The Traffickers

FOUR

705 North Second Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:55 P.M.

As the bird flew, the distance from the Roundhouse to Liberties was about four thousand feet. During the very short drive in Matt Payne’s rental Ford sedan, Jim Byrth had said: “Two questions, Matt.”

“Shoot.”

“One, this is a rental, right?”

“Yeah. The insurance company is paying for it. Because my car got shot up?”

Earlier, Payne had related to Byrth the story of his shoot-out in the Italian restaurant parking lot. The one that had left his Porsche blasted by shotgun fire and sent into some sort of insurance adjustor hell. Which at more than one point had caused him to wonder:

It’s been a month. How damn long does it take to determine if it’s fixable or if they’re going to write me a check for a total wreck?

A check that no doubt will be as small as they can possibly make it.

Maybe that’s it. The older the car, the less it’s worth. So the longer they wait… But that’s absurd. I put no miles on it. And Porsches, particularly Carreras and Turbos, hold their value.

So then they probably don’t know what to do with it. Or with me.

Jesus, do I hate insurance companies.

“Right,” Byrth said. “But why are you using your personal vehicle on the job? None of my business; just idle curiosity how it’s done here.”

Good point, Payne thought. I hadn’t given it much thought.

Maybe because there hadn’t been time to think about it.

I’ve only been back on the job this one day.

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Payne said. “I guess since the insurance company is footing the bill, it’s not coming out of my pocket. I could put in for reimbursement. Not that that’s going to be any big wad of cash.”

“They won’t issue you a Police Interceptor?”

“We have the Crown Vics. They’re just hard to come by. There’s a shortage. But if you need one, I’m sure we could get a loaner. Or something close. Maybe an undercover car from the pool at Special Operations. I’ve got a connection there.”

Matt Payne had been in Special Operations when he’d made the top five list for promotion to sergeant, and had then to go to Homicide. The commanding officer of Special Operations was one Inspector Peter Wohl, who of course was Payne’s rabbi. There also was another connection: Payne’s sister and Peter Wohl sometimes considered themselves a couple.

Byrth shook his head. “No. Thanks. Like I said, just curious.”

Payne glanced at him and nodded, then made the turn onto Second.

Then he said, “Shit! She beat us here. So much for our drink in peace.”

Byrth saw only two vehicles parked in the angled spaces. Payne pulled in next to the nearest vehicle, a nearly new black Honda Accord coupe with deeply tinted windows. On the other side of it was a two-year-old, somewhat battered, GMC Yukon XL. Its right rear tire was up on the curb, causing the massive SUV to sit at an awkward pitch, like a ship that had run aground.

“She?” Byrth repeated.

“Amy. That’s her Yukon.”

“Back home, that and its twin, the Suburban, is called the National Truck of Texas. Damn near every elementary and middle-school drop-off/pickup lane is packed bumper to bumper with those twice a day.”

“Not Amy. No kids.”

“That’s a late-model Yukon,” Byrth said. “What the hell happened with all those dents and scratches? A Demolition Derby? And was it parked there-or deserted?”

Payne looked at it and chuckled at the observation.

The SUV had originally belonged to Brewster Payne. He had made it a gift to his daughter, Amelia Payne, MD. It wasn’t that she needed it for its large size. She had yet to marry and, appropriately, she had no children. Which may have been fortuitous in and of itself, as any husband or child would have been terrified to be a passenger of a motor vehicle operated by Amy Payne.

Amy Payne had many fine qualities. For whatever reason, being a decent driver was not among them. And it baffled everyone why she even bothered getting behind the wheel. Her mishaps with her various motor vehicles on (and occasionally off) the roads of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania bordered on the legendary. No curb, street sign, light pole, or other vehicle in her path was safe.

And knowing all this, Brewster Payne passed his Yukon to her in the hope that the big truck just might keep her alive.

Matt Payne put the rental Ford in park, turned off the engine, and looked at Jim Byrth. “You know, if you’re feeling brave, I’ll let you ask its owner. My sister just loves nothing more than to talk cars.”

“Why do I suspect you’re setting me up?” Byrth replied.

Payne’s cellular phone started ringing.

“Excuse me.”

He pulled it from his pants pocket and saw from the screen who was calling. He pushed the key to answer. “Yes, sir?” he said into it. There was a pause. Then he said: “No, Jason, no problems in the ECC. Thanks for asking. We left it not twenty minutes ago. I’m about to introduce Jim to the stubby Statue of Liberty-” He paused again.

