They are going to that Gas amp; Go!
And using the alley.
El Nariz knew that that alley gave access to both the Gas amp; Go’s back door and the loading dock of the laundromat. He also knew it was a dead end; the way in was the only way out.
He drove straight through the intersection where the van had turned right, then eased up to the curb and stopped. He put the minivan in park and adjusted the mirror on the windshield so that he could see the alley entrance behind him.
Fifteen minutes passed before the dirty tan Ford panel van came roaring out the alley. It made a right turn.
Damn!
Paco Esteban quickly put the minivan in drive and spun the steering wheel counterclockwise. He glanced over his shoulder as he started his U-turn. A blaring horn caused him to slam on the brakes. A pickup truck blew past, the driver angrily pumping his right fist at El Nariz.
El Nariz looked over his left shoulder again and hit the gas.
He made the turn onto Park, and as he passed the alley he saw the dirty tan Ford panel van far ahead. It approached the next intersection, which was Diamond Street, and went left.
El Nariz pressed harder on the accelerator, then braked heavily at the intersection. He blew through the stop sign, turning left onto Diamond. Then he smashed the accelerator, the aged minivan’s engine bucking.
Don’t quit on me.
A dozen blocks later, crossing Germantown Avenue, El Nariz could see he was closing fast on the Ford van. He eased up on the accelerator.
After another dozen or so blocks, the brake lights of the Ford van lit up for a moment. The van turned left in front of a small park.
As El Nariz followed, he saw that the street was marked HANCOCK.
The Ford van crossed over Susquehanna, then three blocks later its brake lights lit up. And stayed lit.
Paco Esteban saw that it had pulled to a stop along the right curb. A block back, he did the same. Then he watched as a Hispanic male jumped from the front passenger door, slammed it shut, and trotted across the street.
The man went to the gate of a wooden-slat fence that surrounded a lot next to an old row house. A heavy chain was looped on the gate, with a lock on it. The man unlocked the gate, then slid it open.
Paco Esteban suddenly got a knot in his stomach.
The fence that Rosario described!
From his angle and distance, Paco Esteban could just make out that the lot was paved with gravel.
Another thing that Rosario described-tires on rocks!
The dirty tan Ford van then rolled through the open gate. The man swung the gate closed after it. Then it looked as if the chain was being locked on the inside of the enclosure.
Paco Esteban took his foot off the brake. The minivan rolled forward. He slowly drove up to the house.
Except for what he’d just witnessed, there were no other visible signs of activity. No motion. And no lights. It took some effort, but he finally saw numbers on the wall beside the front door: 2505.
Hancock Street. 2505.
Keep driving! 2505 Hancock…
A few blocks north, he again pulled to the curb. He was just shy of Lehigh Avenue. His heart was pounding against his chest. He had to force himself to inhale, then to exhale.
He crossed himself.
Dear God!
To be so close to such evil!
El Nariz reached for the ink pen that was wedged into the vent on the dashboard. He found a scrap of paper.
He started to write “2505 Hancock Street” but found that his hands shook so badly he could barely read his own handwriting.
Does not matter.
I will always remember where that house is.
He reached for his cellular telephone and pushed the key that speed-dialed his wife’s phone.
When Se?ora Salma Esteban answered, he said with a shaky voice: “My love, please do not ask me any questions right now. Just listen-”
He paused at the interruption.
“Salma, please! Listen to me! Tell Rosario that I will be there in about twenty minutes. Tell her I will pick her up-”
He paused again.
“Yes, it is good. Now, please see that she is ready when I get there.”
[FOUR] 705 North Second Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:55 P.M.
As the bird flew, the distance from the Roundhouse to Liberties was about four thousand feet. During the very short drive in Matt Payne’s rental Ford sedan, Jim Byrth had said: “Two questions, Matt.”
“Shoot.”
“One, this is a rental, right?”
“Yeah. The insurance company is paying for it. Because my car got shot up?”
Earlier, Payne had related to Byrth the story of his shoot-out in the Italian restaurant parking lot. The one that had left his Porsche blasted by shotgun fire and sent into some sort of insurance adjustor hell. Which at more than one point had caused him to wonder:
It’s been a month. How damn long does it take to determine if it’s fixable or if they’re going to write me a check for a total wreck?
A check that no doubt will be as small as they can possibly make it.
Maybe that’s it. The older the car, the less it’s worth. So the longer they wait… But that’s absurd. I put no miles on it. And Porsches, particularly Carreras and Turbos, hold their value.
So then they probably don’t know what to do with it. Or with me.
Jesus, do I hate insurance companies.
“Right,” Byrth said. “But why are you using your personal vehicle on the job? None of my business; just idle curiosity how it’s done here.”
Good point, Payne thought. I hadn’t given it much thought.
Maybe because there hadn’t been time to think about it.
I’ve only been back on the job this one day.
“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Payne said. “I guess since the insurance company is footing the bill, it’s not coming out of my pocket. I could put in for reimbursement. Not that that’s going to be any big wad of cash.”
“They won’t issue you a Police Interceptor?”
“We have the Crown Vics. They’re just hard to come by. There’s a shortage. But if you need one, I’m sure we could get a loaner. Or something close. Maybe an undercover car from the pool at Special Operations. I’ve got a connection there.”
Matt Payne had been in Special Operations when he’d made the top five list for promotion to sergeant, and had then to go to Homicide. The commanding officer of Special Operations was one Inspector Peter Wohl, who of course was Payne’s rabbi. There also was another connection: Payne’s sister and Peter Wohl sometimes considered themselves a couple.
Byrth shook his head. “No. Thanks. Like I said, just curious.”
Payne glanced at him and nodded, then made the turn onto Second.
Then he said, “Shit! She beat us here. So much for our drink in peace.”
Byrth saw only two vehicles parked in the angled spaces. Payne pulled in next to the nearest vehicle, a nearly new black Honda Accord coupe with deeply tinted windows. On the other side of it was a two-year-old, somewhat battered, GMC Yukon XL. Its right rear tire was up on the curb, causing the massive SUV to sit at an awkward pitch, like a ship that had run aground.
“She?” Byrth repeated.
