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“Next door, around the campfire when we were kids camping on Big Munson. And, later, on family trips to the Caribbean.”
“So now,” Chad went on, “out of Miami’s Little Havana, the exiles there have created a cottage industry of sorts. They charge Cuban-Americans upwards of ten grand to have a relative snuck out of Cuba and snuck ashore here.”
Matt nodded thoughtfully. “Which explains why that guy was determined to get those refugees onto land. A dozen people at ten grand each comes to a hundred and twenty thousand reasons.”
“What happens to the guy running the boat?” Amanda said.
“Likely nothing,” Chad said. “Often he’s a Cuban, too. They don’t earn even a dollar a day—and that’s in pesos, which are worthless anywhere but Cuba. So, he’s broke. But if he produces a Cuban national identity card, he’s home free—literally. Even if he gets locked up, he probably won’t serve any real time, and when he’s released, wouldn’t surprise me that someone slips him a nice cash payment. And maybe puts him and his Eleguá in another boat for another run.”
“Frightening,” Amanda said.
“Yeah,” Chad said, then drained his drink. “But I’ll tell you what’s really becoming frightening.”
“What?” Matt said.
“Philly. Just when you think it’s bad enough, things get worse.”
Matt grunted. “No argument there.”
“I mean it’s something new every day. Did you hear what happened to Maggie McCain’s place? Daffy drove by it this afternoon. I just heard about it shortly before that.”
Daphne Elizabeth Browne Nesbitt was Chad’s wife and the mother of Matt’s toddler goddaughter. The Nesbitts lived minutes away from Maggie in Society Hill, at Number 9 Stockton Place, one of three enormous (four thousand square feet) units built behind the facades of a dozen pre-Revolutionary brownstone buildings.
What the hell is up with this? Matt thought.
Everyone knows but me? Damn it!
“Maggie?” Amanda immediately said. “Is she okay? What happened?”
“A home invasion,” Chad explained. “At least that’s what we think it started as, but then her place caught on fire. Luckily the fire station is close by. I didn’t want to bring it up at dinner, but . . .”
“Her house was invaded and burned? When?” Amanda said, then muttered, “How come I didn’t hear?”
“Happened late last night. She wasn’t home, as far as anyone knows. But word from the neighbors is that a Crime Scene van was there long after the fire truck guys left.” He looked at Matt. “I’m surprised you don’t know anything about this.”
No shit. Me, too, Matt thought.
But now I know why Jason called. They must be treating this as a homicide.
How exactly does Maggie fit in? Clearly she is missing. . . .
“I don’t know about a lot of Killadelphia cases that are working,” Matt said. “Don’t forget that our City of Brotherly Love averages a murder a day.”
He felt Amanda looking at him and met her eyes. He could see sadness in them—and that her mind was in high gear.
Amanda then pulled out her cell phone and placed a call. A minute later, wordlessly, she hung up.
“Maggie didn’t answer,” Amanda said matter-of-factly, looking at her phone as she thumbed the screen. “I got one of those canned mechanical messages saying that her voice-mail box is full. And then it hung up on me.”
She slid the phone back in her purse.
“I just texted her to call me. I wonder if Sarah has heard from her . . .” she said, pulling her phone back out to send another text.
And that just answered part of the Black Buddha’s question.
Why the hell is Jason keeping this so secretive?
Well, she gave me my opening . . .
