As El Nariz stood at the counter, he had the sensation that he was being stared at. The feeling did not help ease his nerves.

He gave the man at the register the twenty-dollar bill and said, “Unleaded.”

The man nodded, then put the bill under a clip on the wall behind him that was labeled UNLEADED. Next to it was a similar clip, labeled SUPREME. Then the man punched buttons on the machine connected to the gas pumps that would allow El Nariz to pump twenty bucks’ worth of fuel.

Maybe he will not try cheating me of my money this time.

The arrogant young one last time did not use those clips.

As Paco Esteban turned from the register, he tried to scan the store casually. He kept his head down so as not to make any eye contact.

But there they were: a pair of impossibly young Latinas who looked somewhat like Rosario.

They cannot be fourteen!

I pray for you…

They sat at the same folding table, absently flipping through old magazines.

And there in the corner was a Hispanic male keeping watch.

Not El Gato.

But I think not the one from last week, either.

Paco Esteban, head down, went quickly to the door and outside.

As he worked the gas pump, removing the hose handle and turning the lever, he tried to calm himself. His heart was beating heavily. His hands were clammy.

Okay, so they are there.

Now what?

I pump my twenty dollars and leave?

Then what?

He scanned the area, trying desperately to decide what to do next.

And Se?or Nesbitt said to do nothing.

Maybe that is what a smart man would do.

Se?or Nesbitt is a smart man.

Maybe if I could show him what is happening here…

Pictures!

If only I could get a picture of the young girls and their guard.

Then I show them to Rosario. If she knows the girls or the guard, then I tell Se?or Nesbitt.

Such a smart man could get the pictures to someone who could help them.

But how do I get pictures?

And how do I go back inside if the man does not try to cheat me?

I would be expected to put in twenty dollars, then leave.

He heard his cell phone ringing. He glanced inside the minivan. The phone was where he’d left it in the cup holder on the dash.

He let go of the pump handle and opened the driver’s side door. He grabbed the phone, but the call had already gone into voice mail. He looked at the phone, waiting to read who had called.

Then he noticed the tiny glass circle on the phone’s back.

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.

“I appreciate that very much, Lieutenant,” Jim Byrth replied.

“And, please, call me Jason,” Washington said, waving them both into chairs.

Byrth nodded once. “Only if you’ll call me Jim.”

“Very well, Jim.” Washington paused, and looked to be gathering his thoughts. “I have some understanding as to why you’re here.”

“Yes, sir,” Byrth said, but his inflection made it more of a question.

“And I’m afraid you may have arrived a little late,” Washington went on.

“I don’t follow you.”

“Just shy of noon today, one of our Marine Unit vessels recovered the headless body of a young Hispanic female from the Schuylkill River.”

“Fuck!” Byrth angrily blurted. His face was clearly furious-his squinted eyes cold and hard, his brow furrowed.

“Sonofabitch,” Payne added with his own look of disgust.

Byrth then relaxed somewhat and said, “Jason, please forgive that outburst, it’s just-”

Washington motioned with his right hand in a gesture that said, No apology necessary. “That word has been thrown around here once or twice. Even I, in a fit of anger or frustration, have been known to make use of it.”

“I’m not apologizing,” Payne said. “That’s just despicable. What animal does that? And to a young girl?”

“I want this guy bad,” Byrth said.

Washington looked Byrth in the eyes a long moment, then said, “As unsettling as the thought is, there’s always the possibility that it’s another doer. But whoever did it, I agree with you, Jim. We both, as you say, want him bad.”

“Any details on the victim yet?” Payne said.

“Very little, Matthew,” Washington said. “Only that she was found in a black garbage bag weighted with dumbbells. Apparently, the current had pushed her onto a shoal in the river.”

“Jesus!” Payne said, shaking his head. Then he said, “Has the media got its hands on the story?”

Washington shook his head. “We’ve squashed it.”