“Queso azul,” Payne read, then said, “That’s the blue cheese you told me about.”
“Bingo,” Byrth said.
“What’s blue cheese?” Rapier said.
“Cold medicine mixed with black tar heroin and sold to kids at two bucks a bump,” Payne said. He looked at Byrth and asked, “What’s with the three lines on either side? They look like cartoon sun rays.”
“Whiskers.”
“Whiskers?”
Byrth nodded. “El Gato. Cat whiskers. That’s his product. So it’s here. But where the hell is he?”
“Jesus,” Payne said. He added, “You think he shot up the market?”
“Could’ve been anyone,” Byrth said. “Anyone with a five-point-seven weapon. It’s certainly not outside the scope of what the bastard is capable of doing.”
Payne was looking back at the bank of screens with the various TV news broadcasts. The feed from the local FOX News channel showed images of the Philadelphia Fire Department at work. Firemen were battling extraordinarily large flames from two vehicles ablaze in a vacant lot adjacent to run-down row houses. Between the roaring fires and the wall of water being pumped at them, it was difficult to distinguish what type of vehicles they were.
Text along the bottom of the screen read: EARLIER TODAY IN WEST KENSINGTON, FIREFIGHTERS FOUGHT TO EXTINGUISH THE FLAMES FROM TWO VEHICLES. AUTHORITIES SAY ARSON WAS THE CAUSE.
Matt felt a vibration in the front pocket of his pants. He pulled out his cellular phone and saw that he had a text message. The color LCD screen read: AMY PAYNE-1 TXT MSG TODAY @ 1730.
He went to it:
AMY PAYNE
We still on for Liberties… 6ISH?
Payne looked again at the time stamp.
Five thirty.
That’s right. She said meet at six.
We can still beat her there.
He typed and then sent: see u @ 6 “I think we’re finished here for now, Kerry,” Payne said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime.”
Payne looked at Jim Byrth.
“How about we go get a few fingers poured of your choice of adult intoxi cants? If we get to Homicide’s unofficial favorite spot early enough, we can enjoy our beverages before She Who Is Always Right arrives. Then we can bounce some of this off her.”
Byrth nodded appreciatively. “I could use a little something to cut the dust, Marshal.”
[THREE] 3900 Block of Castor Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:54 P.M.
Sitting in the shadows of the trash Dumpsters in the alleyway, Paco “El Nariz” Esteban twice had had to move. The first time was because the big garbage truck had come to empty the three Dumpsters serving as his cover. That had stirred up the trash and caused the receptacles to really reek.
The second time was because a Philadelphia Police Department squad car came rolling down the alley.
That had caused Paco Nariz too many thoughts. And they came practically all at once.
The immediate one was the thought that always came first: Are they looking for me?
Then he thought: I can tell them about the girls in the store!
I can show them pictures!
But would they believe me?
And would they do anything if they did?
If the police went in and made an arrest, then El Gato would lose those girls and their guard.
But he would be free.
And then I would have to find another way to get to him.
He had glanced at the cruiser rolling nearer.
Here they are! Decide, dammit!
El Nariz had avoided any interaction with the police. He quickly but calmly picked up his mop bucket makeshift seat, then started shaking it in the side door of the Dumpster, pretending to be emptying it.
When he’d glanced at the cruiser rolling past, the cops hadn’t even bothered looking back at him.
And he figured that that was logical. Who would waste time to question a dirty Hispanic male who clearly was carrying out his janitorial tasks? They probably could guess at his biggest crime: smelling like shit.
That had been about a half hour ago.
Now El Nariz, back on his bucket between the Dumpsters, heard the sound of another vehicle coming down the alleyway. He looked around the corner of the Dumpsters. He saw a big dirty tan Ford panel van. It had no windows other than the windshield and those on the front driver and passenger doors.
Paco Esteban heard its brakes squeak. It slowed to a stop beside the back door to the Gas amp; Go. He could not see from his angle but could hear a large sliding door on the van opening. Then he heard a Hispanic male’s voice. Looking under the van, he could see black boots on the far side of the van, where the sliding door would be.
El Nariz started to get his camera ready, then decided it wasn’t a good idea with so much daylight still. Whoever was behind the wheel of the van might see him.
He looked at the bumper and saw the Pennsylvania tag there. It read GSY- 696. He thought that he could write down the license plate number-until he realized he’d left his pen in the minivan.
Dammit!
There was more movement on the far side of the van. Visible beside the black boots were two more pairs of shoes. They were very small and low-heeled. Then the back door of the Gas amp; Go opened. The boots moved in its direction first, and the two pairs of shoes followed.
For a split second, El Nariz had a clear view of the three people-two young girls, one in a black dress and one in a schoolgirl skirt and top, and a very thin young Hispanic male in jeans, black boots, and a T-shirt.
I need to get back to my minivan if I am to follow them…
Then El Nariz had an inspiration.
The phone!
He scrolled through its menu. He reached the screen that asked if he wanted to add a new telephone number. He clicked the key for OK, then keyed in GSY696.
Then he picked up the mop bucket. He put it on his right shoulder so that it would block his view of the dirty tan Ford van-and block his head from the view of whoever was driving the van. He started walking across the alleyway until he was out of sight of the van, then trotted back to the minivan.
It was ten minutes before Paco Esteban heard the sound of the Ford panel van accelerating down the alley. He started the engine of his minivan-and just in time, as the Ford van flew out of the alley.
I do not know if the girls are in there.
And I do not know where they go next.
But what else do I do?
He put the minivan in drive, checked for traffic, then followed the tan Ford van down Castor Avenue. He tried to maintain a safe distance back. But not so far as to lose sight of the van.
The Ford van made the turn onto Erie Avenue, headed toward Broad Street. At Broad, it went south.
This is the way I just came, but backward.
About a mile later, he thought, Are they going where I think?
A block later, at Susquehanna, the van made a left, driving past the Temple Gas amp; Go and the adjoining Sudsie’s. At the next corner, which was North Park, it turned right.
Yes!
