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Byrth felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and read the text message:

GLENN PABODY

JUST GOT WORD THAT THEY FOUND IN THAT RV TRAILER A BUNCH MORE IDS AND THOSE STRIP CLUB BUSINESS CARDS.

FIFTEEN IDS WERE MEXICO NATIONAL ONES, ALL BUT TWO OF THEM GIRLS IN THEIR EARLY 20S.

THE STRIPPER CARDS WERE FROM THE HACIENDA BUT ALSO FROM CLUBS IN HOUSTON AND, HERE’S WHAT YOU’RE GONNA WANT TO HEAR, FOR A PLACE CALLED PLAYERS CORNER LOUNGE.

Byrth looked at the message for a long moment and thought, And how many more girls were killed and then put in those barrels of acid?

That bastard probably called himself “El Pozolero,” too.

He shook his head as he replied:

THANKS, GLENN.

I’LL SEND YOU SHOTS OF WHAT WE JUST FOUND IN PHILLY. AND CATCH YOU UP ON WHAT WE LEARNED ABOUT THE FIRST GIRL’S ID YOU FOUND.

SO, WHAT PART OF HOUSTON IS PLAYERS IN?

A moment later Byrth read:

GLENN PABODY

NOT HOUSTON, JIM. IT’S GOT A PHILLY ADDRESS. I’LL SEND A PHOTO WHEN I CAN.

As Byrth typed the bar’s name into an Internet search on his phone, he said, “You ever hear of a strip club called Players Corner Lounge, Marshal?”

“Sounds just like my kind of place. Sorry. Never heard of it.”

“Apparently it’s at Front and Master.”

“That’s Fishtown. Not far. What’s the significance?”

“Sheriff Pabody just said they found more of those stripper cards in the trailer, and this Players place was one of them.”

Payne checked his phone. There was no message—not from Maggie, not from anyone.

“It’s more or less on the way home. Should be hopping at this hour. Crime Scene’s got this place. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

[THREE]

With the exception of Payne issuing the most basic of directions as Byrth drove—“Two blocks hang a right,” then “Left here,” then “Straight a couple miles”—they were quiet, lost in their thoughts. To break the silence, Byrth turned on the radio, its volume low but clear. The station was broadcasting the national news.

Payne listened for a moment, then his mind flashed back to the macabre image it had created—thanks to Dr. Mitchell’s vivid alkaline hydrolysis description—of the case workers being boiled down.

They basically turned into a vat of Valvoline 10-W-40 . . . Jesus!

There’s no way Maggie could’ve known about that hell and not said something to someone.

With the girl’s murder and the firebombing of her home, I damn sure can’t blame her for wanting to control everything.

But this?

How do I begin explaining this to her parents?

And Amanda? I don’t want to lie to her, but until we catch these bastards I’m going to have to come up with some cover story she won’t see right through. . . .