W. Griffin - The Last Witness

After a long moment, Payne said, “Have you ever seen an operation like this, Jim?”

Byrth turned to him.

“Well,” he said, “I have seen acre after acre of pot fields. And I have seen grow houses in everything from Houston condos to suburban Fort Worth ranch homes. And, I’m sorry to say, to my grave I will take the memory of seeing the horror in the barrels of Pozole. But all this?” He slowly shook his head. “I have never seen anything close to this place. And pray I never do again.”

Byrth felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and read the text message:

GLENN PABODY

JUST GOT WORD THAT THEY FOUND IN THAT RV TRAILER A BUNCH MORE IDS AND THOSE STRIP CLUB BUSINESS CARDS.

FIFTEEN IDS WERE MEXICO NATIONAL ONES, ALL BUT TWO OF THEM GIRLS IN THEIR EARLY 20S.

THE STRIPPER CARDS WERE FROM THE HACIENDA BUT ALSO FROM CLUBS IN HOUSTON AND, HERE’S WHAT YOU’RE GONNA WANT TO HEAR, FOR A PLACE CALLED PLAYERS CORNER LOUNGE.

Byrth looked at the message for a long moment and thought, And how many more girls were killed and then put in those barrels of acid?

That bastard probably called himself “El Pozolero,” too.

He shook his head as he replied:

THANKS, GLENN.

I’LL SEND YOU SHOTS OF WHAT WE JUST FOUND IN PHILLY. AND CATCH YOU UP ON WHAT WE LEARNED ABOUT THE FIRST GIRL’S ID YOU FOUND.

SO, WHAT PART OF HOUSTON IS PLAYERS IN?

A moment later Byrth read:

GLENN PABODY

NOT HOUSTON, JIM. IT’S GOT A PHILLY ADDRESS. I’LL SEND A PHOTO WHEN I CAN.

As Byrth typed the bar’s name into an Internet search on his phone, he said, “You ever hear of a strip club called Players Corner Lounge, Marshal?”

“Sounds just like my kind of place. Sorry. Never heard of it.”

“Apparently it’s at Front and Master.”

“That’s Fishtown. Not far. What’s the significance?”

“Sheriff Pabody just said they found more of those stripper cards in the trailer, and this Players place was one of them.”

Payne checked his phone. There was no message-not from Maggie, not from anyone.

“It’s more or less on the way home. Should be hopping at this hour. Crime Scene’s got this place. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

With the exception of Payne issuing the most basic of directions as Byrth drove-“Two blocks hang a right,” then “Left here,” then “Straight a couple miles”-they were quiet, lost in their thoughts. To break the silence, Byrth turned on the radio, its volume low but clear. The station was broadcasting the national news.

Payne listened for a moment, then his mind flashed back to the macabre image it had created-thanks to Dr. Mitchell’s vivid alkaline hydrolysis description-of the case workers being boiled down.

They basically turned into a vat of Valvoline 10-W-40. . Jesus!

There’s no way Maggie could’ve known about that hell and not said something to someone.

With the girl’s murder and the firebombing of her home, I damn sure can’t blame her for wanting to control everything.

But this?

How do I begin explaining this to her parents?

And Amanda? I don’t want to lie to her, but until we catch these bastards I’m going to have to come up with some cover story she won’t see right through. .

From the radio speakers, the familiar grating voice of the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security filled the vehicle. It was a news report from Capitol Hill, and Payne heard the DHS head declare in a politician’s dispassionate monotone, “Our borders, sir, are more secure than ever.”

“Bullshit!” Jim Byrth blurted, practically spitting it out.

Payne glanced over and said dryly, “You really should learn to speak your mind, Jim. Holding things inside is not healthy.”

Byrth grunted. “I just get tired of the damn political lies. You know how long the border with Mexico runs, from the Pacific to the Gulf?”

“A couple thousand miles?”

“Right. The reality is there’s no way that’s secure-and certainly not ‘more secure than ever.’ At the San Ysidro entry plaza, the border checkpoint just across from Tijuana, eight million pedestrians cross into the U.S. every year. Another twenty million come in cars. That’s just one border checkpoint. Texas’s busiest, Laredo, has a daily average of five thousand trucks coming in from Nuevo Laredo, which happens to be the main smuggling route of the Gulf Cartel. We don’t know how much contraband gets through our checkpoints-only what we catch-therefore it’s impossible to quantify how much crosses at uncontrolled points. Which is why it’s disingenuous at best to declare the border secure.”

A couple of minutes later the United States attorney general’s voice could be heard over the speakers: “. . these financial institutions, Senator, have become so enormous that we can only fine them, because we have found that if we in fact brought criminal charges there would be a negative impact on the United States economy, and, to coin a phrase, as goes the U.S. economy so goes the world economy. .”

“You been following this?” Payne said, pointing at the radio. “Banks caught methodically violating laundering laws? Then fined only a couple billion dollars after moving tens of billions in cartel money?”

Byrth nodded. “Congress should have never done away with the Glass-Steagall Act. Banks in bed with investment brokerages? Banks used to be just banks, and could only operate intrastate. Now we have an alphabet soup of corporate finance giants, some headquartered here, some in other countries, with branches around the world.”

“And laundering money.”

“Laundering money and who the hell knows what else,” Byrth said, reaching over and punching the dash button that turned off the radio.

“And that makes me think of that poor bastard Garvey,” Byrth then said. “What kind of world is it when a guy just doing his job gets busted as a mule moving two lousy keys while worrying that the cartel will kill his family? Meantime, these big boys in their ivory towers, willingly moving cartel money and counting their profits, get a Get Out of Jail Free Card from no less than the AG himself.”

“They’re calling that ‘too big to fail, too big to jail.’ Apparently Garvey’s mistake was he didn’t move enough volume.”

Byrth shook his head. “I fear we are slowly selling our collective soul to the highest bidder.”

“I fear you’re right,” Payne said, then added, “Master is next street after the light.”

Maybe that’s what I need to do to get a response from that bastard-raise the bid.

Payne looked back at his phone and reread the first message he had sent to the number on the grease-stained note. He started typing:

YOU HAVE ONE HOUR TO REPLY TO THE FOLLOWING OFFER. .

Then his phone began vibrating, the screen showing the call was to his personal phone number. The caller ID read: UNKNOWN.

He sighed, then switched over to that number and answered it.

“Yeah?” he snapped, unintentionally.

“Matt?” a female voice said, clearly distressed.

“What?” he said impatiently. Then, slowly, added, “Wait. . Maggie ?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I need help. Fast. In twenty minutes. .”

Lucky Stars Casino and Entertainment

North Beach Street, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 9:55 P.M.

Dmitri Gurnov walked out of the revolving doors of the casino carrying one of the big black bags. He glanced up, saw the security camera, then looked forward, snugging his fedora lower.