Del Rio was at the wheel, Cruz riding shotgun, Scotty in the backseat. Everyone was very quiet.
Cruz said, “Call Jack.”
Del Rio got Jack on the line and told him where they were. They exchanged thoughts on how to steal a fortune in illegal pharmaceuticals on behalf of the Vegas Mob without getting caught, without getting thrown in the clink for twenty years, with no help from Carmine Noccia.
Del Rio said, “It’s getting late, Jack. That Oxy is going to leave the warehouse one box at a time. In another few weeks there’s going to be an empty van in there and Noccia is going to break heads. He’s going to start with yours.”
Jack gave Del Rio the go-ahead, and Del Rio hung up.
Cruz started the car and drove to Boyd, a dead-end street parallel to Artemus, where he found a space among the delivery trucks and panel vans parked all along the length of it, both sides of the street walled in by cement-block warehouses colorfully tagged with spray-painted graffiti.
Del Rio twisted around in his seat. “Scotty. You’re up. Let’s rock ’n’ roll.”
Scotty took a slug off his water bottle and said, “I’m liking the window below the stairs.”
“Make it quick,” Del Rio said.
Scotty pulled on a pair of work gloves, turned the dome light to the “off” position, and opened the back door.
Del Rio said, “Wait a second.”
When the taxi had passed on Anderson, Del Rio told Scotty to go. Scotty was wearing black from neck to toe and was almost invisible except for the shine coming off his blond hair. Del Rio and Cruz watched as he reached the top of the alley and crossed the street, still in view of the Chevy.
Then Scotty disappeared.
A half minute after that, an alarm shrieked, and seconds later, the back door of the car opened and Scotty got in, saying, “Did you time me?”
Cruz laughed. “You were quick, yo. Like in those films where they stop time and the one guy runs between all those frozen people, you know?”
Del Rio said, “Let’s see how fast the cops answer the call.”
Four minutes later, the first sirens came up South Anderson and stopped out of sight. From the proximity of the squawking car radios, Del Rio figured they were outside the roll-up gates at the loading dock.
The three investigators ducked down in their seats, Del Rio assuring himself that so far no crime had been committed. Scotty had only rattled a window until the alarm went off. They waited for more cars to arrive, but only the two cruisers showed up.
When the cops had left, Del Rio and his team did the same thing: set off the alarm, then waited for the cops to come and leave again. Then they did it once more.
CHAPTER 90
JUSTINE WOKE UP to a racket.
Rocky was going nuts and bananas, barking, his toenails clacking as he got traction on the hardwood floors in his scramble toward the front door.
Justine looked at the clock. It was just before seven.
What the hell was this? In between Rocky’s barks, she heard her doorbell ringing insistently.
She threw a robe on over her silk PJs and walked to the foyer, thinking it had to be Jack. Who else would dare? She peeked through the peephole, then opened the door to Danny’s manager, Larry Schuster.
His clothes were rumpled, his patchy beard was coming in—in sum, he looked like he’d slept in his car.
“I’m sorry about the time, Dr. Smith. I have to talk to you.”
“Call me Justine. Did something happen to Danny?”
“No, he’s still in the hospital. I was driving around all night. I finally came to a decision.”
“Here’s an idea, Larry. I’ll be at the office at nine. Why don’t you meet me there?”