W.E.B Griffin - The Traffickers

Then he reached into his wallet. He removed a driver’s license and handed it to Quintanilla.

Quintanilla looked at it. He recognized it as Delgado’s counterfeit license from Texas, the one with Delgado’s picture but the name Edgar Cisneros.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he said.

Delgado nodded toward the mall.

“Go in there to the Western Union counter. There should be a two-thousand-dollar wire transfer waiting for Edgar Cisneros.”

“But this has your picture on it. Why don’t you do it?”

“Because I want you to do it!” El Gato snapped. “That’s why.”

He did not want to tell Quintanilla that he thought there was a slight chance someone could be looking for him in there, waiting for him to show up at the Western Union counter.

And the reason he did not want to tell him was that he didn’t really know why the thought had come to him.

Delgado had had time to think on the plane, and he didn’t want to admit it, but he’d realized that coming so close to getting caught in Dallas had both shaken him up and made him at least a little paranoid.

Which really pissed him off.

All because that idiot Ramos made a stupid mistake.

And now I’m upset to the point I might make a mistake.

So that is why I want you to go in, Omar.

But I’m just not going to tell you that…

“But,” Quintanilla protested, “do you think they’ll let me get the money with this ID’s photo?”

Delgado was about to snap again, then looked at Quintanilla’s dull gaze-Nobody home… why bother?-and decided against it.

He said slowly, “How would you know to come and get the money if you weren’t who you said you were? That is what you tell the teller. Bueno? ”

Quintanilla shrugged, showing absolutely no confidence.

Delgado then added, “And if that does not work”-he pulled a wad of folded bills from his pocket and peeled off one note-“then slip this to the teller under the license.”

Delgado gave him a hundred-dollar bill.

“Nobody says no to Ben Franklin, especially in Philadelphia,” Delgado said with a smile.

Quintanilla took it, then turned, and sauntered toward the front door of the Mall of Mexico.

In the twenty minutes that Quintanilla was in the mall, Delgado sat in the SUV, watching the patrons come and go. Occasionally, he would glance at the picture on the front page of the newspaper, which was on the front passenger seat.

The more he looked at it, the more he thought about the bitch’s comment. And the more he thought about that, the more he really wanted to fulfill her wish.

Teach her a lesson to say things she knows nothing about.

And why not?

A doctor makes a lot of money… somebody would pay to get her back.

And pay good.

Or we could just have some fun with her.

He looked at the picture of Dr. Amanda Law.

Yeah, why not…?

Delgado then saw Quintanilla come out of the Mall of Mexico carrying a letter-size envelope. As he sauntered across the parking lot, a ten-year-old battered Chevrolet Venture minivan pulled into the parking space two spots away. An elderly Hispanic woman, so squat that she barely could see over the dash, eased the dirty black vehicle to a stop. She was alone.

As Delgado looked at the van, he remembered that they had had to tigertail their minivan. It had been the one he’d used to take the dead headless girl to the river.

All we have now is the big Ford van. I don’t want to use it.

So we need another minivan.

And Abuela’s looks like it’d work just fine. Price is right.

Delgado got out of his Tahoe and walked toward Quintanilla.

He told him, “The keys are in my truck. You get in it and wait till I text you when and where to go. Got it?”

Delgado saw Quintanilla’s vacuous eyes staring back.

“Got it?” he repeated.

Quintanilla nodded, then handed over the envelope. “It worked. License is in with the cash.”

Delgado took the envelope and looked around. No one was paying them any attention. And the elderly woman, who wore a rumpled tan sack of a dress, was just getting her door open and unbuckling her seat belt.

He folded the envelope and stuffed it in his back pocket.

“Follow me to the truck, then get in it.”

“Okay.”

Delgado walked quickly toward the Tahoe, then turned toward the Chevy minivan. The woman didn’t hear him approaching.

“Abuela!” he called out affectionately, as one would one’s grandmother. “Hola!”

She turned in her seat in time to feel Delgado stepping into the minivan and quickly shoving her across the bench seat.

She screamed.

The keys were still in the ignition, and he fired up the engine, then threw the gearshift into drive.

She screamed again.

Two blocks later, Delgado pulled to the curb. He motioned for her to get out. She quietly complied.

As he drove off, Abuela screamed again.

Delgado drove another two blocks, then pulled to the curb and sent a text message to Quintanilla.

[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.