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“Hard to say,” Byrth replied as he scanned the sheet, “because the gangbangers have bastardized it so much. A teardrop originally was basically a symbol of someone crying over a lost one, either incarcerated or murdered-a display of closure. Then it came to be a badge of honor, or warning, especially in prison, indicating that the bearer had murdered someone in or out of prison.”

“What about the one on this guy? A tear with an empty top and a full bottom.”

“Could mean he avenged the murder of a loved one.”

Payne looked at Tony Harris.

“The other guy had the slit throat,” Payne said.

Harris nodded. “Could be something. Maybe suggests he wasn’t shy about taking someone out?”

“Certainly fitting,” Byrth said. He then added, “You don’t want to walk around with one in Australia.”

“Why?” Payne said.

“There, convicts who’re accused as being child molesters basically get branded with a teardrop.”

Payne shook his head. “Hell, I don’t want to walk around with one anywhere.” He sighed as he glanced again at the abused corpse. “No offense, Doc, but I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“None taken, Matt. This particular job even depresses a callous veteran such as myself. Good luck catching the sonofabitch.”

Harris and Byrth said their thanks and goodbyes, and followed.

And as they stepped outside, Payne’s cell phone began ringing.

He looked at the screen. It read: UNION LEAGUE OF PHILA-1 CALL @ 2045.

“Wonder who this is?” he said, and a moment later heard Hollaran’s voice.

TWO

2480 Arroyo Avenue, Dallas Wednesday, September 9, 7:56 P.M. Texas Standard Time

Juan Paulo Delgado stepped carefully as he went through the six-foot-tall wall of red-tip photinias that grew thickly beside the convenience store. He had his Beretta semiautomatic nine-millimeter pistol out, and slowly thumbed back its hammer.

He heard and smelled the grimy man before he saw him in the shadows.

The coyote was humming as he took one helluva piss on the bare dirt.

He’s dirty and he stinks!

El Gato pounced.

His right arm outstretched, he brought up his pistol to shoulder level and smoothly closed on his target. Just as the muzzle of the weapon touched the back of the man’s skull-and the man suddenly realized that he was not alone-El Gato squeezed the trigger.

The hollow-point copper-jacketed lead bullet made a neat entrance hole and mushroomed. It traveled through the soft gray matter, then made an exit wound that fractured so much bone it tore off the flesh of the man’s right cheek.

He immediately fell forward, making a soft splash as he landed in his own pool of urine. Blood drained from the head wounds, mixing with the pool.

Shit! Delgado thought, wiping at the blood spatter on his hands.

And I don’t want to have to dig around in that mess!

Then he saw light reflecting off something metallic in the man’s left hand.

The keys!

He grabbed them. Then he ran a finger through the right back pocket of the man’s blue jeans. He pulled out a wallet and stuck it in his left front pants pocket.