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“Now called SNAP,” Washington went on, “for Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. We ran the card, got off it her name and Social Security number, and that pulled up a hit with CPS. She’d been in and out of foster homes since age six. Before turning eighteen, her Last Known Address was in South Philly, at Mary’s House. She also had twenty-two bucks cash in her jeans—all singles, one rolled up and containing cocaine residue—and two orange fifty-dollar poker chips from Lucky Stars.”
Washington motioned with the sheet from the medical examiner.
“The autopsy also found evidence that she was healing from rough sexual activity,” he said. “Most likely that she’d been sexually assaulted, especially considering the welts on the back of her legs that the medical examiner believes were from a wire coat hanger.”
Carlucci made a sour face as he shook his head.
“Such a damn shame,” he said. “But the sad fact is that if I had a dime for every time some trick in Philly got whipped with a pimp stick, I could be living the high life like our boy Matty.” He paused. “Which reminds me, Denny, where the hell is he?”
“To use your phrase,” Coughlin said, “he’s living the high life. They’re in the Florida Keys. Jason was just in touch with him.”
“They?”
Washington nodded, and explained, “Mrs. McCain gave us a list of Margaret’s friends. Amanda Law was on it. She said Amanda and Margaret had spoken since she returned from her vacation. Amanda is with Matthew, so I called him and requested that he discreetly inquire if Amanda had heard from her.”
“Charley’s daughter, the doctor? Any truth to the rumor I heard that they’re getting married?”
Washington nodded. “Indeed there is. They are.”
For the first time, Carlucci’s face brightened. “Good. Her old man, like Matty’s, was as solid a cop as they come. Maybe since she understands cops she can keep ole Wyatt Earp out of the headlines.”
“Jerry,” Coughlin put in, “I wouldn’t mind having him on the case. He runs easily in those social circles—”
“No,” Carlucci snapped, making eye contact. Then he sighed. “No, Denny, not right now. Maybe later—”
His cell phone began ringing. He made a look of annoyance, then glanced at its screen, muttered, “Damn, McCain,” then put the phone to his head and answered in an authoritative, even tone, “Carlucci.”
All eyes were on him as he said: “Who just heard from Maggie?”
[TWO]
Off Big Pine Key, Florida
Sunday, November 16, 4:02 P.M.
Matt Payne double-checked the lightly laminated NOAA navigation chart, then picked up the binoculars, scanned ahead of the Viking, and after a moment located what he was looking for—the outer markers of the channel that led to Big Pine Key, Little Torch Key, and Little Palm Island.
If he had wanted, he could just as easily have looked at the screen of the GPS unit, which would have pinpointed the exact location of the markers and the entire channel, and the boat’s exact position relative to them, then dialed in the autopilot. But Matt, as much as he appreciated technology, liked to practice his map and compass, dead reckoning, and other navigation skills—believing that it wasn’t a case of if technology was going to fail but when it would crap out on him.
As wise ol’ Murphy made law, “If anything can go wrong, it will—and at the worst possible damn time.”
Only a fool tempts fate at sea. . . .
The dark blue of the deeper water now gave way to a glistening aqua green. The depth sounder, confirming what he read on the chart, showed they were running in sixty feet of water. Closer to shore, and the clear, shallower water there, the white of the bottom could easily be seen.
When he put the optics on the console, he saw his cell phone screen light up and a text message box appear:
MICKEY O’HARA 4:03 PM
CALL ME ASAP. I’M CHASING DEADLINE AND NEED INFO.
Michael J. O’Hara, a Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter, and Matt had developed an interesting—if unusual—close friendship over the years. The wiry thirty-seven-year-old, of Irish descent and with a head of unruly red hair, was unorthodox but uncompromisingly fair—and thus had earned the respect of the cops who walked the beat on up to the commissioner himself.
It was O’Hara who, when Payne had been grazed in the forehead by a ricochet bullet in his first shoot-out, photographed the bloodied rookie cop standing with his .45 over the dead shooter, and later wrote the headline: “Officer M. M. Payne, 23, The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”
I’m not working any cases, Matt thought as he texted back: “OK. ASAP.”
What could I know that he wants for a story?
