The Traffickers

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “She?” Byrth repeated.

  “Amy. That’s her Yukon.”

  “Back home, that and its twin, the Suburban, is called the National Truck of Texas. Damn near every elementary and middle-school drop-off/pickup lane is packed bumper to bumper with those twice a day.”

  “Not Amy. No kids.”

  “That’s a late-model Yukon,” Byrth said. “What the hell happened with all those dents and scratches? A Demolition Derby? And was it parked there—or deserted?”

  Payne looked at it and chuckled at the observation.

  The SUV had originally belonged to Brewster Payne. He had made it a gift to his daughter, Amelia Payne, MD. It wasn’t that she needed it for its large size. She had yet to marry and, appropriately, she had no children. Which may have been fortuitous in and of itself, as any husband or child would have been terrified to be a passenger of a motor vehicle operated by Amy Payne.

  Amy Payne had many fine qualities. For whatever reason, being a decent driver was not among them. And it baffled everyone why she even bothered getting behind the wheel. Her mishaps with her various motor vehicles on (and occasionally off) the roads of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania bordered on the legendary. No curb, street sign, light pole, or other vehicle in her path was safe.

  And knowing all this, Brewster Payne passed his Yukon to her in the hope that the big truck just might keep her alive.

  Matt Payne put the rental Ford in park, turned off the engine, and looked at Jim Byrth. “You know, if you’re feeling brave, I’ll let you ask its owner. My sister just loves nothing more than to talk cars.”

  “Why do I suspect you’re setting me up?” Byrth replied.

  Payne’s cellular phone started ringing.

  “Excuse me.”

  He pulled it from his pants pocket and saw from the screen who was calling. He pushed the key to answer. “Yes, sir?” he said into it. There was a pause. Then he said: “No, Jason, no problems in the ECC. Thanks for asking. We left it not twenty minutes ago. I’m about to introduce Jim to the stubby Statue of Liberty—” He paused again.

  Byrth grinned as he looked out the windshield. On the sidewalk in front of the bar’s window was a scale model of the Statue of Liberty. It was green and stood about five feet tall. The bar itself was a narrow three-story brick-faced structure that was at the end of a block-long building. Its wooden front door was on the left, under a half-circle canvas awning.

  Payne went on: “Right. And he’s about to meet our favorite family shrink. I thought we could combine a welcome party with some shop talk. Care to join us?” Payne listened a moment. “Great. See you shortly.”

  Payne ended the call and looked at Byrth. “Good news. The Black Buddha is going to join us.”

  Byrth laughed aloud at that.

  “You’ve got the cojones to call him that behind his back?”

  Payne, now that he knew the translation, grinned at the term.

  “I’ve got the co-hone-ees to call him that to his face,” Payne said. “It doesn’t offend him. He once told me that he believed Buddha to be a very wise man. Then he added, ‘And, Good Lord, there’s no denying I’m black.’ ”

  Byrth chuckled. “He strikes me as a good man.”

  Payne, his tone serious, said, “Yeah, a very good man. He’s one of my favorite people. And one of the best homicide detectives anywhere. I’m glad he’s joining us.”

  They got out of the car. As they started for the door to the bar, Payne motioned at the stubby Statue of Liberty.

  “Meet Miss Liberty,” he said formally. “And welcome to Liberties, sometimes referred to as the preferred watering hole of Philly’s Homicide Unit.”

  Inside Liberties, Matt found the place was maybe a third full. Along the left wall were wooden tables with booths. They all were taken by patrons. A large wooden bar ran a good part of the opposite wall, from the front window almost back to the wooden stairs leading upstairs. It was mostly empty. In the middle were more tables and chairs. There, Matt saw Amy sitting at a table, her head down. She apparently was reading the screen of her cellular telephone.

  “There she is,” Payne said to Byrth.

  Byrth followed him across the room. He saw that Amy Payne looked to be about thirty years old, petite and intense, her brown hair snipped short. She wasn’t necessarily pretty, but was an attractive, natural-looking young woman.

