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“El Gato getting himself killed saved taxpayers at least a million bucks.”

—

“Los Zetas,” Byrth now explained, “makes El Gato’s little gang look like choirboys. And I may have just found evidence here in North Texas of their handiwork that I’ve witnessed in Mexico.”

“Zetas? The former enforcers of the Gulf Cartel?”

“Yeah. Now on their own and worse than ever. If it’s Zetas or someone copying them, it gives new meaning to ‘Don’t go digging up more snakes than you can kill.’ Ergo, CATFU.”

“What’s worse?”

“Liquefying young strippers-slash-hookers.”

“What? How the hell does that happen?”

Byrth began, “In the woods by a lake we have found a ratty camp with more than a half dozen fifty-five-gallon drums of sulfuric acid. . . .”

—

“And,” Byrth finished five minutes later, “Sheriff Pabody, a really good guy, showed me this titty bar’s business card he found in the trailer. It’s got a girl’s handwriting that says when quote April unquote would be working and her phone number. I’ll send you a shot of it and forward the shot that Pabody sent me of her DOT ID.”

“That’ll work,” Matt said. “So, you went to the strip club and—”

“Yeah. The card said she was supposed to work there just these last three nights.”

“And let me guess—nobody knew nothing.”

“‘Nada,’ as it’s said in ol’ Ess-pan-yole. It took me some time to get anyone to even admit they could speak English. Finally I was handed a napkin with a phone number written on it. When I called, sounded like a white guy who answered. Identified himself as Todd Lincoln and said that he was the owner of the club. And he of course offered to cooperate completely. He might have some local Dallas cops bought to look the other direction but knows that I can really bring in the heat.”

“And?”

“And what else? I got the usual BS runaround. Anyone can get ahold of those cards and write whatever they want on them. He said he would ask his managers about any girls named April. ‘But it’s probably a stage name, if she exists at all.’”

“And since you don’t know what she looks like . . .”

Byrth’s mind flashed with what was left of the face of the girl in the barrel.

“Not unless she’s the one pictured on the ID. Even showing everyone in the titty bar that image blown up on my phone I came up with zilch.”

Matt felt his phone vibrate once.

“Well,” he said quickly, clearly trying to wind up the conversation, “send those to me, and I’ll get them right up to Philly.”

“‘Up to Philly’? Where are you?”

“In the Keys with Amanda. But some shit’s just hit the fan, so I don’t know what’s next.”

“Is she okay?”

Matt could hear genuine concern in the Texan’s deep voice.

“Thanks, man. She’s fine. Someone we know is missing after her house was firebombed last night.”

“Damn. I’m sorry. I won’t hold you up any longer. Get back to me when you can.”

“Will do.”

“Good luck, Marshal.”