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“You, too, Jim.”
Matt broke off the call, then checked the screen:
AMANDA 9:22 PM
WHERE ARE YOU? WE NEED TO TALK.
Oh shit, he thought as he typed: “Meet in bar?”
Is this good or bad?
Either way, I’ll need a drink.
Then maybe we can get back to dinner . . . and everything else.
He hit SEND, and another message box popped on-screen:
BYRTH 9:23 PM
GOOD HEARING YOUR VOICE. IMAGES FOLLOW.
GIVE AMANDA A KISS FOR ME. TAKE CARE OF HER . . . LADIES LIKE THAT ARE RARE INDEED.
As Matt smiled and nodded appreciatively, his phone vibrated twice. Each of the messages contained only an image. He studied the Hacienda business card, then the girl’s Department of Transportation ID.
Beautiful girl . . .
Hazzard Street? That’s in Kensington.
He hit the FORWARD key, found Tony Harris’s phone number, and typed: “Our brother-in-arms the Texas Ranger needs whatever we can find out about this girl. Can you have someone run it ASAP? Maybe Kerry Rapier can crack it open beyond the obvious. Thanks.”
The girl’s bright eyes seemed to stare out at him as his finger touched the SEND
key and the image went away.
He then looked out past the palm trees and the groomed white sand beach to the Atlantic Ocean, and the majestic moon and blanket of stars above it. The wind was picking up. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the cleansing feel of the salty air, then exhaled and shook his head.
So much beauty in this world. And so much hell.
You never know what’s coming next.
As Amanda’s friend Carl Crantz said just before his lungs gave out: “Live every day like it’s your last.”
He turned and started to walk up the tiki-torch-lined path toward the bar. Another message came in with an image.
A third?
He read it:
BYRTH 9:23 PM
MATT, THIS IS IT FOR NOW. FIGURED YOU NEEDED TO SEE WHAT WE’RE DEALING WITH. GOT THIS FROM THE SCENE.
FWD: GLENN PABODY 8:03 PM
JIM . . . HERE’S THE LAST IMAGE.
And then he tapped the image.