  As they approached Amy’s table, she looked up from her cell phone. Byrth was removing The Hat from his head, and she was unable to hide her surprise.

  “Hi, Amy,” Matt said. “I want you to meet a friend of Liz Justice’s.”

  Amy Payne well knew the family and police connections with the Justice family. She recovered from her initial shock and smiled warmly.

  “Jim Byrth, this is my sister, Amy Payne. Amy, Jim.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Byrth said, offering his hand.

  Amy took it.

  “Jim is a sergeant with the Texas Rangers.”

  “Really? I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds impressive.”

  “It is,” Matt said, then added, “The Black Buddha is going to join us.”

  “The more the merrier,” Amy said without much conviction.

  Jesus Christ. Is she in one of her moods?

  It’s been too long a day for that.

  Matt looked at her. “Everything okay?”

  “Should I be asking the same of you, Wyatt Earp?”

  “You two want to be alone?” Byrth asked.

  Matt made a face. “No, Jim. You’re fine.”

  “Sorry about that, Jim,” Amy said. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

  “No apology. I’m a big boy. I just thought you might want some privacy for when you punched Matt.”

  She looked at him and smiled. It was a genuine one.

  “C’mon, Amy,” Matt said. “That was a good shooting. For Christ’s sake, that sonofabitch pumped thirteen rounds into Skipper. It was an assassination. And there’s video that proves I got shot at.”

  He stared at her.

  After a moment, he said, “Can we not get into this right now? It’s been one helluva day, and Jim and I could use a drink. Or three.”

  He looked at the table. All that was there was the usual centerpiece. It held salt and pepper shakers and a container with packets of sugar and sugar substitute. But there was no drink, not even water.

  “You’re not drinking, Amy?”

  “We haven’t ordered. We just got here.”

  We? Matt thought.

  She glanced toward the back of the bar, where the steps led to the second-floor dining area and, beyond the steps, the men’s and ladies’ rooms.

  Matt’s eyes followed hers back there—and he thought he was going to have a heart attack.

  Coming out from the very back, by the restrooms, was an absolutely gorgeous blonde who was running the fingers of her right hand through her thick, luxurious hair.

  Good God! Amanda Law!

  In Liberties!

  Be still, my heart!

  VIII

  [ONE]

  705 North Second Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 6:05 P.M.

  Sergeant Matt Payne watched the gorgeous Dr. Amanda Law as she walked across the well-worn wooden floor of Liberties. He saw that she no longer had her doctor’s lab coat. Now she wore jeans that fit her toned body remarkably snugly, gold metallic leather flat-soled espadrilles, and a clingy white linen top that was cut to reveal just a suggestion of cleavage.

  He had a hard time believing that this goddess was in one of his favorite bars.

  Look at that stride, he thought. She just seems to float across the room.

  Matt turned to his sister.

  “You know Dr. Law?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Dr. Amelia Payne replied. “So do you.”

  “I do? I just met her this morning, at the hospital.”

  Amy stared at her brother.

  After a moment, she said, “You really don’t remember?�
�

  Matt broke the stare, then glanced at Jim Byrth.

  Byrth smiled and said, “Don’t look at me, Marshal. I just rode into town.”

  Amy then said, “Her father was a cop, Matt. In Northeast Detectives.”

  Matt shook his head. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He had twenty years in when he got shot on duty. Took a bullet to the hip. So they gave him disability and he retired. And Amanda and I were suitemates our freshman year at UP.”

  “Suitemates?”

  Amy shook her head disappointedly, as if she were speaking to a five-year-old.

  “Yeah,” Amy said. “She and her roommate had one bedroom, my roommate and I had the other, and we shared a bath. Don’t be so dense.”

  “I know what a suitemate is. I just forgot she’d been yours.”

  If I ever knew.

  I was still at the academy—blame it on my being preoccupied with whatever girlfriend I had at the time.

