The Last Witness (Badge of Honor 11)
“What’s that?”
“Lye. Caustic soda. Much easier to get than acid.”
“At least a couple of these barrels have got labels that show they were sold to Tyler Oilfield Services,” Pabody said.
“Probably stolen from an oil- or gas-drilling site,” Byrth said. After a moment he added, “Lye requires heat. And it’s not as thorough. This acid, however, dissolves it all, including dental fillings and such.”
“How quick?”
“Tissue’s gone away in about half a day, bones and everything else in two.”
Byrth looked around the immediate area.
There was a fire pit that had a scorched black metal ring about four feet in diameter. Byrth recognized that it was part of a wheel from a big-rig tractor trailer. Inside the ring were smoldering ashes and the remnants of charred logs. Just outside the ring was a swath of partially burned fabric from a pair of blue jeans.
“The guy was pretty sloppy about getting rid of evidence,” Pabody said. “That is, if he even cared.”
Pabody reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small plastic zipper-top bag. In it was a business card.
“This is just a tip of what I saw when I stuck my head in the door of that shithole of a RV.”
He handed the bag to Byrth. He saw that it was a cheap generic business card, white with black type, for the Hacienda Gentlemen’s Club. It showed its address and a “hotline” phone number. Under that was a box with flowery handwriting that read: “April. In town Nov 11–15 only!!! Call me to reserve my dance room!!! 561-555-4532.” The “i” in April, instead of being dotted, had a heart drawn over it.
“That’s a South Florida area code,” Byrth said.
“Yeah, and when you call it, the auto voice-mail message says her box is full.” He grunted. “So to speak.”
Their eyes met. Byrth smirked.
“Sorry, Jim. More of that gallows humor. This girl—none of these girls, hookers or whatever—didn’t deserve whatever happened to get them here. Anyway, I called in this April’s phone number to the office. They got the process started on getting her records from the phone company. And I’m having a flatbed tow truck come fetch the trailer so forensics can go through it after they’re done doing the scene here.”
“Good idea.”
“With the exception of what’s left of this body, we ain’t getting any DNA off any dissolved bodies. There’s nothing left but acid in those covered drums. But there’s a shitload of panties—those string ones? ‘thongs’ mostly—and some bras in the trailer that could give us something. And Lord knows what they’ll find on the mattress.”
Byrth pulled out his cell phone and, using its camera function, took a close-up picture of the business card through the clear plastic bag.
“November eleven through fifteen?” Byrth said, handing the bag back and checking the date window on his wristwatch. “Today’s the fifteenth.”
“You reckon April was missed at work last night? Or if she’s expected tonight?”
“One way to find out.”
—
“Well, it’s entirely possible she could have a cell phone with a Florida number,” Texas Rangers Sergeant James O. Byrth said into his phone as he looked through the Tahoe’s windshield at the front door of the Hacienda. “But it’s a Pennsylvania ID you found?”
“Yeah,” Hunt County Sheriff Glenn Pabody said, “a DOT non-driver ID issued to one Elizabeth Cusick, age twenty, five-one, one-ten, blonde, blue eyes, a Hazzard Street address in Philadelphia. That’s Hazzard with two z’s. Last name spelled Charley Umbrella Sierra India Charley Kilo. What kind of name is that?”
Byrth was writing that down as he heard the turbine engines of another jet approaching.
“Maybe Polish?” he said. “Lots of Poles in Pennsylvania. And Italians and Irish and Germans and Latinos . . . Would you pop a shot of it and send it to me?”
“Sure thing. Didn’t you say you were just up there? In Philadelphia?”
“Yeah. Running down some mean bastards who thought they were going to be the next Zetas.”
“Maybe you can pull a few strings then, get some answers quicker.”