The Last Witness

[TWO]

Locust Near Fifty-fifth Street, West Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 2:47 P.M.

Dmitri Gurnov had slipped back behind the wheel of the Audi, which was parked a block down the street from the address that Ricky had said was the place called the Sanctuary.

A three-story brick-faced building, the facility looked from the outside like a small apartment complex with an interior central courtyard. It was much bigger-maybe three times the size-than the two row houses on Girard Park that made up Mary’s House.

Like Mary’s House, the Sanctuary had no signage that said what the facility was. It did have one reading RESIDENTS ONLY. NO TRESPASSING. SMILE! YOU’RE ON CAMERA! And, also like Mary’s Place, the intercom buzzer was answered by a woman well practiced at not answering questions, particularly those of strangers.

Neither woman had admitted to knowing a Ms. Mac or a Krystal Gonzalez.

And when he tried pressuring the woman at Mary’s House, saying he knew that Ms. Mac worked there, the woman sternly but calmly said that he had exactly ten seconds to leave the property or she would call the police and have him arrested for trespassing. And she began counting, Ten, nine. .

He’d used the first five of those seconds to quickly apologize if he in any way had offended her-then headed for his car parked around the corner.

Sitting in the Audi now, he watched people coming and going from the Sanctuary building. They mostly were teenagers, both male and female, and the occasional adult with a child in tow. To enter the locked door, he saw that they used some sort of electronic card key.

Getting inside the facility would pose Gurnov no challenge whatever-the teens, for example, were standing there and talking while holding the door wide open with no care in the world-but gaining entry would serve no purpose other than drawing the wrong kind of attention.

What he needed was information.

When he had asked Ricky if there were any other girls recruited from these two facilities, he’d said only the two who were gone.

“What do you mean ‘gone’? They’re working in Florida or Texas?”

“They were.”

“And now?”

“Now they’re gone. For good.”

I should check on him.

Gurnov’s go-phone vibrated. He looked at its small screen. It showed a text message from Julio:

215-555-3582

MULE AT BAG CLAIM

Finally! Good news!

Gurnov, waiting for an update, went back to watching the activity at the Sanctuary.

Ten minutes later, Gurnov’s primary cell phone rang.

He looked at it and answered in Russian: “Everything okay, Nick?”

“I’ve been thinking. I need you to handle the product.”

Product?

“Okay. What is going on?”

Gurnov’s go-phone vibrated. He read Julio’s update:

215-555-3582

MULE JUST LOST LOAD

Gurnov blurted, “Shit!”

“What happened?” Nick said, still in Russian.

“Nothing. Just realized I lost something.”

He texted back:

LOST??? HOW WAS IT LOST?? ARE YOU SURE?

It was a moment before Nick said, “Jorge Perez is up to something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I keep replaying what was said during the call this morning.”

Me, too, Nick.

“And what, Nick?”

“He’s up to something. I smell it. If I caught him smuggling those Cubans, who knows what else he is up to. That could have blown everything, the girls and the coke.”

“No argument.”

“Good. That is why I need you to arrange to meet Perez’s cousin and secure the product.”

Jorge said Carlos left this morning, so he will not get here until tomorrow morning. At the very earliest.

“Not a problem. I will handle it.”

Gurnov’s go-phone vibrated again, adding a new text:

215-555-3582

DEA HERE. . DOG MUST HAVE SNIFFED IT OUT

DUDE LOOKS BAD

This time Gurnov stopped himself from saying anything.

But he thought: Bad? Of course!

As one should when he realizes he has just screwed up and got his beautiful young wife and son killed!

Damn it!

“Dmitri, are you there?”

“Sorry. I was distracted.”

“You must have lost something big.”

If only you knew. Which I cannot let happen.

“You have Perez’s number, yes?”

I actually have his and Carlos’s.

“I do.”

“Call me, Dmitri. Let me know how it goes. And find whatever it is that you lost-you need your head straight.”

“Of course.”

He hung up and looked out the windshield, thinking.

Then his go-phone vibrated.

Now what the hell is Julio going to tell me?

He looked.

Who. .? he thought, as he read:

831-555-6235

MAYBE I HAVE YOUR BOOKS. MAYBE I DON’T.

WHO IS THIS?

Dmitri Gurnov felt his anger flare. It bordered on fury.

Do not dare to play games with me.

You are dead!

Five minutes later, after firing off a string of messages, he got what would be the last one from the woman. Two minutes after that, beyond furious, he was still looking at it:

831-555-6235

I NEED $200,00 °CASH BY TOMORROW.

I’LL BE IN TOUCH.

This dollar amount, it is not random.

She knows. She does have the books.

I should kill Ricky.

But first this woman.

He wrote:

IT WILL TAKE A LITTLE TIME TO GET THAT MUCH IN CASH.

BUT YOU SHOULD HAVE WHAT YOU WISH BY TOMORROW.

IF YOU WOULD MEET ME WITH PROOF THAT YOU HAVE WHAT IS MINE?

A PAGE WOULD SUFFICE.

AND OF COURSE IT SHOULD BE A PUBLIC PLACE OF YOUR CHOOSING.

He read it over.

Not all a lie.

Cash will be short now that I have to pay for the coke that was lost.

And she can pick any place she wants to die.

Dmitri Gurnov hit SEND, then threw the go-phone onto the passenger seat.

He yanked the transmission into drive and sped toward Chestnut Street, trying to decide if it was the fastest route to the Fishtown dive bar.