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The camera lens!

I can use the camera of the phone!

But how do I go back in the store? To buy a Coke? A beer?

That may not look good…

The screen lit up, and he read that it was his wife who had called.

She I can call back.

She is probably asking what I have done.

With luck, soon I have something to tell her.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and went back to the pump handle. He looked at the register on the pump. It read $14.50.

That is it! I overpay. And now I must go back in for my change.

Paco Esteban had his cell phone to his ear as he walked back through the Gas amp; Go’s door. He had it up to his right ear, his right thumb on the button that triggered the camera to capture an image. At the pump island, he had gone through the camera menu to ensure that the camera sounds were muted. Now he casually spoke to no one on the phone while thumbing the camera button repeatedly as he crossed the floor.

At the register, he held the phone to his chest so that there was no chance the Asian would see the screen with a photograph of the store.

When he had explained he’d had more gas in the minivan than he’d thought because the gas gauge never worked, the Asian man nodded. The man pulled the twenty from the clip marked UNLEADED and made change.

El Nariz moved his phone to his left hand. Then he took his six-fifty and stuffed it into his left front pants pocket.

“Gracias,” he said.

He put the phone to his left ear, put his thumb to the camera button, then snapped away as he walked casually to the front door.

And went out it-smiling for the first time in a long time.

Five minutes later, after parking down the street just out of sight of the Gas amp; Go, he walked to the alleyway behind the shopping strip.

Each of the steel doors along the back side of the shopping strip had some sort of signage. A few read NO DELIVERIES FROM 11 TO 2. Others read NO PARKING! DO NOT BLOCK! And almost all had the name of the business that they belonged to.

El Nariz found the one that read GAS amp; GO. Then, keeping what he thought was a safe distance, he found a spot to sit between three big trash Dumpsters. It was smelly there. But he already reeked from the nervous sweating. And this spot provided him with a good view of the back doors to the Gas amp; Go. There was even a cracked mop bucket that, turned upside down, he could use for a seat.

With luck, tonight I see something.

Maybe get a picture of what van they drive.

Maybe get the license plate.

He smiled.

Maybe even follow them to the row house.

Then he started looking through the photographs he’d just taken with the phone to see how they had come out.

TWO

Philadelphia Police Headquarters Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 4:04 P.M.

“On behalf of the department, Sergeant Byrth, allow me to say that it’s an honor for us to be able to help out our Texas brethren in any way,” Lieutenant Jason Washington intoned as he shook the Texas Ranger’s hand. “Any friend of Liz Justice, et cetera, et cetera. And I have the utmost confidence that Sergeant Payne here will see to it that you have everything you need during your visit to the City of Brotherly Love.”

Payne, as he’d promised Washington on the phone, had brought Byrth to the Homicide Unit on the second floor of the Roundhouse. The three were in Washington’s glass-walled office.