I nodded. “Have you ever had a loaded truck stolen?”
“A truckload is mixed, then goes directly to the site. A person might steal a truck at night, but it would be empty.”
“Maybe I’m looking for concrete diverted to another usage. This would have been around a year ago.”
Kazankis frowned. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I can’t recall details that far back.”
“Would it be possible to get a printout of all employees from that period?” I asked. “It would save us a trip to the Parole Board.”
“Certainly.” Mr Kazankis sat by a computer, made some taps on the keyboard, and a printer behind the desk began humming. Our next move would be cross-checking employee names against violent crimes. Records in hand, we turned to the door.
Gershwin halted. “One more question, Mr Kazankis. Do your employees ever take concrete home or anything like that? For use later?”
“Like for next-day delivery? It would harden in the truck.”
“I guess I mean their own projects. Like fixing a sidewalk or whatnot.”
Kazankis thought a moment, brow furrowed beneath the silvered blowback. “Sure, lots of times an employee will lay a patio or a driveway. We give them the materials at cost. It happens too often to keep track of.”
“I understand,” I said, again turning to go. “Guess we’ll have to keep digging into employees with records. Sorry if we …”
When I turned to nod farewell to Kazankis his head was canted and his eyes were turned inward, as if doing calculations in his head. He snapped his fingers.
“Paul Carosso, by gosh! Now I remember.”
“Pardon me?” I said.
“It was almost quitting time, Detective. Paul came in, said he’d been working on a new driveway. He’d hired a couple concrete workers for the following week and was gonna get the pour scheduled then. But Paul said if he could get the concrete, they could lay the drive that evening. I said sure, grab a load and return the truck in the morning. But make double-damn-sure that barrel gets washed out.”
“I thought you didn’t remember such things,” I said. “Was something different?”
“It was kind of unusual. Paul’s not a detail guy. He could do better at keeping his uniforms clean. He leaves candy and food wrappers in the cab. I have to get on him about washing the barrel completely clean. If the mix hardens you need to break it out, a real pain. When I got there in the morning I asked Burle Smith, the yard foreman, if Paul brought the truck back in decent condition, dreading the answer.”
“And your yard guy said?”
“Burle said Paul musta climbed into the drum with a toothbrush, it was that clean.”
I looked at Gershwin. Would it be this easy? Kazankis caught the glance. “Are you going to want to talk to Paul?” he asked, an edge of nervousness in his voice.
“Dunno yet,” I said. “And I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention this conversation to him.”
Kazankis promised to keep our confidence. Gershwin and I were angling for the door when he called us back. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir?”
He started to speak but couldn’t. He cleared his throat and tried again. “The color in the sample of concrete you showed me, the rusty brown. It’s not dye, is it?”
“No, sir.”
His eyes fell. “I pray no one here was involved.”
I nodded, not mentioning that I was hoping in the opposite direction. It would mean we had a solid lead.
Paul Carosso lived near Richmond Heights in a tired suburban community within listening distance of highway 821 and I figured after a couple months you grew immune to the twenty-four-hour rumble of diesel engines. Or most people would; me it would drive nuts after about a half hour. The driver’s house was a single-story crackerbox bungalow with mildew on the siding and a piece of soffit hanging from the eaves. A palmetto squatted in the front yard, flanked by a banana tree with white rot on the leaves. The scruffy patches of grass were unmowed. The small yard was cyclone-fenced with a sign on the gate saying PRIVATE PROPERTY – KEEP OUT. The drive was outside the fencing and led to a single-car garage.
The gate was unlocked so we went to the door and pressed the bell. No reply. Figuring the bell was in the same decrepit shape as the rest of the place, I knocked.
A curtain parted on the front picture window. “I don’t want nothing,” a voice yelled. “Peddle your shit somewheres else.”
“We’re not salesmen,” I said, holding up the shield. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The door swung open. Carosso was older than his pic in the prison discharge file, but it was the same face: round and poorly shaved, heavy-lidded eyes under a receding hairline. He wore a sleeveless white tee with sweat stains under the arms and the kind of uniform pants you get for ten bucks a pair, as formless as pajama bottoms.