W. Griffin - The Last Witness

WELL?? THESE ARE MY RULES. DO YOU WANT THE BOOKS OR NOT?

The clock now read: 7:23.

Then a bubble popped up:

267-555-9100

I WEAR BLACK PANTS AND A BLACK LEATHER JACKET. ALSO WILL HAVE A GRAY WOOL FEDORA WITH SMALL FEATHER IN HATBAND.

BUT I WARN YOU — DO NOT WASTE MY TIME.

Maggie felt her heart trying to burst through her chest.

Okay, now, Ricky. .

She went to that conversation thread, then looked at the clock. It turned to 7:25.

Her hands shaking, she quickly typed:

BE AT LUCKY STARS CASINO BOARDWALK TONIGHT.

THE NOTEBOOKS WILL BE IN THE CASINO BAG THAT WAS IN THE PHOTO I SENT YOU EARLIER. YOU WILL GET FROM THE CASINO ONE OF THE EXACT SAME BAGS. THERE IS A DOG PARK BY THE BOARDWALK. TAKE ONE OF THE BLACK PLASTIC BAGGIES FROM IT AND TIE IT TO THE CASINO BAG HANDLE SO MY MAN WILL RECOGNIZE YOU.

THEN AT 10:15 BE WAITING ON THE BOARDWALK FOR THE EXCHANGE TO TAKE PLACE.

MY MAN WILL WEAR BLACK PANTS AND JACKET AND A GRAY FEDORA THAT HAS A FEATHER IN THE HATBAND.

She reread it and clicked SEND.

Five minutes later, a bubble popped up:

215-555-3452

WHO IS THIS MAN? THIS IS BULLSHIT!

I GAVE YOU TWO HOURS!

She looked at that for a long moment, took a deep breath, and then sent:

CALM DOWN, RICKY. JUST BE THERE. 10:15.

The next minute felt like it lasted forever. Then came the reply:

215-555-3452

THIS IS THE LAST CHANCE!

DO NOT SCREW UP. YOU OR YOUR MAN.

OR HER BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS.

Her?

Almost immediately another message bubble popped up.

Maggie gasped.

The message had no words, only an image.

It was a close-up photograph of the face of a very young brown-skinned girl, maybe ten or eleven, her head turned at a sharp angle. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth. Her big dark eyes were looking as far left as they could possibly turn-toward her temple, where the muzzle of a big black pistol was pressed.

Oh my God. .

Maggie’s mind flooded with thoughts.

The first, which caused Maggie to begin tearing up herself as she stared at the young girl’s tearing eyes, was: That is the look of total terror.

The next was: I can’t tell who that is. It could be Janine. But does it matter who it is?

Then: What have I done? This is crazy. Completely out of control.

And finally: I give up. Now there’s only one option. .

New Hope House

Hazzard Street, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 6:22 P.M.

After Payne and Byrth made their introductions, Byrth showed Eldridge his phone with the photograph from the Department of Transportation ID.

“Elizabeth Cusick,” Byrth said, “age twenty, five-one, one-ten, blonde, blue eyes. The address on this ID is this address.”

“Beth?” Eldridge said, nodding. “Sure. She was here maybe two months ago. And most girls use this address, especially when they apply for SNAP?”

Payne nodded and said, mostly for Byrth’s benefit, “Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. Food stamps.”

“Right,” Eldridge said. “She came with a friend, nice-looking girl afraid of her own shadow. Hardly ever talked, this girlfriend. Beth did most of the talking. But when she did, it was with an accent. I’m guessing Russian?”

Payne and Byrth exchanged glances.

Byrth then said, “How long were they at your flophouse-”

“‘Transitional housing,’” he interrupted. “We prefer that. Lots of folks winding up here first got referred to other homes right out of jail. To get in those, though, they got to be clean. Which sometimes the jail time does for them. But when they sometimes slip-and most times they slip-they’re thrown out. Tragic cycle, sad to say. That’s how come we tell them to be clean, just don’t demand it. We’re hoping they can ease off the addiction.”

“Does that work?” Byrth asked, his tone skeptical.

“Sometimes. It ain’t easy. Ever. Believe me, I know. I’ve been fighting my own monkey on my back longer than I care to say.”

“What about this Cusick girl?” Byrth said.

He shrugged. “A runaway at some point is what I’m thinking. She never said outright. But some signs were pretty clear. She was hiding from a pimp. Both girls were. Some figure it out faster than others.”

“Figure out. .?” Payne said.

“That they ain’t gonna last long. Pimp makes them charge fifty bucks for fifteen minutes of screwing, thirty bucks for a blow job. Twenty, thirty tricks a day. Day after day. And then maybe split that money with the pimp, or he takes it all? Bastard who beats them, maybe sells them to another pimp, and worse?” Eldridge looked between them, then added, “You’re cops. You know they wind up dead all the time.”

“Wish I could say that’s the first I’ve heard of that,” Payne said, nodding.

Byrth said, “So, any idea what happened to Beth and her friend?”

“Only that it was same as most. One day here, next never heard from them again. Till you guys showed up.”

“They leave anything behind?”

Eldridge cocked his head. “You kidding me? Place like this?”

“I have to ask. You never know. And we need something we could run for fingerprints-a hairbrush, toothbrush, razor-or DNA off, say, a pair of used panties.”

Eldridge shrugged. “It’s been two months. If it ain’t nailed down, it’s stolen in minutes. Even clothes, old underwear, too. Still, we’re better here than a lot. We take in only twenty, four to a room, each paying three hundred a month. Some places it’s forty or more packed in. Plus we feed them and preach the. .”

His voice trailed off as he looked past them toward the front door.

“Don’t be coming in here causing no trouble!” the big woman at the table then called out.

Byrth and Payne looked. It was the Jamaican, the big guy with the dreadlocks, at the front door. He towered over the crowd and was pacing, pointing his finger at the Latina with the black eye and blue hoodie.

“What’s Bob Marley’s problem?” Payne said.

“Name’s Marcus,” Eldridge said. “Says some punks shot at him this afternoon. He’s been on edge ever since. Usually really mellow, especially when he’s high.”

Byrth, pushing back his jacket and moving his right hand near his hip, said, “Well, mellow or not, that bastard’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

“I told you I want another spliff, bitch!” Marcus then demanded, his deep Caribbean accent booming through the room.

“And I told you fuck off, I ain’t got none!” the Latina snapped back.

In the next instant, Marcus had pulled a knife from his pants pocket and was swinging it wildly.

A moment later he heard two men shout:

“Drop it!”

“Drop the damn knife now!”

When Marcus looked toward the back of the room he saw that the man with the big hat and his partner had pistols drawn-and that they were aiming if not directly at Marcus’s head then just above his multicolored knit cap.

They stepped toward him.

Marcus started to run, then stopped and grabbed the Latina, putting the knife point to her throat. Marcus quickly moved backward with her toward the front door-then let her loose and bolted outside.

“Great,” Payne said, pointing his pistol at the ceiling as he and Byrth started moving faster. “I was tempted to just let the sonofabitch run before he stuck the knife on her.”

Matt Payne, keeping the muzzle of his.45 up, flew through the doorway-then slipped when he hit the snow-packed sidewalk. He managed to recover just as Jim Byrth leapt over the slippery spot, landing in the street. They exchanged glances, then took off.