The Traffickers (Badge of Honor 9)

They were all quiet, lost in thought.

“Then this El Gato is back in Dallas?” Payne said.

Byrth shrugged. “No one knows. None of the immigrants are talking. At least, not saying anything of help. Forensics is going through the scene, but that’ll take forever to process. There’re eighteen sets of prints from the immigrants alone. Lord knows how many from the bad guys. And even then who knows if we get a match to any.”

After a long moment, Payne suddenly said: “The Hispanic girl who got beheaded!”

“What about her?” Tony Harris said.

“That’s the story we seed in the Bulletin. It may not get this Death.Before. Honor guy, but it might help us locate El Gato or someone who knows him.”

“You sure, Matt?” Byrth said. “Seems like a long shot. One based on a lot of ifs. Beginning with (a) if this guy even reads a newspaper, and (b) if he has a computer, and (c) if he reads an online newspaper, and (d) if it’s the Bulletin. And putting that story out, well, it’s a whole lot easier letting the cat out of the bag than it is putting it back.”

Payne shrugged. “True. But it costs nothing to try. And the deputy commissioner’s let the cat out already. Even though last night at the Union League was supposed to be off the record, no one keeps secrets. This will get us looking under the rock that’s under the rock. We find nothing there, we move on to another rock.”

He started to stand up.

“Shall we go to the ECC?”

On the way upstairs, Payne tried to discreetly type a text message.

Byrth and Harris exchanged glances and shook their heads.

Payne shrugged sheepishly, but grinned as he continued thumbing the message: got your number from amy. that?s great news! why the change of heart? not that i?m complaining. can i buy you lunch?? dinner?? a vine-covered cottage on the side of the road??

Then he hit the SEND button.

FOUR

Philadelphia Police Headquarters Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 8:45 A.M.

Corporal Kerry Rapier was waiting in the Executive Command Center when Matt Payne, Tony Harris, and Jim Byrth entered. He was with a young man who had skin as dark as the Black Buddha’s. The young man was sitting in a motorized power chair.

The kid in that fancy wheelchair doesn’t look like he’s old enough to be in college, Payne thought.

He felt his phone vibrate. He read the screen:

609-555-6221

Lunch? Dinner? Vine-covered cottage?

Methinks you might be getting a little ahead of the game, Romeo…

But… do I have to pick just one? (wink) — A He grinned, and sent: all three… might even throw in a white picket fence…

Payne hit SEND, then grinned again as he reread her message.

He realized he could feel his heart rate beating faster.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket as Corporal Rapier called to them, “Gentlemen, this is Andy Radcliffe.”

Radcliffe had a round kind face with gentle coal-black eyes. His full head of dark hair was evenly shorn almost to his scalp. He wore blue jeans that had an ironed crease and a white cotton button-down dress shirt that looked a size or so too large. The shirt also had been carefully ironed. His navy blazer was a little big for his narrow frame, and he had on athletic shoes.

Rapier went on: “Andy’s in his second year at La Salle, and he’s been interning here at the department. He and I have worked on projects this summer. He’s really good-”

Did Radcliffe just blush at the praise? Payne thought.

“-and, even more important,” Rapier said smiling, “he’s all that’s available right now from ISD.”