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Delgado drove another two blocks, then pulled to the curb and sent a text message to Quintanilla.

TWO

823 Sears Street, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 9:21 P.M.

Detective Anthony Harris pulled Sergeant Matt Payne’s white rental Ford sedan to a stop in a parking spot behind a bright blue BMW M3.

“That’s Chad’s coupe,” Payne said.

“And 823’s right there, across the street,” Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers said from the backseat. He had The Hat on his lap.

As he got out of the car, he put on The Hat.

With Payne’s announcement that they might have found the girl’s head, Byrth was anxious to add another piece to the puzzle that would help hunt down El Gato.

Harris and Byrth were halfway across the street when Byrth looked back at Payne. He was standing at the curb, checking his phone.

“You coming, Marshal?”

When they had approached the rental car at the Roundhouse, Harris saw that Payne had his cell phone out. He appeared to be anticipati

ng either a call-or, more probably, a text message-at any moment.

“Give me the car keys, Matt,” Harris had said with mild disgust. “You’re damned dangerous with that phone. Can’t believe what it’d be like with you on that and trying to drive, too.”

“I’ll take my usual spot in the back,” Byrth said, looking at Payne. “You, Marshal, can ride shotgun.”

Harris drove from the Roundhouse over to Sixth Street and took it toward South Philly.

With one eye on his phone, Payne went over with Jim Byrth the little bit of information Chad Nesbitt had told him in the diner by the Philly Inn. And he gave Byrth more background on his relationship with Nesbitt and Skipper Olde, both long-term and specific to the previous day.

He glanced again at his phone.

Nothing! Dammit!

He checked to make sure it was still on, that the damned battery hadn’t crapped out or something. It was still on, but the battery was low.

It had been almost a half hour since Matt had sent that text message to Amanda. And she hadn’t replied. And that worried him.

Did I say something wrong?

Did I open a wound, one of those things that caused that pain in her eyes?

Jesus, her silence is killing me.

And that’s the part of text and e-mail conversations I absolutely hate-the silence of no reply.

In person, if they’re silent you can read the eyes and face. On the phone, you can pick up on their tone of voice.

But e-silence is e-fucking deafening.

And if I send another, it might annoy her more.

That is, if she’s annoyed.

How’s that saying go? “When you find yourself in a hole, Payne, stop with the damn digging.”

Matt thought that the message had been pretty simple and straightforward.