  Amy went on: “When I heard about Becca, I called Amanda. It’s no small wonder it turned out that Becca’s her patient; Amanda’s the best. She wanted to meet me for drinks, but I told her you and I were doing that. And so I asked if she wanted to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Matt glanced at the approaching Amanda.

  Mind?

  Me mind?

  Never.

  “This Becca is the one who was injured in the motel explosion?” Jim Byrth said. “And this woman is her doctor?”

  “Yeah,” Amy said. “Becca Benjamin. We’ve known the family for years. And Amanda is Becca’s doctor.”

  Byrth nodded and said, “Matt told me that. I was just making sure I had it straight.”

  Dr. Amanda Law walked up to the table. She smiled and said, “Hello again, Matt.”

  He felt his pulse start to race.

  Matt held out his hand and said, “We’re going to have to stop meeting, or people are going to start talking.”

  Now, that was lame!

  I’m just making all sorts of great impressions on her today.

  God, she even smells heavenly!

  She raised her eyebrows. “It has been an interesting day. At least these circumstances are more civil.”

  Matt said, “Amy tells me we met a long time ago.”

  “Amy told me the same. I don’t doubt it. But I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

  What? I’m crushed!

  Amanda went on: “When you gave me your card this morning, I thought the ‘Payne’ was familiar. But then I didn’t know if the connection was because of Amy having the same name or because of my dad knowing cops.”

  “Speaking of cops,” she said, and reached into her purse, “I brought you something.”

  She pulled out a tongue depressor and held it out to him.

  Damn!

  “Amanda, I do owe you an apology . . .”

  “What’s that about?” Amy said. “An apology?”

  Matt ignored his sister.

  He took the flat wooden stick, looked at it a second, then said, “I’m really sorry, Amanda. Really. It was an extraordinary moment.”

  “Yes, it was. Apology accepted.”

  Matt smiled.

  Thank God.

  “Thank you,” he said, slipping the depressor into his pocket.

  He motioned toward Byrth.

  “Now that that’s all straightened out, Dr. Amanda Law, this is Sergeant Jim Byrth.”

  “How are you, Sergeant?” Amanda said.

  “It’s ‘Jim.’ And I’m fine, thank you, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Payne pulled out a chair for Amanda.

  “Thank you,” she said as she sat down.

  Payne then waved his hand above his head to get the attention of the waitress. She was at the end of the bar, putting an order of drinks on a round tray. When she saw him, he motioned with his fist to mime drinking, then pointed at their table. The waitress smiled and nodded.

  Jim Byrth was about to sit down.

  “You can’t sit there,” Payne said.

  “What’re you going to do,” Amy said sharply, “have your guest stand all night?”

  Matt raised his eyebrows. “And I thought that I had a bad day.”

  He stepped over to the adjacent table, put his hands on opposite ends of the tabletop, and began sliding it toward the table where Amy and Amanda sat. Jim Byrth saw that the chair that he’d been about to sit in was in the way. He moved it. When the tables had been pushed together, he and Matt rearranged the empty chairs.

  The new arrangement had Amanda sitting at one end and Amy on the corner to her left. Matt sat down in the chair on the corner to Amanda’s right, which gave him a clear view of the front door. Byrth then sat to the right of Matt. The Hat went into the empty chair at the end of the table, the one opposite Amanda Law.

  The bar’s wooden front door squeaked open.

  Matt Payne automatically glanced at it—and saw that Byrth did the same. It was obviously no accident that the Texas Ranger had also made sure he had a view of the door—and of everyone who entered or left.

  In came Jason Washington. On his heels was Tony Harris. Both were in plainclothes. Washington was in a tailored tan poplin suit that even after the long, hard day looked crisp. Harris had on dark slacks, a white knit shirt, and his usual well-worn blue blazer.

  Matt waved and got their attention.

  As they came up to the table, Washington lit up like a kid at Christmas.

  “That is you, Amanda!” he exclaimed. “How are you, sweetheart?”

