:45 a.m.
Philadelphia—A violent explosion at the Philly Inn on Fra
nkford Avenue in Northeast Philadelphia blew out at least one motel room this morning just before two oʹclock.
The cause of the blast, and subsequent fire, said a spokesman for the Philadelphia Police Department, has yet to be positively determined. Initial reports, however, suggest that an illegal ad hoc laboratory for the manufacture of crystal methamphetamine was involved.
The fire displaced more than 150 people who were staying at the motel, including a twenty-five-year-old who identified himself as Demetrius Xavier “X-J” Johnson.
“Itʹs gotta be meth, man,” said Johnson. “This place has stunk of cat piss for months! And ainʹt nobody done nothing about it.”
The police spokesman said that two men, as yet to be identified, have been confirmed as dead in the motel room. Two others were injured and transported by ambulance to Temple Burn Center; no details on them or their condition have been made available at this time.
Check back for updates as they become available.
COMMENTS (3)
From Independent1inPhilly (9:01 a.m.):
Those druggie slimeballs. Canʹt think of a better way for them to depart this world.
Recommend [ 6 ] Click Here to Report Abuse
From WhatWouldBenFranklinDo (9:22 a.m.):
Iʹm with you, Indy1. Too bad they ruin so many lives first, however.
Recommend [ 4 ] Click Here to Report Abuse
From Hung.Up.Badge.But.Not.Gun (9:50 a.m.):
Amen to both of you, Indy1 & WWBFD. I spent enough time walking the beat to see everything at least once. And nothing is as insidious as what these drugs do to families of every walk of life. I say, Shoot ʹem all and let the Good Lord sort ʹem out.
Recommend [ 4 ] Click Here to Report Abuse
Delgado shook his head.
Fuck you people!
I’m not forcing anyone to buy and swallow anything they don’t want.
They want it bad.
Hell, even the kids.
And look at those ads—booze, gambling, hookers.
Everyone’s got a habit.
What the hell’s the difference with drugs?
He clicked on the part of the page to leave a comment, then pounded out the message on the keyboard and clicked the SEND button.
After a moment, his message appeared onscreen, last on the comment list:
From Death.Before.Dishonor (9:52 a.m.):
F**k you pendejos! Dudes sell drugs because people (are you paying attention?) because people want to buy them! Look at the ads on this page—booze, gambling (and where thereʹs gambling thereʹs hookers) . . . Something for everyone. Whatʹs the difference with drugs? And you know what? Sometimes we even clean up the rats from the gutters—like those in this motel!
Recommend [ 0 ] Click Here to Report Abuse
V
[ONE]
Temple Burn Center Temple University Hospital North Broad and West Tioga Streets, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 10:10 A.M.
The third-floor Intensive Care Unit was ringed by a corridor that went around the entire floor by the exterior windows. Chad Nesbitt stood leaning against the northwest corner window, which looked out onto Broad and Tioga and, across the street, the Shriners Children’s Hospital. The two medical facilities were connected by an enclosed sky bridge.
Inside, Nesbitt had a view down the north and west corridors. Near the ends of each were pairs of swinging doors that led into the Intensive Care Unit sterile areas. The ICU room at the end of the corridor to Nesbitt’s left was where the doctors had put the burn victim initially admitted as “John Doe.” Sitting in a chrome-framed plastic chair across from it was Skipper Olde’s father.
Joseph Warren Olde, Sr., had his head in his hands and was staring at the highly polished tile floor, seemingly frozen. He was tall and lanky, with thin, patrician features.
Nesbitt knew that he was a graduate of Harvard, and even now he had on the school’s unofficial uniform. He wore it damn near every day—a Brooks Brothers two-piece striped woolen suit (summer weight now, the cuff of the pants barely covering his ankles) with blood-and-blue rep necktie, white button-down shirt, and Alden black leather shoes.
It’s on twenty-four/seven, Chad thought.
I’ve even seen him in it in Florida. He looked like Richard Nixon walking down the beach. Ridiculous.
It’s like he hides behind that suit.
Skipper said he’d overhead his grandfather once say, “Joey never really excelled at anything, except perhaps being arrogant.”
Sitting in another chrome-framed plastic chair beside him was a blue shirt Philadelphia Police Department patrol officer.
Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski was twenty-five years old, five-foot-four, and 150 pounds. She more than filled out her uniform, and her bulletproof vest served only to accentuate her bulk. In the molded polymer holster on her right hip she carried a Glock Model 17 nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol with a fully charged magazine of seventeen rounds and one round in the chamber. Two additional fully charged magazines were on her kit.
Police Officer Kowenski’s orders were to keep watch on the door. She had a police radio on her belt, its coiled cord snaking up to her shoulder mic—the microphone pinned to her right shoulder epaulet. The orders further said to immediately report any news of any kind concerning J. Warren Olde, Jr. She was reading for the third time a People magazine she’d taken from the dog-eared stack on the coffee table next to her chair, and was attempting not to notice the anguished father of the victim.
At the end of the corridor to the right was the ICU room in which they’d put Becca Benjamin. There, a male version of Police Officer Kowenski—short, squat, bored, but reading a paperback novel—guarded the door.
Pacing in front of the swinging doors was Mr. James Henry Benjamin. The fifty-year-old president and chief executive officer of Benjamin Securities, who was five-eleven and 160 with a striking resemblance to the actor Pierce Bros nan, kept shaking his head and muttering, “I don’t understand this. I just don’t understand. . . .”
His wife, Andrea, who also was fifty and a very attractive older version of her daughter Becca, sat in one of three chrome-framed plastic chairs against the wall of windows. She held a cellular phone in one hand, a white linen handkerchief in the other. After every third or fourth pass of her husband, she tried to calm him, and added, “Honey, please sit down.”
Nesbitt pulled out his phone and hit the key that speed-dialed Matt Payne’s mobile. It rang only once before he heard Payne’s voice.
“Hey, Chad. What’s up? Where’re you?”
“At Temple. The Burn Center? I felt it best to be here . . .”
His voice trailed off.
Matt Payne knew the hospital. And he knew why Becca and Skipper had been taken there, and not to Nazareth Hospital, even though it was only blocks away from the Philly Inn.
Tony Harris had explained to him that the “Where do we take ’em?” decision for the medics on the scene had been a no-brainer.
“The medics followed the trauma triage protocol,” Harris had told Payne. “The first thing, they measured for vital signs and level of consciousness. Then came other immediate steps, including establishing an airway, immobilizing the spine, beginning a high flow of oh-two—maintaining an oxygen saturation of at least eighty or ninety percent—controlling the hemorrhaging, attempting to determine the level of injury. Then there’s a long list of criteria that, if a patient meets any one of them and certainly more than one, the medics contact the Level One Trauma Center. And because both of these victims were pretty fucked up, and ‘trauma with burns’ is one criterion, it was a simple call. Temple has (a) the only Level One Trauma Center, and (b) it has the Burn Center.”
“Matt,” Nesbitt then went on, “any chance you can swing by? You know the Benjamins better than I do. They could use a friendly face to maybe answer any questions.”
“What kind of questions, Chad?”
“Hell, I don’t know. What kind of fucking questions go through
a parent’s mind when their daughter’s just suffered through an explosion and now lies in a burn unit ICU? And the parent has no idea what’s happened and what may happen.” He paused. “I’d guess those kinds of fucking questions. Maybe if you were a parent, Matt, you’d understand.”
Nesbitt saw that Police Officer Kowenski had looked up from her magazine, and he realized how loud he’d been. He looked down the other corridor; luckily, it appeared that the Benjamins hadn’t overheard him.
“Sorry, Matt,” he said more quietly. “Can you come?”
“I’m maybe ten minutes out. Just coming up on Broad and Race now. See you shortly.”
“Thanks, pal.”
Omar Quintanilla was at the wheel of the rusty white Plymouth minivan as it drove up Broad Street. The Temple Burn Center was no more than a fifteen-minute drive from the row house on Hancock Street and about a dozen blocks north of Susquehanna, where Juan Paulo Delgado had delivered Ana’s head at the laundromat. Quintanilla made a right turn onto West Tiago Street and pulled to the curb just shy of Germantown Avenue.
Jesús Jiménez opened the front passenger door, stepped out, and slammed the door shut without any formalities.
The minivan drove off.
Jiménez was nineteen years old, stood five-feet-one, and weighed just over a hundred pounds. He kept his dark hair cut somewhat short, and his attempt at growing a mustache left it looking a bit ragged. On occasion, El Gato called him “El Gigante”—but always from a distance and always with a smile. Jiménez could have a vicious temper.
The Traffickers Page 16
