W.E.B Griffin - The Traffickers

RACE: Hispanic

GENDER: Male

ESTIMATE AGE: 25-30 years ESTIMATE HEIGHT AND WEIGHT: 5?4”, 140 pounds DATE BODY FOUND: 09 September LOCATION OF BODY: Philly Inn, 7004 Frankford Avenue, Philadelphia DISTINGUISHING MARKS: tattoo of a tear drop at corner of right eye; tear drop incomplete, only bottom inked in PERSONAL EFFECTS: gold earring stud right lobe.

CLOTHING: LUCKY brand jeans size 34x32, [unknown] brand T-shirt size medium, NIKE athletic shoes size 10 BRIEF DESCRIPTION: Charred remains. The decedent was killed in the explosion of a meth lab. Clothing mostly burned. The decedent can be identified by dental record or DNA.

RACE: Hispanic

GENDER: Male

ESTIMATE AGE: 20-25 years ESTIMATE HEIGHT AND WEIGHT: 5?0”, 100 pounds DATE BODY FOUND: 09 September LOCATION OF BODY: Philly Inn, 7004 Frankford Avenue, Philadelphia DISTINGUISHING MARKS: None PERSONAL EFFECTS: Timex wristwatch CLOTHING: Notorious BIG brand jeans size 34x32, [unknown] brand T-shirt size medium, NIKE athletic shoes size 10 BRIEF DESCRIPTION: Charred remains. The decedent was in an explosion of a meth lab but may have died from a cut to the throat. Clothing almost completely burned. Timex wristwatch melted to wrist. The decedent can be identified by dental record or DNA.

Matt Payne snorted as he read.

He handed the clipboard to Tony Harris.

Payne said, “Get a load of the brand names of their jeans. ‘Notorious BIG’ and, irony of ironies, ‘Lucky.’”

Harris took the sheet and looked. He grunted as he handed the board to Byrth.

“Jim, any idea what’s with the older, bigger guy’s tattoo?” Payne then said.

“Hard to say,” Byrth replied as he scanned the sheet, “because the gangbangers have bastardized it so much. A teardrop originally was basically a symbol of someone crying over a lost one, either incarcerated or murdered-a display of closure. Then it came to be a badge of honor, or warning, especially in prison, indicating that the bearer had murdered someone in or out of prison.”

“What about the one on this guy? A tear with an empty top and a full bottom.”

“Could mean he avenged the murder of a loved one.”

Payne looked at Tony Harris.

“The other guy had the slit throat,” Payne said.

Harris nodded. “Could be something. Maybe suggests he wasn’t shy about taking someone out?”

“Certainly fitting,” Byrth said. He then added, “You don’t want to walk around with one in Australia.”

“Why?” Payne said.

“There, convicts who’re accused as being child molesters basically get branded with a teardrop.”

Payne shook his head. “Hell, I don’t want to walk around with one anywhere.” He sighed as he glanced again at the abused corpse. “No offense, Doc, but I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“None taken, Matt. This particular job even depresses a callous veteran such as myself. Good luck catching the sonofabitch.”

Harris and Byrth said their thanks and goodbyes, and followed.

And as they stepped outside, Payne’s cell phone began ringing.

He looked at the screen. It read: UNION LEAGUE OF PHILA-1 CALL @ 2045.

“Wonder who this is?” he said, and a moment later heard Hollaran’s voice.

[TWO] 2480 Arroyo Avenue, Dallas Wednesday, September 9, 7:56 P.M. Texas Standard Time Juan Paulo Delgado stepped carefully as he went through the six-foot-tall wall of red-tip photinias that grew thickly beside the convenience store. He had his Beretta semiautomatic nine-millimeter pistol out, and slowly thumbed back its hammer.

He heard and smelled the grimy man before he saw him in the shadows.

The coyote was humming as he took one helluva piss on the bare dirt.

He’s dirty and he stinks!

El Gato pounced.

His right arm outstretched, he brought up his pistol to shoulder level and smoothly closed on his target. Just as the muzzle of the weapon touched the back of the man’s skull-and the man suddenly realized that he was not alone-El Gato squeezed the trigger.

The hollow-point copper-jacketed lead bullet made a neat entrance hole and mushroomed. It traveled through the soft gray matter, then made an exit wound that fractured so much bone it tore off the flesh of the man’s right cheek.

He immediately fell forward, making a soft splash as he landed in his own pool of urine. Blood drained from the head wounds, mixing with the pool.

Shit! Delgado thought, wiping at the blood spatter on his hands.

And I don’t want to have to dig around in that mess!

Then he saw light reflecting off something metallic in the man’s left hand.

The keys!

He grabbed them. Then he ran a finger through the right back pocket of the man’s blue jeans. He pulled out a wallet and stuck it in his left front pants pocket.

He kicked the man, checking for any sign of life.

The man’s body responded with an extraordinarily long final act of flatulence.

El Gato began stepping back to the wall of bushes. As he went though the bushes, he decocked the Beretta and slipped it back in his waistband. The barrel was still warm, almost uncomfortably so against the sensitive skin of his groin.

He looked around. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him or to the side of the convenience store.

Delgado walked up to the driver’s door of the Expedition. He motioned for El Cheque to roll down his window.

“What the hell was that about?” El Cheque said.

Delgado didn’t reply. He was pulling the dead man’s wallet from his pocket. He thumbed through it. He found a state of Texas driver’s license with the man’s picture on it. On the license was the name Salvador Zamora.

He handed it to El Cheque.

“That coyote won’t be needing this anymore. Hang on to it. We might be able to use it for a fake, if it’s not already a fake. Or sell it.”

El Cheque took it.

“Follow me to the house,” Delgado then said. “We can send someone for the Suburban later. Anyone at the house?”

“S?. Miguel.”

“Get on the phone and call him. Tell him to be ready to open the gate when he sees that van. Describe it to him, okay?”

El Cheque began, “Okay. But what-?”

El Gato was already on the way to the fuel pump island.

El Cheque put the Expedition in reverse. He backed up, then stopped and waited, watching Delgado return the pump handle to the pump then get in the driver’s seat of the van.

“Good evening, everyone!” Juan Paulo Delgado said cheerfully in Spanish as he sat in the driver’s seat of the white Dodge van and closed the door. The front passenger seat was unoccupied.

Hoping to project an air of comfortable confidence, he went on, “I am El Gato! And I’ll be taking you to the final stop.”

He pulled on his seat belt. Then he slipped the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine turned over very slowly, then finally rumbled to life.

He looked into the rearview mirror on the windshield. A sea of surprised and curious faces looked back at him. He counted eighteen heads. There were only two males, both older than maybe fifteen. The age range seemed to go from a couple of toddlers with their young mothers to one of the males who looked to be in his forties. The majority were in their teens and twenties.

And the old guy right behind me looks angry as hell.

They all also looked road-weary. The van reeked of human sweat and greasy fast food.

Juan Paulo Delgado turned on the charm.

“Se?or Zamora asked me to remind you that he would catch up at the next stop. He told you I would be helping, yes?” He didn’t wait for a reply. But he could tell they were not convinced. “Where we are going is only ten, maybe fifteen minutes away. Very close. You will see him soon. Meantime, I’ll start helping you get in touch with your families.”