way of reply, the technician pressed the play button on the screen. A voice came out of a pair of speakers. She immediately recognized it as that of the police chief of Nuevo Laredo, Juan Ramos.
“The witness knew nothing.” Ramos’s voice was flattened by the poor cell phone reception. “Your man failed to finish the job in the plaza. That is dangerous.”
“That is being addressed.” To Garza’s ears, the voice was soft, calm, almost pleasant. “But of course he knew nothing. Did you think anything would have been discussed in his presence? He was in the back of a truck.”
Ramos said, “No, I thought you would want assurance . . . and that is what I am calling to offer you.”
“And where are you calling from?”
“I am still at the hospital—”
There was a beep. Interruption of signal.
Ramos said, “Hello? Hello?”
The line was dead. The technician turned off the playback.
“The call went to a cell phone, Comandante,” the tech said. “Probably a burner. But we traced it to the cell tower. Telmex tower T-421.” He pulled up a map, zoomed in on a tiny village. “Nacimiento de los Negros. That is where the other phone’s signal was captured.”
As she had for Manuel, Garza said a brief prayer for Chief Ramos. He would need it.
In the three long years she had been tracking this killer, this was the first time she had heard his voice.
The Hummingbird. The assassin they called Chuparosa.
She checked her watch. She had so little time before her flight, and yet she was finally so close.
She pulled out her phone and called Chavez. “We’re rolling. Right now.”
CHAPTER 8
Late August
Manhattan
M idblock on Broome Street off the Bowery, Fisk turned in to the door under a black canopy with white cursive lettering that read PENCE .
This had been one of their places. His and Gersten’s. He liked the mix of upscale club and old-school downtown gin joint, with brass rails and banquettes with cracked leather upholstery. She had liked the fact that there was not one television screen on its walls; Gersten believed that sports bars should be sports bars, but that a real bar should be free of distractions. It was also a cop place, for those in the know, as well as a neighborhood spot, with a good flow of regulars that kept things steady and fresh.
As he walked in now, a sign reading UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT ! was tacked to the unmanned hostess’s podium. Instead of the regulars and low-rent boozers, the place was filled with lawyers in suits and hipsters in thickly framed eyeglasses. The daily specials were chalked on a blackboard in pastel lettering: veggie sliders, broccoli rabe pot stickers, chicken and gorgonzola panini bites. The barmaid, when he made it to the sticky brass rail, wore a tank top tied up under her breasts, showing off the tattoo of the sun around her taut, bejeweled navel.
“What’s funny?” she asked him, in greeting.
Fisk was smiling but he wasn’t laughing. He was thinking about how much Gersten would have hated this, how she would have grabbed his hand and led him out of there.
But through the filter of reminiscence, he could see enough of the old in the new. The scarred oak bar, the spidery crack in the corner of the mirror.
“Jack, neat,” he ordered.
The barmaid slid a cocktail napkin down on the bar in front of him, leaning over a bit so he could get a good shot of cleavage with his drink. “We have a beer back special, five dollars.”
“Just a water,” Fisk said. “But make the Jack a double.”
“Bad day?” she said breezily, wiping the bar clean around his napkin. “Or good day?”
“Long day,” he said.
She went off to pour his drink, and he looked around for an empty table. The barmaid might as well have worn a sign reading, “Will Flirt for Tips.” Fisk had zero interest right now. He spotted an empty high-top and retreated to it as soon as his drink came, sitting facing the door.
The first sip of Old No. 7 hit his throat with a warm
“The witness knew nothing.” Ramos’s voice was flattened by the poor cell phone reception. “Your man failed to finish the job in the plaza. That is dangerous.”
“That is being addressed.” To Garza’s ears, the voice was soft, calm, almost pleasant. “But of course he knew nothing. Did you think anything would have been discussed in his presence? He was in the back of a truck.”
Ramos said, “No, I thought you would want assurance . . . and that is what I am calling to offer you.”
“And where are you calling from?”
“I am still at the hospital—”
There was a beep. Interruption of signal.
Ramos said, “Hello? Hello?”
The line was dead. The technician turned off the playback.
“The call went to a cell phone, Comandante,” the tech said. “Probably a burner. But we traced it to the cell tower. Telmex tower T-421.” He pulled up a map, zoomed in on a tiny village. “Nacimiento de los Negros. That is where the other phone’s signal was captured.”
As she had for Manuel, Garza said a brief prayer for Chief Ramos. He would need it.
In the three long years she had been tracking this killer, this was the first time she had heard his voice.
The Hummingbird. The assassin they called Chuparosa.
She checked her watch. She had so little time before her flight, and yet she was finally so close.
She pulled out her phone and called Chavez. “We’re rolling. Right now.”
CHAPTER 8
Late August
Manhattan
M idblock on Broome Street off the Bowery, Fisk turned in to the door under a black canopy with white cursive lettering that read PENCE .
This had been one of their places. His and Gersten’s. He liked the mix of upscale club and old-school downtown gin joint, with brass rails and banquettes with cracked leather upholstery. She had liked the fact that there was not one television screen on its walls; Gersten believed that sports bars should be sports bars, but that a real bar should be free of distractions. It was also a cop place, for those in the know, as well as a neighborhood spot, with a good flow of regulars that kept things steady and fresh.
As he walked in now, a sign reading UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT ! was tacked to the unmanned hostess’s podium. Instead of the regulars and low-rent boozers, the place was filled with lawyers in suits and hipsters in thickly framed eyeglasses. The daily specials were chalked on a blackboard in pastel lettering: veggie sliders, broccoli rabe pot stickers, chicken and gorgonzola panini bites. The barmaid, when he made it to the sticky brass rail, wore a tank top tied up under her breasts, showing off the tattoo of the sun around her taut, bejeweled navel.
“What’s funny?” she asked him, in greeting.
Fisk was smiling but he wasn’t laughing. He was thinking about how much Gersten would have hated this, how she would have grabbed his hand and led him out of there.
But through the filter of reminiscence, he could see enough of the old in the new. The scarred oak bar, the spidery crack in the corner of the mirror.
“Jack, neat,” he ordered.
The barmaid slid a cocktail napkin down on the bar in front of him, leaning over a bit so he could get a good shot of cleavage with his drink. “We have a beer back special, five dollars.”
“Just a water,” Fisk said. “But make the Jack a double.”
“Bad day?” she said breezily, wiping the bar clean around his napkin. “Or good day?”
“Long day,” he said.
She went off to pour his drink, and he looked around for an empty table. The barmaid might as well have worn a sign reading, “Will Flirt for Tips.” Fisk had zero interest right now. He spotted an empty high-top and retreated to it as soon as his drink came, sitting facing the door.
The first sip of Old No. 7 hit his throat with a warm
Similar Books
