Philadelphia Executive Women’s League had given her their annual Benjamin Franklin Leader of the Year Award.
She was a petite thirty-five-year-old with a bright face and deeply intelligent dark eyes who wore her shoulder-length brunette hair parted on the right. In the picture she wore a navy blue woolen business suit with a double row of brass buttons down the front, navy silk stockings, black leather shoes with low heels-and a dazzling smile.
“How the hell are you, Liz?” Coughlin said, his voice also showing his pleasure.
“Plodding ahead in the never-ending war against crime, Denny.”
“Indeed. Welcome to the club.”
“I need a favor, Denny.”
“You got it.”
“I need some doors opened for a friend of mine.”
“They’re wide open, Liz. Who is he?”
“A Texas Ranger. The youngest one. Reminds me of Peter Wohl. Or maybe Matt Payne-”
Coughlin glanced at Payne, who was somewhat glowing in the praise.
“His name is Jim Byrth,” she went on. “He’s after a charming guy who likes to cut girls’ heads off. He heard the bastard’s in Philadelphia.”
“We sure as hell can do without any of that. This Byrth will be doing us a favor. When’s he coming?”
“He’ll be on the Continental flight arriving at three twenty-two.”
“He’ll be met. If he’s a friend of yours, I’ll meet him myself.”
“That would probably get the word out that the doors are open. He wants to nab this critter quietly.”
Liz Justice had been a chief inspector of the Philadelphia Police Department running Internal Affairs when the City Fathers of Houston, Texas, had decided that their troubled police department needed a new chief. One with lots of experience in internal affairs. To say that the Houston PD was having more than a little problem with corrupt cops was akin to calling the mafia a misunderstood boys’ club. “You can beat the rap, but you can’t beat the ride” had become such common knowledge it may as well have been painted on the fenders of every squad car. And everything they’d tried thus far had failed to effect any significant change.
When the search of the nation’s major police departments came up with Chief Inspector Justice’s name, the only thing against her was her gender.
But the mayor had solved that in genuine Texas fashion: “Who better to break up the Old Boy Network than a lady who’s a fourth-generation cop?”
Not only did Liz still have friends on Philly’s force, she still had family. Including a cousin in South Detectives, Lieutenant Daniel “Danny the Judge” Justice, Jr. He was reputedly the smallest and without question the most delicate-looking white shirt in all of the Philadelphia Police Department.
Two weeks after the Houston mayor made the decision to hire Chief Inspector Liz Justice, she had been sworn in as the United States’ first female chief of a major city police department. The historic news put her on the cover of Time magazine.
“I do appreciate it, Denny. Please give my love to your far better half.”
He chuckled. “Will do, Liz. Take care of yourself down there in the Wild West.”
She laughed appreciatively.
He punched the SPEAKERPHONE button, breaking the connection.
Coughlin looked at the I Love Me wall again. Payne could almost see the gears turning in his mind.
And Coughlin was indeed thinking.
The reason Hollaran said that Matty overhearing that conversation would be educational was because (a) he’d had a nice talk with Liz before sending her call in here and knew what she wanted and because (b) he believed that sitting on this Texas Ranger would solve our problem of what to do with Matty.
That’s what you call a good assistant-one who solves problems for his boss.
“That’s one terrific woman,” Payne said with genuine praise.
Coughlin turned to Payne.
“Yeah, and one terrific cop.” He paused. “And you, Matty, are one lucky one. Guess where you’ll be at three twenty-two this afternoon?”
[THREE] 826 Sears Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 8:16 A.M.
Sitting on the well-worn parlor couch, her legs crossed beneath her, Rosario Flores sipped from a can of Coca-Cola.
Across from her, Paco and Salma Esteban each sat in a stackable molded plastic chair, of the type commonly found on backyard patios.
“Are you sure?” Salma Esteban said softly, leaning toward her.
Rosario nodded. “It is all my fault. I could have stopped it, or at least been smarter, when we met El Gato in Matamoros…”
She then explained herself.
It had been no accident that Ana and Rosario had crossed paths with Juan Paulo Delgado just over the border from Brownsville, Texas.
On that late afternoon in March, he had lain in wait, carefully watching the pedestrian traffic crossing the Gateway International Bridge into Matamoros, Mexico. He again was ready to cull from the crowd.
Ana and Rosario, wearing jeans, T-shirts, and dirty sneakers, were walking off the bridge in a group of twenty others. They had been officially declared by United States immigration officials to be unaccompanied minors. They had no way of knowing, of course, but they had joined some 35,000 other immigrant children who in a given year were so declared and, accordingly, lawfully deported.
This afternoon’s group was a mix of teenagers and younger children. One was a six-year-old, being carried by another teenager, whose mother was said to be missing in the desert. And Rosario held the hand of a sad-eyed ten-year-old boy whom she’d met only an hour earlier, when the group had been gathered. He’d warmed to her and taken her hand.
Two days earlier, Ana and Rosario had been in another group, one of a dozen Latino women and children, when they were caught illegally attempting to enter the United States of America.
They had come from Honduras, setting out weeks earlier by foot, then crossing Guatemala and Mexico by truck and train. When they had reached the Rio Grande, the “Great River” that was the United States border, their coyotes waited with them in the foliage until night, then secretly ferried the group the thirty-yard distance across in three small rubber rowboats.
Then bright portable floodlights had popped on. And they were almost immediately apprehended-following a futile attempt at fleeing-by the green-uniformed officers of the United States Border Patrol.
At that point, of course, their coyotes were nowhere to be found north of the border.
The American government’s processing of unaccompanied minors was similar at all southern U.S. points of entry. Within twenty-four hours of the declaration, with the detainees held in secure rooms, the usual telephone call was made to the local Mexican consulate. For Ana and Rosario, that meant the one in Brownsville. It was located on Mexico Boulevard, adjacent to the Amigo-land Shopping Mall, not quite a mile’s walk to two of the three bridges there that crossed into Mexico.
The Mexican consulate in Brownsville then arranged for an official in Matamoros with the more or less Mexican equivalent of child protective services to meet the group of unaccompanied minors. The children then would be repatriated to Mexico and, the Mexican government hoped, swiftly returned to their families.
The cold damn reality of that, however, was that in all likelihood their immediate family was still in the United States (parent and child having gotten separated during a crossing, for example). Or, worse, that their immediate family no longer existed for one of any number of tragic reasons, including a mother being lost and presumed dead in the desert.
And the task of (a) finding the child’s extended family and then (b) getting them to agree to take custody (and with it the financial burden) of the minor was daunting-if not damn impossible.
Thus, most of the unaccompanied minors had of course absolutely no desire to be returned home. Certainly not Ana Maria Del Carmen Lopez or Rosario Flores, who had struggled-had very much risked their lives for six weeks along dangerous smuggling routes-to reach the opportunities that awaited them in America.
Yet now, Ana and Rosario-having been processed by the American immigration system and given the status
