The Last Witness (Badge of Honor 11)
How can this person have the books?
Or . . . was she shitting me?
“What?” Héctor said, putting the pipe to his lips.
Ricky held the phone back up to show him.
After a moment Héctor nodded thoughtfully. He exhaled.
“You believe that first one is the woman?” he then said.
Ricky nodded. “And I gave her two hours.”
“So ignore this one. For now. First work the woman.” He thought for a moment, then said, “We will give her more incentive. Where’s your car?”
“Not far. Blocks. Why?”
The back door began opening.
Héctor reached back into the refrigerator. He came out with two more beers.
Tito and Juan sauntered inside. They acted more cocky than usual.
“You did good,” Héctor said, handing them the bottles.
Héctor grabbed his Kalashnikov and looked at Ricky.
“You and I go,” he said, then added to Tito and Juan, “When you finish those, go out and keep watch till Jaime gets back with more halcónes.”
Ricky started to follow Héctor, then turned back and grabbed one of the bags and the pipe from the counter. He tossed the other bag to Tito.
“A little bonus for you two,” Ricky said, smiling.
[TWO]
New Hope House
Hazzard Street, Philadelphia
Monday, November 17, 6:01 P.M.
“Next block make a right,” Matt Payne said, as Jim Byrth drove the rental Ford SUV through Kensington. When they had made the turn, it was not difficult, even in the shadows, to make out the flophouse and the small crowd outside it midway down the snow-crusted street.
Byrth saw Payne looking at his cell phone, which he had put in the right cup holder of the console.
After going into the phone’s mobile multi-line application and activating a new number—giving him a third line, in addition to his personal and office ones—Payne had used it to call the number on the grease-stained note, then to send it a text massage.
“Like Jason said, Matt, it was worth the chance. There could be any number of reasons why there’s been no reply yet.”
Payne shook his head. “It just makes me wonder what—if any—dominoes it started toppling. My call going right into voice mail and then no reply to the text could mean the phone is out of range or dead or . . .”
“Or it could mean nothing. Maybe it’s just because the badass—‘Yo, talk to me’—didn’t recognize the number and didn’t want to answer. At some point he will get the text.”
“Meaning no news is good news. . . . You’re probably right. But something needs to break with this.” He looked up ahead. “What makes me think our luck here will be just as crappy?”
New Hope was in a two-story row house that had seen some really bad days—not unlike the neighboring properties that were in even worse shape—and certainly far better ones in its hundred years. Its brick exterior looked as if it had been painted in the last year or so. Faint graffiti was still visible through the whitewash, and there was new graffiti tagging the sign that read “New hope—for a new life.” Industrial steel roll-up doors, painted canary yellow, covered the two first-floor windows and the front door. The ones over the windows were rolled up, and the tall one over the door was halfway open, and moving upward.
“Well, look at that,” Payne then said, “at least we’re just in time for high tea.”