He wore a top and bottom of royal blue cotton hospital scrubs over a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt. A black nine-millimeter Beretta Model 92 was hidden inside the front of his waistband. The 92 was the civilian variant of the M9 semiautomatic pistol that was standard U.S. military issue.
Jiménez started back toward Broad Street, setting a slow pace until he saw a clump of four others in hospital scrubs moving toward the Temple Burn Clinic entrance. He quickened his pace so that he more or less joined their flow. The group of men and women entered the building.
Once inside, he headed for the bank of elevators and there joined a mix of visitors in street clothing and others in various colored scrubs.
In the elevator, one of the female visitors pushed the button for the third floor, then quickly corrected herself and pushed the one for four. He slipped to the back of the car.
At the second floor, all but two visitors got off.
The elevator doors closed, and it rose to the third floor.
When the doors next opened, the visitors did not move. But then they realized there was a hospital worker behind them and stepped aside.
He squeezed through the closing doors and stepped off the elevator. He turned a corner and found himself looking down a corridor. Halfway down it, he saw an empty gurney along the wall and went to it.
He pushed the gurney to a nurse’s stand. There, an obviously overworked, and overweight, white female nurse with a puffy face and thin brown hair sat behind the counter, looking at a chart.
“Excuse me?” Jesús Jiménez said, using a meek tone. “They call for this. For the burned one, the man?”
The overworked nurse looked up from the chart and made no effort at all to conceal the fact that she was annoyed (a) by the interruption and (b) by an orderly’s interruption.
Then that look changed to one of confusion.
“Why,” she said, “would they call for a gurney for him? There’re gurneys everywhere.”
Jesús Jiménez shrugged, his facial expression saying, I just do as I’m told.
Then she answered her own question, muttering: “Unless they’re preparing for the inevitable. If he ain’t dead yet, it’s only a matter of time.”
Jesús Jiménez looked at her with a blank face.
He thought, If you only knew. . . .
The nurse then pointed. “ICU 303. Around the corner, at the end. Can’t miss it. Look for the woman cop.”
Woman cop? Jesús Jiménez thought.
Shit!
But he simply said, “Gracias,” and began pushing the gurney in the direction she’d pointed.
“It’s so good of you to come by, Matt,” Mrs. Andrea Benjamin said after she had given him a big hug. “It’s such a terrible time. Did you see Chad?” She looked down the corridor. “He was just here. . . .”
“Yes, ma’am, earlier,” Payne said. “He sent me a text message saying he got a call and had to run an errand.”
James Benjamin was not in the mood for niceties.
“Matt, this situation has all the makings of that goddamn Skipper Olde. You know he’s a no-good sonofabitch. Had to be his drug deal gone bad. And he dragged in my girl.” He paused. “You can’t charge her with anything for just sitting in her car in a damned parking lot!”
Payne, out of the corner of his eye, saw the blue shirt look up from his paperback.
Well, that got the bored guy’s attention.
“James!” Mrs. Benjamin said softly. “Please.”
“Mr. Benjamin,” Payne replied, “I’m not charging anyone with anything. That will be someone else’s call, most likely a white shirt at the Roundhouse. There’re a lot of questions yet to be answered.”
And that really got his attention.
Then one of the swinging doors to the ICU beside the cop opened.
“Dr. Law!” James Benjamin said. “Any news?”
Matt Payne turned to see an absolutely beautiful blond woman in the white coat of a doctor step out into the corridor. She pulled a powder-blue surgical mask down from her face. She looked to be not quite thirty, five-feet-five and maybe 110 pounds, her golden hair pulled back in a short ponytail under a surgical cap. She had the lean look of a runner, and an air about her of complete confidence.
Jesus! Payne thought. Now, that is a gorgeous woman!
Bright, intelligent face and eyes.
And the body of a goddess.
She walked up to them, a clipboard under her left arm.
Payne’s eye went to the left patch pocket of her white lab coat. There, enhanced by a magnificent mound of bosom beneath the fabric, was stitched in blue: Amanda Law, M.D., F.A.C.S., F.C.C.M.
Payne mentally translated the alphabet soup:
A medical doctor who’s a Fellow of the American College of Surgeons and the American College of Critical Care Medicine.
Correction: An absolutely stunning Fellow.
Payne decided he must have been staring, because Dr. Law suddenly turned and looked at him questioningly.
“Doctor,” Mrs. Benjamin then said, “this is an old friend of the family. And of course Becca’s. Matthew Payne, Dr. Law.”
Dr. Amanda Law looked at him again, curtly nodded once, then turned back to the Benjamins.
She pulled the clipboard out and flipped pages.
“As we discussed briefly, the trauma is significant, worse than the burns, which are about three percent TBSA—”
“Would you mind going over that for me?” Payne said.
She made a face of annoyance at the interruption. She looked to the Benjamins for permission.
They nodded their assent.
“Total Body Surface Area,” Dr. Law said. “A specialized burn center is required for any injury over five percent TBSA, or a burn of the face or hands or one that encircles an extremity. Third-degree—what do you know about burns, Mr. Payne?”
