Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

“It’s here. Stop worrying, Victor. It’s hidden in the back here. Right there. Behind the frickin’ racks.”

It was about the van after all. Whoever was leasing the space, storing the van, he was looking to make sure his millions were still safe. These weren’t cops. They were hoods.

Cruz got his piece out of his waistband. Del Rio was doing the same.

The first voice was saying, “Okay, okay. Just be glad, Sammy. I want to move this thing in the morning.”

“You say so.”

“I say so. Sammy, you and Mark…”

The men’s voices faded as they turned and headed back toward the office.

Cruz thought about that one guy saying Sammy. It clicked. Sammy, with the goatee and the piercings—a guy he’d known for years as an almost-dead druggy—was moving up. This was the same Sammy who had taken twenty bucks in exchange for sending a text message and said it was common knowledge that the drug van was inside a warehouse.

Common knowledge?

It was inside knowledge. He had fucking known.

Sammy’s brains were like scrambled eggs. He would say and do anything for a fix.

And the guy Sammy called Victor?

Cruz thought he knew that guy too.

Cruz peered over the dash, saw the backs of the guys’ heads going into the office. The office door closed, then the lights in the warehouse went out. His heart was still hammering, his palms and underarms wet.

Scotty was muttering, “Man, oh, man.”

Cruz said to Del Rio, “One of those guys is Sammy. Remember him, Rick?”

“Turquoise cowboy boots? Metal in his nose?”

“Yeah. Sell himself out for twenty bucks. And the one looking for his van? I think that’s Victor Spano. He’s with the Chicago Mob, am I right?”

Del Rio said, “Yeah. Spano. That could have been him. We gotta wait now. Just sit tight.”

Time dragged, Cruz counting off too many minutes in the dark, smelling his own sweat, thinking of the time he’d been in a knife fight and the other guy had a gun. The time he’d been in bed with a woman and her husband came into the room.

He was thinking about his last professional fight, with Michael Alvarez, the punch that had ended his career, when Del Rio said, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Del Rio flipped on the dome light.

Cruz twisted the wires, got a spark. The engine turned over. He gunned it.

Cruz turned on the headlights, sending two high beams into the pottery, and put the van in gear. He let off the brake, and the van rolled, nudging the racks until they tipped over in slow motion, pots crashing to the floor.

Cruz backed up, twisted the wheel, and maneuvered in quarter turns until the tires were clear of the racks.

There were two sets of roll-up doors at the Artemus side of the pottery. One set opened onto a ramp that went down to the street. The other doors opened onto a loading dock where there was no ramp. There was an eight-foot drop.

Cruz said to Del Rio, “It’s on the left, right?”

Del Rio said, “What?”

“The doors to the street are on the left, right?”

Del Rio said, “Make sense, Emilio.”