The Last Witness

[FOUR]

New Hope House

Hazzard Street, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 6:22 P.M.

After Payne and Byrth made their introductions, Byrth showed Eldridge his phone with the photograph from the Department of Transportation ID.

“Elizabeth Cusick,” Byrth said, “age twenty, five-one, one-ten, blonde, blue eyes. The address on this ID is this address.”

“Beth?” Eldridge said, nodding. “Sure. She was here maybe two months ago. And most girls use this address, especially when they apply for SNAP?”

Payne nodded and said, mostly for Byrth’s benefit, “Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. Food stamps.”

“Right,” Eldridge said. “She came with a friend, nice-looking girl afraid of her own shadow. Hardly ever talked, this girlfriend. Beth did most of the talking. But when she did, it was with an accent. I’m guessing Russian?”

Payne and Byrth exchanged glances.

Byrth then said, “How long were they at your flophouse-”

“‘Transitional housing,’” he interrupted. “We prefer that. Lots of folks winding up here first got referred to other homes right out of jail. To get in those, though, they got to be clean. Which sometimes the jail time does for them. But when they sometimes slip-and most times they slip-they’re thrown out. Tragic cycle, sad to say. That’s how come we tell them to be clean, just don’t demand it. We’re hoping they can ease off the addiction.”

“Does that work?” Byrth asked, his tone skeptical.

“Sometimes. It ain’t easy. Ever. Believe me, I know. I’ve been fighting my own monkey on my back longer than I care to say.”

“What about this Cusick girl?” Byrth said.

He shrugged. “A runaway at some point is what I’m thinking. She never said outright. But some signs were pretty clear. She was hiding from a pimp. Both girls were. Some figure it out faster than others.”

“Figure out. .?” Payne said.

“That they ain’t gonna last long. Pimp makes them charge fifty bucks for fifteen minutes of screwing, thirty bucks for a blow job. Twenty, thirty tricks a day. Day after day. And then maybe split that money with the pimp, or he takes it all? Bastard who beats them, maybe sells them to another pimp, and worse?” Eldridge looked between them, then added, “You’re cops. You know they wind up dead all the time.”

“Wish I could say that’s the first I’ve heard of that,” Payne said, nodding.

Byrth said, “So, any idea what happened to Beth and her friend?”

“Only that it was same as most. One day here, next never heard from them again. Till you guys showed up.”

“They leave anything behind?”

Eldridge cocked his head. “You kidding me? Place like this?”

“I have to ask. You never know. And we need something we could run for fingerprints-a hairbrush, toothbrush, razor-or DNA off, say, a pair of used panties.”

Eldridge shrugged. “It’s been two months. If it ain’t nailed down, it’s stolen in minutes. Even clothes, old underwear, too. Still, we’re better here than a lot. We take in only twenty, four to a room, each paying three hundred a month. Some places it’s forty or more packed in. Plus we feed them and preach the. .”

His voice trailed off as he looked past them toward the front door.

“Don’t be coming in here causing no trouble!” the big woman at the table then called out.

Byrth and Payne looked. It was the Jamaican, the big guy with the dreadlocks, at the front door. He towered over the crowd and was pacing, pointing his finger at the Latina with the black eye and blue hoodie.

“What’s Bob Marley’s problem?” Payne said.

“Name’s Marcus,” Eldridge said. “Says some punks shot at him this afternoon. He’s been on edge ever since. Usually really mellow, especially when he’s high.”

Byrth, pushing back his jacket and moving his right hand near his hip, said, “Well, mellow or not, that bastard’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

“I told you I want another spliff, bitch!” Marcus then demanded, his deep Caribbean accent booming through the room.

“And I told you fuck off, I ain’t got none!” the Latina snapped back.

In the next instant, Marcus had pulled a knife from his pants pocket and was swinging it wildly.

A moment later he heard two men shout:

“Drop it!”

“Drop the damn knife now!”

When Marcus looked toward the back of the room he saw that the man with the big hat and his partner had pistols drawn-and that they were aiming if not directly at Marcus’s head then just above his multicolored knit cap.

They stepped toward him.

Marcus started to run, then stopped and grabbed the Latina, putting the knife point to her throat. Marcus quickly moved backward with her toward the front door-then let her loose and bolted outside.

“Great,” Payne said, pointing his pistol at the ceiling as he and Byrth started moving faster. “I was tempted to just let the sonofabitch run before he stuck the knife on her.”

Matt Payne, keeping the muzzle of his.45 up, flew through the doorway-then slipped when he hit the snow-packed sidewalk. He managed to recover just as Jim Byrth leapt over the slippery spot, landing in the street. They exchanged glances, then took off.

They saw, half a block ahead, Marcus moving quickly. He had his head back, knees flying high, arms pumping.

“Stop! Police!” Payne yelled.

Marcus then made a sliding right turn at the corner.

Approaching the next block, Payne saw that he and Byrth were slowly closing the gap. Payne then saw Marcus look back, then cut across the street. Then he saw at the far corner two human shapes standing beside a dumpster. Marcus, looking back again, ran right toward them.

One of the pair pulled something from his coat pocket. As it was raised, it glinted.

“Sonofabitch! Gun!” Payne said, and quickly crouched, motioning for Byrth to get down.

The pop-pop-pop of gunfire immediately followed, the muzzle flash reflecting on the icy street. The big Jamaican tried to change direction but lost his footing. He went down, striking the base of a metal utility pole headfirst.

Payne was trying to get a good aim on the shooter when there was another series of three shots. And then the firing stopped and there was a clunk as the gun hit the concrete.

The shooter and his partner bolted toward an empty lot beyond the dumpster.

Payne was about to kneel beside the Jamaican when Byrth called, “I’ve got him. Don’t let those other fuckers get away!”

Byrth, sliding to a stop at the Jamaican, pulled handcuffs from his coat pocket. He smoothly slapped a cuff on the man’s big right wrist, then pulled him in place so that he was hugging the metal pole and clipped his left wrist.

Then Byrth took off after Payne.

“Over here!” Payne called in a loud whisper from the shadows at the back corner of a line of row houses. He was breathing heavily, the cold air feeling like ice picks to his lungs.

When Byrth came up, Payne said, “They’re in here. They tried wrapping the cable back but didn’t get it locked.”

Payne pointed to a gate in the chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Hanging from the gate was the loose end of heavy-gauge steel cable that had been threaded around a metal post.

In a crouch, his pistol close in at chest level, Payne slowly swung the gate open. He cleared the immediate area, then entered the backyard, signaling with his left hand for Byrth to follow.

Suddenly, the cold air carried a chemical-like stench. It burned his nostrils.

What the hell is that? he wondered, and had to clear his throat.

He heard Byrth grunt, then cough involuntarily.

They moved quickly toward what was the back porch of the completely darkened house, snow crunching with each step. Once across the backyard, they came to another gate. It was wide open. They cleared it and went through.

Then from the far side of the next yard came the clanking sound of another chain-link gate opening, then the fast crunching of feet running on snow and the whine of an engine starter engaging. A big motorcycle rumbled to life-and almost instantly roared off.

“Damn it!” Payne said.

After a moment he felt a nudge on his right shoulder and he saw Byrth pointing at the back door. The porch light was on.

They could see that the door had a piece of torn fabric from an overcoat, and what looked like its insulating filler, caught in the jamb right above the dead bolt.

And that the door was cracked open.