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The packet had a rubber stamp imprint in light blue ink of a cartoonish block of Swiss cheese. To either side of the cheese block were three lines that shot outward. Above the cheese was a legend in blue ink.
“Queso azul,” Payne read, then said, “That’s the blue cheese you told me about.”
“Bingo,” Byrth said.
“What’s blue cheese?” Rapier said.
“Cold medicine mixed with black tar heroin and sold to kids at two bucks a bump,” Payne said. He looked at Byrth and asked, “What’s with the three lines on either side? They look like cartoon sun rays.”
“Whiskers.”
“Whiskers?”
Byrth nodded. “El Gato. Cat whiskers. That’s his product. So it’s here. But where the hell is he?”
“Jesus,” Payne said. He added, “You think he shot up the market?”
“Could’ve been anyone,” Byrth said. “Anyone with a five-point-seven weapon. It’s certainly not outside the scope of what the bastard is capable of doing.”
Payne was looking back at the bank of screens with the various TV news broadcasts. The feed from the local FOX News channel showed images of the Philadelphia Fire Department at work. Firemen were battling extraordinarily large flames from two vehicles ablaze in a vacant lot adjacent to run-down row houses. Between the roaring fires and the wall of water being pumped at them, it was difficult to distinguish what type of vehicles they were.
Text along the bottom of the screen read: EARLIER TODAY IN WEST KENSINGTON, FIREFIGHTER
S FOUGHT TO EXTINGUISH THE FLAMES FROM TWO VEHICLES. AUTHORITIES SAY ARSON WAS THE CAUSE.
Matt felt a vibration in the front pocket of his pants. He pulled out his cellular phone and saw that he had a text message. The color LCD screen read: AMY PAYNE-1 TXT MSG TODAY @ 1730.
He went to it: AMY PAYNE
We still on for Liberties… 6ISH?
Payne looked again at the time stamp.
Five thirty.
That’s right. She said meet at six.
We can still beat her there.
He typed and then sent: see u @ 6 “I think we’re finished here for now, Kerry,” Payne said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime.”
Payne looked at Jim Byrth.
“How about we go get a few fingers poured of your choice of adult intoxi cants? If we get to Homicide’s unofficial favorite spot early enough, we can enjoy our beverages before She Who Is Always Right arrives. Then we can bounce some of this off her.”
Byrth nodded appreciatively. “I could use a little something to cut the dust, Marshal.”
THREE
3900 Block of Castor Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 5:54 P.M.
Sitting in the shadows of the trash Dumpsters in the alleyway, Paco “El Nariz” Esteban twice had had to move. The first time was because the big garbage truck had come to empty the three Dumpsters serving as his cover. That had stirred up the trash and caused the receptacles to really reek.
The second time was because a Philadelphia Police Department squad car came rolling down the alley.
That had caused Paco Nariz too many thoughts. And they came practically all at once.
