Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

More laughing, and then Siggy said, “So, whatchoo need, ’Milio?”

“We’re looking for a van that was jacked last night. Shitload of pharmaceuticals inside.”

“It’s air-conditioned? With vegetables and shit on the outside?”

“That’s right,” Cruz said.

“I gotta live, bro. What’s in it for me?”

“Fifty for the location. Two hundred more if we recover the goods.”

“Two fifty? ’Milio. There’s millions in that truck, homes. Millions.”

Siggy worked Cruz up to a hundred in advance, and when Cruz gave him the money, he said, “Warehouse on South Anderson. A flowerpot company, or, more like, looks like a flowerpot company. High-tech security all around. I hear the van is parked inside, and ’Milio, if you cut me in, I’ll cut you in.”

“We’re not going into the drug business, Sig. Thanks anyway. What else have you heard?”

“I heard the van was stolen from the Eye-talians and it’s not going to stay in that warehouse too long.”

Cruz said, “Thanks, Siggy.”

“Good seeing you, bro. You got my number now?”

“Give it to me.”

Siggy tapped his number into Cruz’s phone. Then the two clasped hands, bumped shoulders. The big kid lumbered off down an alley.

And Cruz called Jack.

“We’ve got a lead on the van,” Cruz said. “It’s stashed inside a warehouse. Sure. Okay. Really? No kidding.”

Cruz told Jack where they would be and closed his phone. He said to Del Rio, “Jack has a new guy he wants us to work with. He used to be a ballet dancer.” Cruz paused. “Does that mean he’s gay?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of don’t ask, don’t tell?” Del Rio said.

CHAPTER 30

DEL RIO HAD parked on South Anderson, across from the Red Cat Pottery warehouse. The warehouse was red brick that had been whitewashed a few times; whitewash was flaking off, revealing partial names of previous, now defunct, businesses.

From their spot on South Anderson, they could clearly see the loading dock around the corner on Artemus. There was a sixteen-wheeler parked in the bay, a guy with a forklift loading pallets into the back. A couple of brothers were on the sidewalk smoking, then they flicked their butts into the gutter and climbed up into the cab of the big rig.

At five in the afternoon, vans and small trucks were making their last drops in this mixed-use light-industrial area. Gates were closing, people leaving for the day.

Twenty minutes into their wait, Del Rio heard a motorcycle coming up the street behind him, then the motor cut out. In the rearview mirror he saw a guy get off the bike and disappear into his blind spot.

Del Rio heard the back door of the fleet car open.

He jerked around to see a guy get into the backseat with a black-and-silver helmet. He was about thirty, blond, blue eyes, five-ten, 160, and tight. Muscles rippled under his T-shirt.

Had to be the ballet dancer.

Dude reached a paw over the seat, said, “I’m Christian Scott. Scotty. How ya doing?”

Del Rio shook his hand. “Rick Del Rio. This is Emilio Cruz. My sidekick.”

Cruz said, “Yeah, I kick him in the side from time to time. Nice to meet you, Scotty.”

“Thanks. You too. Is this the place?” he asked, looking out at the Red Cat warehouse.