He held up his right hand about ear high. The palm faced her, the thumb holding down the pinky to leave the middle three fingers extended together.
“Everything! I’m an Eagle Scout! And, please, call me Matt.”
She looked at him incredulously.
“First-degree burns,” he went on, lowering his Scout sign, “are mildest. Only the skin’s outer layer is damaged. Second-degrees are worse—deep and very painful. Usually blisters. And third-degree burns, also called full-thickness burns because all skin layers have been affected, are the worst. Very deep and serious. And there may be no pain in the burn because of destroyed nerve endings.”
“Not bad,” Dr. Law said with a serious face. “That is, for a Boy Scout. But there is a fourth-degree. They extend down to the muscle, sometimes to the bone. Fourth-degree is rare.”
Payne nodded. “The pair who died in the explosion had fourth-degree. I just assumed those were categorized as severe third-degree burns. Which, now that I say it, would appear redundant.”
Payne then wondered if Skipper had fourth-degree burns.
Tony Harris also had told him that when Skipper bolted out of the burning motel room, he thought that the staggering man had been damn lucky to get out alive with only his clothes blown to shreds. Then Harris had realized the man was naked. What he’d thought were strips of clothing actually had been his flesh blown into strips.
“You were at the motel, Matt?” Mrs. Benjamin said with great interest.
“Yes, ma’am. Afterward. After the firefighters finished.”
“And you saw the ones who died?” Dr. Law asked.
Payne nodded. “The tech from the Medical Examiner’s Office showed me.”
“May I ask what you were doing there?” Dr. Law asked.
“I’m with the Homicide Unit.” He reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a wad of cash folded under a silver money clip. From the middle of the bills he slipped out one of the three or four business cards he kept there. He held out one to her. “Sergeant Matt Payne. My information, in case you can think of something I should know later.”
And
with that statement the blue shirt now has figured me out.
She looked at it, then wordlessly—and perfunctorily—took it. She stuck it on her clipboard, then looked him in the eyes.
Do I detect, my dear doctor, something more than idle interest?
Please? You’re certainly Law. I would like to study . . .
“Matt,” Mr. Benjamin injected, “do you mind if we get back to Becca?”
Dr. Law said: “My apology, Mr. Benjamin. Your daughter is now heavily sedated and immobilized. The windshield that hit her actually did her a bit of a favor. That is to say, what hurt her also helped her.”
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Benjamin said.
“It served to protect her from worse injury. Her burns are limited to her upper scalp and her right hand. The glass protected the rest of her body.”
“Thank God!” Andrea Benjamin said, then audibly sighed with relief.
“Unfortunately,” Dr. Law continued, “the blunt-force trauma of the windshield has caused intracranial hypertension—”
“Becca’s brain is swelling?” Payne interrupted.
Dr. Law nodded. And it was clear by the look on her face she was impressed Payne even knew the term “intracranial hypertension.”
She looked between the Benjamins and went on: “We are going to try some first steps, ones that could correct the problem. But, Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin, I must caution you to be prepared that it may come to us having to induce a coma.”
“A coma!” James Benjamin said.
Andrea Benjamin put the handkerchief to her face and sniffled.
“We may not,” Dr. Law said, her tone soft yet reassuring. “I will of course be conferring with colleagues, specialists, before deciding. And of course with you.”
James Benjamin shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus!”
Payne could see that Benjamin’s muscles were now even more tense.
“Can you tell us what is going to happen now?” Andrea Benjamin said.
“Yes, of course,” Dr. Law said. “As I said, we have your daughter as comfortable as possible. She is in what might be described as a plastic tent. It creates an absolute sterile environment. There is a HEPA filter system hooked up to it that removes dust, dirt, and other particles from the air inside the tent to reduce the chances of infection of the patient.”
“What about the burns?” Andrea Benjamin said. “Will she require . . . oh, what’s the word?”
“Grafts?” Payne offered.
That earned him the glare of Dr. Law.
“Mrs. Benjamin,” she then said calmly, “I do not think skin grafts will be necessary. We have come a long way with specialized treatments. There are, for example, enzymatic agents. These dissolve the burn’s dead tissue on the surface. The process then lets the tissue underneath heal. Also, we have the option of artificial skin, with which we have had significant positive results.”
“Oh, that is all such wonderful information,” Andrea Benjamin said, her tone somewhat hopeful. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Dr. Law nodded and said, “But please remember: We’re very early in this process. There’s much work”—there was a perceptible pause as her eyes looked down the corridor—“to do.”
Payne looked to where she’d glanced. Joseph Olde was walking toward them.
“Good morning,” Olde called as he saw them looking at him.
“What the hell is good about it?” James Benjamin blurted.
“James . . .” Andrea said reprovingly. She looked at Olde. “Any news on Skipper, Joseph?”
“Nothing new yet.” He stared at Payne. “You’re Matt Payne, aren’t you?”
You didn’t have the decency to return the courtesy? Payne thought.
You could’ve at least asked Mrs. Benjamin about Becca.
Even if apparently you don’t give a damn.
Matt looked at James Benjamin.
And that’s not lost on her father. . . .
No wonder Skipper can be such a prick.