Byrth grinned as he looked out the windshield. On the sidewalk in front of the bar’s window was a scale model of the Statue of Liberty. It was green and stood about five feet tall. The bar itself was a narrow three-story brick-faced structure that was at the end of a block-long building. Its wooden front door was on the left, under a half-circle canvas awning.

Payne went on: “Right. And he’s about to meet our favorite family shrink. I thought we could combine a welcome party with some shop talk. Care to join us?” Payne listened a moment. “Great. See you shortly.”

Payne ended the call and looked at Byrth. “Good news. The Black Buddha is going to join us.”

Byrth laughed aloud at that.

“You’ve got the cojones to call him that behind his back?”

Payne, now that he knew the translation, grinned at the term.

“I’ve got the co-hone-ees to call him that to his face,” Payne said. “It doesn’t offend him. He once told me that he believed Buddha to be a very wise man. Then he added, ‘And, Good Lord, there’s no denying I’m black.’ ”

Byrth chuckled. “He strikes me as a good man.”

Payne, his tone serious, said, “Yeah, a very good man. He’s one of my favorite people. And one of the best homicide detectives anywhere. I’m glad he’s joining us.”

They got out of the car. As they started for the door to the bar, Payne motioned at the stubby Statue of Liberty.

“Meet Miss Liberty,” he said formally. “And welcome to Liberties, sometimes referred to as the preferred watering hole of Philly’s Homicide Unit.”

Inside Liberties, Matt found the place was maybe a third full. Along the left wall were wooden tables with booths. They all were taken by patrons. A large wooden bar ran a good part of the opposite wall, from the front window almost back to the wooden stairs leading upstairs. It was mostly empty. In the middle were more tables and chairs. There, Matt saw Amy sitting at a table, her head down. She apparently was reading the screen of her cellular telephone.

“There she is,” Payne said to Byrth.

Byrth followed him across the room. He saw that Amy Payne looked to be about thirty years old, petite and intense, her brown hair snipped short. She wasn’t necessarily pretty, but was an attractive, natural-looking young woman.

As they approached Amy’s table, she looked up from her cell phone. Byrth was removing The Hat from his head, and she was unable to hide her surprise.

“Hi, Amy,” Matt said. “I want you to meet a friend of Liz Justice’s.”

Amy Payne well knew the family and police connections with the Justice family. She recovered from her initial shock and smiled warmly.

“Jim Byrth, this is my sister, Amy Payne. Amy, Jim.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Byrth said, offering his hand.

Amy took it.

“Jim is a sergeant with the Texas Rangers.”

“Really? I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds impressive.”

“It is,” Matt said, then added, “The Black Buddha is going to join us.”

“The more the merrier,” Amy said without much conviction.

Jesus Christ. Is she in one of her moods?

It’s been too long a day for that.

Matt looked at her. “Everything okay?”

“Should I be asking the same of you, Wyatt Earp?”

“You two want to be alone?” Byrth asked.

Matt made a face. “No, Jim. You’re fine.”

“Sorry about that, Jim,” Amy said. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“No apology. I’m a big boy. I just thought you might want some privacy for when you punched Matt.”

She looked at him and smiled. It was a genuine one.

“C’mon, Amy,” Matt said. “That was a good shooting. For Christ’s sake, that sonofabitch pumped thirteen rounds into Skipper. It was an assassination. And there’s video that proves I got shot at.”

He stared at her.

After a moment, he said, “Can we not get into this right now? It’s been one helluva day, and Jim and I could use a drink. Or three.”

He looked at the table. All that was there was the usual centerpiece. It held salt and pepper shakers and a container with packets of sugar and sugar substitute. But there was no drink, not even water.

“You’re not drinking, Amy?”

“We haven’t ordered. We just got here.”

We? Matt thought.

She glanced toward the back of the bar, where the steps led to the second-floor dining area and, beyond the steps, the men’s and ladies’ rooms.

Matt’s eyes followed hers back there-and he thought he was going to have a heart attack.

Coming out from the very back, by the restrooms, was an absolutely gorgeous blonde who was running the fingers of her right hand through her thick, luxurious hair.

Good God! Amanda Law!

In Liberties!

Be still, my heart!