  Jesus H. Christ! Payne thought as he watched him move around the table to reach her. Does everyone know this woman except me?

  And, clearly, love her?

  Has she been right there in front of me all these years?

  Reminds me of that saying . . . how’s it go? Oh, yeah.

  “If you want to find something, stop looking for it.”

  Payne felt Byrth looking at him as Matt stared at Amanda. Payne turned to Byrth, then shrugged and raised his eyebrows to say, Who knew?

  “I’m well, Jason, thank you very much,” Amanda Law was saying.

  She turned her head slightly, holding up her left cheek. Washington gently kissed it.

  “And your father?” Washington went on. “How is he?”

  “Doing very well. I’m sure if he knew I was here, he would have sent his regards.”

  “Please give him mine. It’s been a long time.”

  “I will. This is a nice surprise. How is Martha? Please tell her I said hello.”

  I’ll be damned! Matt thought. And she’s friendly with Martha Washington, too.

  That’s as good as being family!

  How the hell have I missed out on this goddess?

  A goddess who’s not only obviously very bright and skilled—but one who knows about cops.

  I won’t have to try to explain what it is that I do.

  And, maybe more important, why it is that I do it.

  Unbelievable. . . .

  Jason Washington was saying, “My beautiful bride is doing marvelously. She’ll be even more so when I tell her you said hello.”

  The Black Buddha turned to Amy Payne and said warmly, “Nice to see you, too, Amy. How are you?”

  “Doing pretty good, Jason. Thank you,” she replied pleasantly, then looked at Harris. “Hello, Tony.”

  “Hi, Amy.” Harris waved. “Good to see you.”

  “Tony,” Jason Washington said, gesturing toward Amanda, “this is Charley Law’s daughter, Amanda. Dr. Amanda Law.”

  Harris stepped over and shook her hand.

  “Good to meet you, Doctor. I never met your father, but I do know his reputation. He was one helluva detective.”

  Amanda Law made a small smile. “That’s kind of you to say.”

  “And,” Washington went on, “this is Jim Byrth.”

  Byrth stood. Harris held out his hand.

  “Tony Harris, Jim. Have heard a bit about you, too. Go
od to meet you.”

  “And you,” Byrth said gripping the hand.

  The waitress appeared.

  “Impeccable timing!” Jason Washington said, and with his arms extended and his huge hands open, he made the exaggerated fanning motion of a minister telling his congregation to be seated in the pews. “Everyone sit so we can order.”

  [TWO]

  705 North Second Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 6:30 P.M.

  “When we got word from our informants that this El Gato had gone ballistic and was whacking drug runners who were in arrears to him,” Byrth was saying to his attentive audience at the table, “we scrambled. But unfortunately not before the psychopath lopped off the heads of two girls, one in Fort Worth’s Northside and one near downtown Houston, last week. Both heads were thrown into packed barrio bars where their family members were known to hang out. The bodies are still missing. Then I figured out that El Gato had fled to Philadelphia. And here I am.”

  He drained his Jack Black on the rocks and sighed.

  “And now it’s maybe three girls he’s killed.”

  He slid the glass on the table. It stopped beside a large bowl of cashews. Another bowl next to it was almost empty of its stick pretzels. Also on the table was a collection of glasses and bottles, the latter consisting of one each Old Bushmills Irish Whiskey, Famous Grouse, Jack Daniel’s, and Concho y Toro Shiraz wine.

  “We don’t automatically jump at the term ‘psychopath,’” Dr. Amelia Payne said.

  “I do,” Byrth said. “Among other choice words that my manners do not allow to be repeated in such polite company.”

  Amy, holding a half-full glass of red wine, said, “The reason we don’t is because psychopathy is the most severe condition. It’s found in only one percent of the population.”

  Byrth said, “Doc, with all respect—if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it’s a damned duck.”

  Amy stared at the Texas Ranger, clearly considering her next words.

  Before she could speak, he added, “That, or it’s la folie raisonnante.”