Clearly, the nut didn’t fall far from the fucking tree.
“That’s right, Mr. Olde,” Payne replied.
“You still playing cop?” Olde said, but didn’t wait for a response before looking at James Benjamin. “Listen, Jim, I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones, but this time, this meth—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Benjamin snapped.
Payne could see the veins in Benjamin’s temples pulsing.
Olde arrogantly went on: “Well, clearly this girl of yours has an established long pattern of substance abuse—”
“Why, you son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch!” James Benjamin shouted, furiously drawing out his declaration of sonofabitch.
What happened next transpired so quickly that Payne did not have time to even try to stop it.
Benjamin balled his right fist and swung. His punch hit Olde square in the left cheek, causing Olde to stagger back two steps. But remarkably Olde quickly recovered, and practically launched his lanky body at Benjamin, knocking them both to the floor.
“Stop it, you two!” Andrea Benjamin demanded.
The blue shirt sitting by the swinging doors dropped his paperback book. He reached up to his right epaulet, where the microphone of his radio was pinned.
He keyed the mic, and barked, “Kowenski! Get your ass down here!”
Then he jumped out of the chair and moved toward the brawl to break it up.
As Payne also moved that way, he saw a gurney come around the corner and into the corridor. It was being pushed by an orderly in blue scrubs.
[TWO]
1344 W. Susquehanna Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 10:40 A.M.
Chad Nesbitt weaved his cobalt-blue BMW M3 coupe through the slower traffic headed down Broad Street. He idly wondered if he was about to walk into some kind of setup, but the anguished voice on the phone sounded painfully genuine.
It had been that of a man. He spoke reasonably good English, but it was clearly with a Spanish accent. And when he said he was trying to find “Meester Skeeper,” Nesbitt knew that that was just too coincidental. He had to grant the man’s request for a meeting.
“How did you get my number?” Nesbitt had asked.
“From Meester Skeeper.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He give me his old cell phone. One day, I make mistake when I push a button. I thought the phone call Meester Skeeper. But it had all Meester Skeeper’s numbers, and it call you, your voice mail. I hang up. When I tell Meester Skeeper this, he say it is no problem. That you are his best friend. That you are partner in his business.”
“But why are you calling me now?”
“Because there is a problem with the business. Very bad. And I cannot reach him. He does not answer his cell phone.”
“What sort of bad problem?”
There had been a long silence before the man spoke. “I cannot say.”
“You cannot tell me? Or cannot tell me on the phone.”
“On the phone. Is better that I tell Meester Skeeper in person.”
And there had been a long silence before Nesbitt spoke. “That won’t be possible for some time. He’s badly hurt, and in the hospital.”
Nesbitt heard the man mutter, “Madre de Dios!” Then he said, “Is Meester Skeeper going to be okay?”
Nesbitt did not know how to answer at first, then said, “We don’t know. I can tell you that it will be some time before he’s able to speak with you.”
The man then said, “Then, please, I must speak with you. His best amigo and partner in business.”
Six blocks after crossing Lehigh Avenue—which almost didn’t happen because he nearly got sideswiped by a damn rusty white Plymouth minivan that ran the red and then flew down Lehigh—Nesbitt approached the intersection of Dauphin and Broad. This was the outer edge of the neighborhood where Temple University served as somewhat of an anchor.
The light at Dauphin turned red. As he waited for it, he looked down the street. On the
left he saw a series of retail chains—a McDonald’s fast-food restaurant, a Rite-Price pharmacy—and some mom-and-pop shops.
The man on the phone had said the laundromat was there, but he could not make it out.
And that’s another coincidence.
A laundromat. And Skipper.
Who is this guy?
He absolutely would not tell me what he wanted.
Except that it was “mucho important.”
The traffic light cycled. He crossed Dauphin and started scanning for the laundromat. At the next corner, which was Susquehanna, he saw a convenience store’s signage—TEMPLE GAS & GO. Next door to that, sharing a wall, was a brick-faced building that looked as if it recently had been renovated.
The brick was clean and bright, as if freshly sandblasted. There was a glistening glass door set in shiny aluminum framing. On either side of the new door were six large plate-glass windows, also similarly framed in aluminum, that were covered from the inside with what looked like brown wrapping paper.
As Nesbitt slowed the car, he read the announcement that was painted on the paper in bright festive colors:COMING SOON! ANOTHER NEW SUDSIE’S!
Under that, with lots of cartoonish foam overflowing from an oversize beer mug and a washing machine, was Sudsie’s’ marketing slogan:GET SLOSHED WITH US!
Nesbitt groaned audibly.
What were you thinking, Skipper?
About that and everything else?
He then pulled the M3 coupe into an empty parking spot at the curb around the corner.
When Chad Nesbitt got to the new front door of Sudsie’s, he saw that someone had posted a sign that read CLOSED—PLEASE COME AGAIN and an emergency contact telephone number. He didn’t recognize the number.
He hammered the door with a balled fist, but there was no answer.
He then pulled out his phone from the left front pocket of his pants. He thumbed keys to reach the RECENT CALLS menu, then highlighted the first call on the list. He hit the CALL key.
The Traffickers Page 17