“Yeah. Curious. My source did say it was a female.”
“Okay, look, Mickey, that reinforces something I thought. Which is (a) I agree with you that if Jason is on the case, it’s being treated as a homicide—if it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, et cetera, et cetera—and (b) because Jason wants to know if we hear from Maggie—and is being quiet about it—then he’s saying that she didn’t die in her home. Other than that, I have nothing.”
There was a long moment’s silence, then O’Hara said, “Okay. Thanks.” There was another pause, and he added, “Then who do you think it is the ME bagged and tagged?”
“I have no idea, Mickey. I wish I did. I could call Dr. Mitchell—he has to have finished the autopsy by now. Or even Javier, his tech. They might tell me. But then that’d probably get me in hot water with Jason. He specifically told me no questions.”
“When the hell did you start caring about getting in hot water, Matty?”
“Hold one. I’ve got a call coming in. It may be Amanda.”
O’Hara listened to silence as Payne checked his phone screen, then heard him say, “When it rains it pours.” O’Hara then saw movement across the street. When he looked he saw Detective Anthony Harris leaving a town house. Mickey knew Tony well, including that he’d worked in the Homicide Unit years longer than Matt’s total time with the police department.
Bingo! Mickey thought.
Then he heard Matt back on the phone: “Okay, Mickey, where were we?”
“More proof it has to be a homicide,” O’Hara announced. “Harris just appeared down the s
treet, coming out of a residence.”
O’Hara started walking in that direction.
“Tony!” he called out, then said into the phone, “I’ll call you back, Matty.”
No sooner had O’Hara ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket than he saw a glow from the phone in Harris’s hand, and then Harris putting it to his head.
O’Hara heard him say, “Hey, Matt. What’s up?”
I’ll be damned, O’Hara thought.
Harris made eye contact with O’Hara as he said, “That puts me in a tough position, Matt. Jason said everything goes through him. Everything. Period.”
[THREE]
Little Palm Island, Florida
Sunday, November 16, 9:12 P.M.
Matt Payne looked at the phone number of the call that had just rolled into his voice mail. It was from area code 713. He tried to place it as the voice-mail message began to play.
“Howdy, Marshal . . .”
Jim!
“. . . If you can break free from that beautiful better half of yours, I’d appreciate you calling me. I’m following a lead in the Miami area right now, then another up your way.” He paused, and there came an overwhelming whine, what sounded like a jet aircraft passing nearby. He then went on: “I’m giving you a heads-up, Matt. It’s gotten worse—beyond CATFU. Call me.”
Beyond Completely And Totally Fucked Up? Payne thought.
What the hell could that be?
About two months earlier, Texas Rangers Sergeant James O. Byrth had come to Philadelphia—with his huge white Stetson that Payne had dubbed The Hat—hunting a vicious drug-cartel member who was trafficking in young girls, guns, and illicit drugs. Deputy Police Commissioner Coughlin had assigned Payne to work with Byrth.
Juan Paulo “El Gato” Delgado and his ring had left a trail of dead bodies from Texas to Philadelphia—and there kidnapped Dr. Amanda Law, not knowing she was in any way connected to Payne—before a shoot-out that found Delgado dead and Amanda rescued.
Payne regularly recalled one of the last things that Byrth had said when Payne dropped him at Philadelphia International Airport: “Come visit us in Texas, Marshal. We’ve got plenty more bad guys like Delgado. And it’s only going to get worse.”
—