W. Griffin - The Last Witness

They saw, half a block ahead, Marcus moving quickly. He had his head back, knees flying high, arms pumping.

“Stop! Police!” Payne yelled.

Marcus then made a sliding right turn at the corner.

Approaching the next block, Payne saw that he and Byrth were slowly closing the gap. Payne then saw Marcus look back, then cut across the street. Then he saw at the far corner two human shapes standing beside a dumpster. Marcus, looking back again, ran right toward them.

One of the pair pulled something from his coat pocket. As it was raised, it glinted.

“Sonofabitch! Gun!” Payne said, and quickly crouched, motioning for Byrth to get down.

The pop-pop-pop of gunfire immediately followed, the muzzle flash reflecting on the icy street. The big Jamaican tried to change direction but lost his footing. He went down, striking the base of a metal utility pole headfirst.

Payne was trying to get a good aim on the shooter when there was another series of three shots. And then the firing stopped and there was a clunk as the gun hit the concrete.

The shooter and his partner bolted toward an empty lot beyond the dumpster.

Payne was about to kneel beside the Jamaican when Byrth called, “I’ve got him. Don’t let those other fuckers get away!”

Byrth, sliding to a stop at the Jamaican, pulled handcuffs from his coat pocket. He smoothly slapped a cuff on the man’s big right wrist, then pulled him in place so that he was hugging the metal pole and clipped his left wrist.

Then Byrth took off after Payne.

“Over here!” Payne called in a loud whisper from the shadows at the back corner of a line of row houses. He was breathing heavily, the cold air feeling like ice picks to his lungs.

When Byrth came up, Payne said, “They’re in here. They tried wrapping the cable back but didn’t get it locked.”

Payne pointed to a gate in the chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Hanging from the gate was the loose end of heavy-gauge steel cable that had been threaded around a metal post.

In a crouch, his pistol close in at chest level, Payne slowly swung the gate open. He cleared the immediate area, then entered the backyard, signaling with his left hand for Byrth to follow.

Suddenly, the cold air carried a chemical-like stench. It burned his nostrils.

What the hell is that? he wondered, and had to clear his throat.

He heard Byrth grunt, then cough involuntarily.

They moved quickly toward what was the back porch of the completely darkened house, snow crunching with each step. Once across the backyard, they came to another gate. It was wide open. They cleared it and went through.

Then from the far side of the next yard came the clanking sound of another chain-link gate opening, then the fast crunching of feet running on snow and the whine of an engine starter engaging. A big motorcycle rumbled to life-and almost instantly roared off.

“Damn it!” Payne said.

After a moment he felt a nudge on his right shoulder and he saw Byrth pointing at the back door. The porch light was on.

They could see that the door had a piece of torn fabric from an overcoat, and what looked like its insulating filler, caught in the jamb right above the dead bolt.

And that the door was cracked open.

Office of the General Manager

Lucky Stars Casino amp; Entertainment

North Beach Street, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 8:53 P.M.

Nikoli Antonov, his palms together and index fingertips touching his lips, was deep in thought as he looked at the plain brown paperboard box. It was on the far side of his desk, where Dmitri Gurnov, who had just left, had placed it ten minutes earlier.

Antonov was trying to figure out why Gurnov had been acting oddly.

Why is he so nervous?

He said he was distracted with the plans to get the keys from Carlos. But I do not believe that.

It is something else. He is not thinking clearly. Evidence of that is that I told him to call me about this box of muscle relaxer.

Instead, he chose to bring it here, to the casino! Careless!

I told him over and over there can be absolutely nothing associated with those killings and the casino or Diamond Development.

And this drug could most certainly be a “direct connection,” as Bobby and Mike said.

I do not like either of them. But that is different from having a professional respect for them. .

“Let’s be clear on this, Nick,” Bobby Garcia’s voice had come over Antonov’s speakerphone, his tone impatient. “This is not our first rodeo. We know what we’re doing.” He paused, then added, “Apropos of nothing whatever, per federal law, there has to be proof of a gift being given to a politician that actually caused him to act in some official fashion-and that proof has to be a direct connection.”

Antonov was quiet a moment, then said: “An example?”

“Okay,” Mike Santos had said, his tone equally impatient. “For example: Giving said senator regular use of your Citation results in him having included in another law-one wholly different, say, on immigration reform-a line item that provides a tax exemption for any corporation that engages in the gaming industry and said corporation is run by a blonde-haired former Russian national whose suit size is forty-two long.”

Antonov grunted.

“Short of that, Nick,” Garcia said, “federal prosecutors know they are pissing up a rope at any chance of conviction.”

“That’s the beauty of being a politician, a ‘lawmaker,’” Santos added. “You get to write your own damn laws.”

“And what about his chief of staff?”

Garcia laughed. “Are you kidding me?”

“What do you mean? This is no joke.”

“You know, I learned way back in boarding school that Lenin had a name for people like that. I’m surprised you don’t know it.”

“Which is?” Antonov said, ignoring the shot.

“ ‘ Tontos utiles,’ ” Garcia said.

“That’s Spanish, not Russian.”

“Well, I learned it in Spanish first. The translation to English is the same: ‘Useful idiots.’”

“And when they are no longer useful, we replace them,” Santos said. “Shall we paint you a picture?”

“No,” Antonov said, after a long moment. “No picture necessary.”

And the manner in which Dmitri placed that box on my desk, Antonov now thought, tapping his fingertips anxiously. It was suggestive. As if it was somehow a power thing.

Antonov turned and watched the images cycling on the quad of monitors on his wall. A surveillance camera captured Gurnov carrying a casino bag out through the revolving doors.

Dmitri is more and more a liability. He must be replaced. Perez, too.

His desk phone began to trill softly, and when Antonov glanced at the phone’s touchscreen display, he snorted and shook his head.

How does he always know?

He cleared his throat, then smoothly picked up the receiver.

“Ah, Yuri,” he answered in Russian. “How are you?. . What-?. . No, no. Everything is perfect. And I’m very glad you called. I was just about to call and update you on the dealings with our good friend the senator. . ”

Kensington, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 9:08 P.M.

“And I thought that room full of pot plants was surreal,” Matt Payne said, shaking his head. “This is beyond surreal. It’s. .”

“Evil,” Jim Byrth said, finishing the thought.

After searching the upper floors and finding no one in the house, they now stood in the basement.