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“The Commish . . .” he said slowly, and then was silent for a moment. “My God! And now the Commish’s grandson-in-law, or whatever the hell that would make him, has been arrested for smuggling drugs?”
“I was told that for the last six months he’s been working on the renovation of Saints Peter and Paul Cathedral.”
Payne pointed. “The one down Race, over by Logan Circle? What’s it called? Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul?”
“There happens to be more than one in the world, Matthew,” Washington said dryly. “And this particular one happens to be in the Virgin Islands. On Saint Thomas.”
Payne’s face brightened.
“He’s been working in the Caribbean for six months? Now, that’s something I could get used to.”
“Not a solid six months. He was going down for two weeks at a time.”
“Still beats being stuck in this miserable winter weather.”
“And he got caught smuggling what?” Byrth said.
“Two one-kilogram bricks of cocaine to PHL.”
“No offense,” Byrth said, “but grabbing two keys is a slow morning on the Texas border. The Rangers alone average that. The Customs and Border Patrol guys get even more.”
“I understood a very slow morning,” Washington said. “And that proves the point that it’s cause and effect.”
“Meaning?” Payne said.
Washington gestured at Byrth. “While our friends along the Mexican border may not be stopping all the trafficking, they are shutting down a lot. The pressure is forcing the cartels to develop old and new routes. There has been a sharp rise in cocaine moving from Colombia and Venezuela through the Caribbean to the States. That’s why direct flights coming here from the islands and South Florida are getting much heavier scrutiny.”
“Too bad they didn’t let him make the delivery,” Payne said, “follow the package farther up the chain.”
“From what I was told, they were not certain that he had the drugs. And he certainly did not have the characteristics of a courier. Following him could have turned into a wild-goose chase. The best they could do was ask for permission to search. And he instantly owned up that he had the drugs.”
Washington suddenly produced his cell phone from his jacket pocket.
He looked at it, then said: “We can discuss further at Liberties. I have been summoned downstairs.”
—
When Washington had gone out the door of the ECC, Payne turned to Byrth.
“Okay, we grab dinner and some liquid encouragement with Mickey at Liberties before heading over to the flophouse. That should put us there right about the time the crackheads come home to roost.”
“Perfect.”
“Do you have a room?”
“Not yet.”
“You could use my apartment if it wasn’t a mess of half-packed moving boxes. Hang on.” He searched his address book, found the number he wanted. After a moment, he said into the phone, “Hello, this is Matt Payne. I have a guest I’d like to get a room for—” He listened for a moment, then said, “You are? Very well. Please call me if that changes. Thank you.”
He raised his eyebrows as he looked at Byrth.
“What?” Byrth said.
“Plan B, as in Byrth,” Payne then said, holding up his left index finger as his right thumb hit a speed-dial key on his phone.
He recognized the slight Polish accent when his call was answered on the first ring.
“David, it’s Matt Payne. How are you fixed for an overflow room tonight?” He paused to listen. “Great. Save it for me for the next week, starting tonight. I’ll get the key around nine.”
