The Traffickers

TWO

823 Sears Street, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 9:21 P.M.

Detective Anthony Harris pulled Sergeant Matt Payne’s white rental Ford sedan to a stop in a parking spot behind a bright blue BMW M3.

“That’s Chad’s coupe,” Payne said.

“And 823’s right there, across the street,” Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers said from the backseat. He had The Hat on his lap.

As he got out of the car, he put on The Hat.

With Payne’s announcement that they might have found the girl’s head, Byrth was anxious to add another piece to the puzzle that would help hunt down El Gato.

Harris and Byrth were halfway across the street when Byrth looked back at Payne. He was standing at the curb, checking his phone.

“You coming, Marshal?”

When they had approached the rental car at the Roundhouse, Harris saw that Payne had his cell phone out. He appeared to be anticipating either a call-or, more probably, a text message-at any moment.

“Give me the car keys, Matt,” Harris had said with mild disgust. “You’re damned dangerous with that phone. Can’t believe what it’d be like with you on that and trying to drive, too.”

“I’ll take my usual spot in the back,” Byrth said, looking at Payne. “You, Marshal, can ride shotgun.”

Harris drove from the Roundhouse over to Sixth Street and took it toward South Philly.

With one eye on his phone, Payne went over with Jim Byrth the little bit of information Chad Nesbitt had told him in the diner by the Philly Inn. And he gave Byrth more background on his relationship with Nesbitt and Skipper Olde, both long-term and specific to the previous day.

He glanced again at his phone.

Nothing! Dammit!

He checked to make sure it was still on, that the damned battery hadn’t crapped out or something. It was still on, but the battery was low.

It had been almost a half hour since Matt had sent that text message to Amanda. And she hadn’t replied. And that worried him.

Did I say something wrong?

Did I open a wound, one of those things that caused that pain in her eyes?

Jesus, her silence is killing me.

And that’s the part of text and e-mail conversations I absolutely hate-the silence of no reply.

In person, if they’re silent you can read the eyes and face. On the phone, you can pick up on their tone of voice.

But e-silence is e-fucking deafening.

And if I send another, it might annoy her more.

That is, if she’s annoyed.

How’s that saying go? “When you find yourself in a hole, Payne, stop with the damn digging.”

Matt thought that the message had been pretty simple and straightforward.

But women are always trying to read between the lines.

What could she possibly read into mine?

Or maybe it was too simple… it’s damn hard communicating emotion in a text or e-mail. Even a missing comma can have a huge impact.

“Let’s eat, Grandma” changes a helluva lot without the comma.

Then it’s “Let’s eat Grandma”-who probably won’t willingly come to the table.

He scrolled back in the string of messages and reread what he’d sent, which simply had repeated part of the earlier text: you never answered… why the change of heart?

Maybe that’s it. I’m pushing…

Then suddenly his phone vibrated.

And his heart automatically began beating faster.

When Matt looked at the text message, he was at first shocked at its length.

Jesus! It’s a tome.

What in the world did I trigger?

That’s what took her so long.

It’d take me days to thumb-type one that long on my phone.

Then he remembered seeing her cell phone at Liberties.

It was one of those really new ones, actually more of a small computer that happened also to be a phone. The computer-phone was one and a half times the size of a playing card, and damn near as thin, and if you tapped the icon labeled TEXT, a window with a facsimile of a typewriter keyboard popped up. It was a qwerty one, like a real full-size keyboard only smaller, and allowed for much faster writing than most cell phones.

Phones such as Payne’s.

He read Amanda’s text:

609-555-6221

Hi…

I have to be honest. (If only because without that, why have a relationship?) Didn?t get much sleep last night, what with all this running through my head.

See, I was-maybe still am-afraid of getting close to a cop.

I remember, not exactly happily, all the sacrifices my father made to be a cop. How hard it was on our family, especially my mother, seeing him every day walk out the front door for work and not knowing if that would be the last we?d see him alive.

And then dad got shot.

Matt, I didn?t want that again.

But then I saw what that bastard did at the hospital.

And what you did! Wow! How you were all over that guy without a second thought.

We can?t have people like that loose on the streets.

And to do that, we need people like my dad and you.

And I think I need someone like you… (smile) — A Payne just stared at his phone.

There was a lump in his throat that felt like the size of a Lincoln SUV.

He thought he might cry.

How do I reply to that?

My God!

No wonder she took so long to reply.

“You okay?” Harris said, looking askance at Payne.

Payne tried to clear his throat. The Lincoln SUV budged a little. He was about to reply, but didn’t trust his voice. He simply nodded.

Then his phone vibrated again.

It was another text from Amanda:

609-555-6221

Something else I need to get off my chest.

Recently I've lost a couple of people who were very close to me.

That made me rethink a lot of things.

Plus, my specialty can be kind of rough on the psyche.

Especially seeing the kids across the street at shriners. Anyone who thinks they have a tough life hasn?t taken a walk through a pediatric burn ward and visited with those poor kids.

Anyway, all that made me pretty introspective.

And so I promised myself that i?d do what my friend-Carl Crantz was his name — said before he passed: to live every day like it?s the last.

Sorry. You asked… (smile) — A Now Payne was crying. He turned his head so Tony Harris wouldn’t see.

And how the hell do I respond to that?

