W. Griffin - The Last Witness

He hit SEND and then looked at Washington.

“I just told Maggie we have the note and to call me.” He picked up the cocktail napkin. “This number really is our only good lead now. But if we contact it, we could make things worse for her.”

“Agreed, Matthew,” he said, watching him shred the napkin, the pieces floating to the bar. “Stating the obvious, this is a desperate act on the miscreant’s part to get to her. And he has the advantage of using violence to draw her out.”

Payne glanced at his wristwatch.

“While we know he is capable of it,” Matt said, “we don’t know if he will act on his threat after this first hour, or the second, or whenever. We also don’t know if Maggie is even aware of the note, of its threat. And if she is, if she has called the number.”

He then met Washington’s eyes. “What am I missing, Jason?”

Washington raised his eyebrows.

“The rules have changed, Matthew.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maggie, with her need for control, created an impasse for everyone looking for her. What she did not-perhaps being in fear for her life could not-anticipate was that her stall tactic would force the miscreant to act again.”

“Which, as Matt notes, could happen in a minute, a day, a week,” Byrth said.

Matt looked at him, then Mickey, then Jason.

Then he checked his e-mail.

“No reply from Maggie. Fuck it. I’m calling the number.”

Kensington, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 5:13 P.M.

Ricky Ramirez, draining his bottle of Yuengling lager, watched as Hector Ramirez reached into the rusty refrigerator and pulled out two more beers. Ricky threw his empty bottle across the bare kitchen. It smacked the far wall, leaving a wet mark on the peeling tan paint, then landed in a cardboard box in the corner that served as a trashcan.

“That ain’t bad stuff,” Ricky said, “but we need something better. Something stronger, like some good dark rum. Or. .”

He looked past Hector at the warped kitchen counter. The dark green Formica had separated from the wooden backing. On the counter, next to the rust-stained porcelain sink, were two zip-top plastic bags packed with dried marijuana buds. A squat ceramic pipe, its bowl crusted with dark resin residue, sat between them.

Ricky stepped over and opened a bag. He dug into it with his fingers, pinching off a thumbnail-sized piece of the gold-veined green leaf. He tamped that in the bowl of the pipe, then lit it, inhaling deeply.

Hector popped the cap off one of the Yuenglings, then handed the bottle to him. Ricky heard his go-phone make a ping .

Still holding his breath, he put the beer on the counter, handed the pipe to Hector, then pulled the phone from his pocket.

He read the text message-and suddenly exhaled, the smoke billowing out.

Staring at the phone screen, he slowly rubbed his fingertips across his chunky pockmarked face.

Hector was right!

Wide-eyed, he held out the phone to show Hector the message.

“It fucking worked, man! It’s her.”

He picked up his beer and took a big swallow.

“And you had a doubt, mi amigo ?” Hector said, smiling, and tapped the neck of his beer bottle against Ricky’s.

Ricky grinned back and shrugged. Then he suddenly felt even more light-headed, the buzz from the marijuana now rising far above that from the beer.

And that hydro is really good shit.

This is all coming together!

Especially with getting Dmitri off my back.

Ricky read the next text, then fired back a reply.

There was the sound of a motorcycle pulling into the backyard. They briefly turned to it.

“And here come your sicarios. They made it happen,” Hector said.

“Should we reward them?” Ricky said.

“I will think of something. Not too much too soon. Or they begin believing they really are assassins.”

Ricky’s phone then began ringing. He didn’t recognize the number and pushed the key to send it directly in voice mail.

A moment later- ping- his phone suddenly lit up with another text message box, this one from the number that had just called:

215-555-4525

I HAVE YOUR NOTE.

AND I HAVE WHAT YOU WANT.

NO MORE KILLINGS.

What the hell? Who is this?

How can this person have the books?

Or. . was she shitting me?

“What?” Hector said, putting the pipe to his lips.

Ricky held the phone back up to show him.

After a moment Hector nodded thoughtfully. He exhaled.

“You believe that first one is the woman?” he then said.

Ricky nodded. “And I gave her two hours.”

“So ignore this one. For now. First work the woman.” He thought for a moment, then said, “We will give her more incentive. Where’s your car?”

“Not far. Blocks. Why?”

The back door began opening.

Hector reached back into the refrigerator. He came out with two more beers.

Tito and Juan sauntered inside. They acted more cocky than usual.

“You did good,” Hector said, handing them the bottles.

Hector grabbed his Kalashnikov and looked at Ricky.

“You and I go,” he said, then added to Tito and Juan, “When you finish those, go out and keep watch till Jaime gets back with more halcones .”

Ricky started to follow Hector, then turned back and grabbed one of the bags and the pipe from the counter. He tossed the other bag to Tito.

“A little bonus for you two,” Ricky said, smiling.

New Hope House

Hazzard Street, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 6:01 P.M.

“Next block make a right,” Matt Payne said, as Jim Byrth drove the rental Ford SUV through Kensington. When they had made the turn, it was not difficult, even in the shadows, to make out the flophouse and the small crowd outside it midway down the snow-crusted street.

Byrth saw Payne looking at his cell phone, which he had put in the right cup holder of the console.

After going into the phone’s mobile multi-line application and activating a new number-giving him a third line, in addition to his personal and office ones-Payne had used it to call the number on the grease-stained note, then to send it a text massage.

“Like Jason said, Matt, it was worth the chance. There could be any number of reasons why there’s been no reply yet.”

Payne shook his head. “It just makes me wonder what-if any-dominoes it started toppling. My call going right into voice mail and then no reply to the text could mean the phone is out of range or dead or. .”

“Or it could mean nothing. Maybe it’s just because the badass-‘Yo, talk to me’-didn’t recognize the number and didn’t want to answer. At some point he will get the text.”

“Meaning no news is good news. . You’re probably right. But something needs to break with this.” He looked up ahead. “What makes me think our luck here will be just as crappy?”

New Hope was in a two-story row house that had seen some really bad days-not unlike the neighboring properties that were in even worse shape-and certainly far better ones in its hundred years. Its brick exterior looked as if it had been painted in the last year or so. Faint graffiti was still visible through the whitewash, and there was new graffiti tagging the sign that read “New hope-for a new life.” Industrial steel roll-up doors, painted canary yellow, covered the two first-floor windows and the front door. The ones over the windows were rolled up, and the tall one over the door was halfway open, and moving upward.