What a wonderful woman…

After a moment, he thought, Well, when in doubt, tell the truth.

He texted: i'm speechless. that, like you, was beautiful. thanks for sharing. -matt A second later, his phone vibrated:

609-555-6221

Matt?!? Oh no! Wrong Payne!

I thought I was texting my therapist!

Just kidding (smile) I meant it for you. -A He grinned. Then he had a thought and really grinned broadly as he typed: cute. just so you know, my favorite part was where you mentioned your chest… (big grin)

609-555-6221

You?re so bad!

I share my soul and that's the thanks I get.

Some sexist caveman comment on my anatomy.

Next thing you know, we?ll have our first argument. (smile) no chance of that. for one, i could never argue with you. for another, i?ve been told that there are two theories to arguing with a woman. and neither work. (smile) so why try?

A minute passed, and there was no reply.

Harris said, “What happened with your phone? You finally break it? You’re pounding that thing with your thumbs like it needs life support.”

Payne looked at him and shrugged.

He looked back at the phone and thumbed: oh… and nice story in today?s paper! you looked terrific. how is your day going?

609-555-6221

Thanks. That was a difficult press conference. But, it explains why I was out of sorts at the bar later.

And my day is great, thank you.

We still on for that lunch?

Lunch? We never planned lunch.

Oh! “Lunch, dinner, cottage.”

Payne thumbed and sent: yes! that?ll knock lunch off the list. one down, two to go. (grin) let me get back to you in just a bit.

He sent the text just as Harris pulled the rental Ford in behind Chad Nesbitt’s BMW.

Harris, Payne, and Byrth stood at the painted metal door of the row house at 823 Sears Street. Payne knocked loudly with his knuckles three times.

They could hear on the other side of the door the sounds of feet approaching. Then, a moment later, there came the banshee wail of a woman. Followed by the sounds of heavy footfalls pounding away from the door.

On the stoop, the three exchanged glances as they heard a woman’s Latina-accented voice. It cried out, “La Migra! La Migra!”

And then they thought they heard a back door slam shut.

Payne and Harris looked at each other, then at Byrth.

“‘La Migra,’” Byrth explained, “is a Spanish pejorative for immigration enforcement officers.”

They nodded their understanding.

“Can probably thank The Hat for that,” Payne said, and chuckled.

A moment later, they could hear two male voices on the other side of the door, having an animated discussion. Finally, there came the sounds of the three locks on the door being turned.

The door swung open.

Paco Esteban stood there. Chad Nesbitt was behind him.

El Nariz’s eyes fixated on The Hat.

“Thanks for coming, Matt,” Nesbitt said, then looked between Harris and Byrth and added, “Gentlemen.”

Nesbitt saw Payne looking at Paco Esteban.

“Paco,” Nesbitt said, motioning in Payne’s direction, “this is my friend the policeman I told you about.”

Then Byrth spoke up. “I’m not La Migra, Paco.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers. And I’ve come after the man known as El Gato.”

El Nariz looked at the Texas lawman warily. He shook his hand and said, “Mucho gusto” without much gusto at all.

But there seemed to be some relief in his eyes at the mention of El Gato. It told him that maybe this authority wasn’t after anyone in his home.

Payne introduced Harris and himself.

“Come in,” Esteban said.

Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV felt the bile rise in his throat one more time. He was on his knees, his expensively tailored slacks now soiled by the dirty floor of the bathroom in Paco Esteban’s basement. His fine silk necktie was loosened and the collar of his custom-made French-cuff dress shirt unbuttoned. There were wet spots of vomitus on both garments.

Just outside the door, on the closed white door of the horizontal Deepfreeze, Paco Esteban had opened the black plastic bags containing the severed head of Ana Maria Del Carmen Lopez.

He had peeled back the bloody white towel with which he’d wrapped her head.

And there Harris, Byrth, Nesbitt, and Payne had had their first look at the face of what once had been a pretty seventeen-year-old Honduran.

Now, however, her light-brown skin was blotched and bruised, her long straight black hair matted, her dark eyes glassy.

Nesbitt had lost it when he noticed her soft facial features had what had been cute little freckles across her upper cheeks and pixie nose.

“What’s that?” Payne said, pointing toward her left ear.

Esteban turned the head slightly.

They saw there on the neck, at the hairline, a small black tattoo. It was a gothic block letter D with three short lines.

“El Gato and his whiskers,” Byrth said.

Payne shook his head in shock. “What’s the D about?”

Byrth shrugged. “Maybe, probably Dallas.”

Then Nesbitt shared the information about El Gato’s girls and the house on Hancock.

What a helluva break! Payne thought.

And then he thought, Amanda and lunch!

He began thumbing: how?s your day going? just had an interesting development in the case…

He pushed SEND, but then his screen flashed with ERROR-NO SERVICE.

Dammit!

Must be because we’re in the basement.

He looked at the signal strength. None of the five bars were present. He also noticed that the battery was almost drained.

That’s not good.

Worse, I’m not sure I have a charger in the rental car.

Payne walked across the room. The smallest of the five bars flickered on, indicating the weakest of signals.

He hit SEND again. And a second later the screen flashed MESSAGE SENT.

Then his phone chirped twice. And its screen went black.

Fuck!

What if Amanda tries to reach me?