The Death Box(55)

“NO POLICÍA! NO POLICÍA!”

“I’m not telling you to call him. I’m giving you a phone number. You should have more than one number. Throw it away if it frightens you.”

Victoree Johnson recited Ryder’s cell number. The girl had been so heavily indoctrinated against the police that even writing down a number frightened her. “Tell me more about yourself, Leala. Where were you held? And where are you now?”

“I … I must go.”

The girl was spooking. The mention of Ryder had been a mistake. “Momentito, Leala!” Johnson said. “Por favor, mi amiga. Can you please at least tell me—”

The line went dead.

Once again we pulled past the defunct rental concern, over the tracks, and onto the spreading Redi-flow lot. Kazankis was out his door before we’d exited ours. “Come in, gentlemen. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering lunch.”

I looked at Gershwin. He’d just been complaining about his empty belly. How could such a beanpole eat like a famished lion?

“We hadn’t really planned on—”

“Cuban sandwiches,” Kazankis patted his stomach. “Layers of spicy pork on bread made an hour ago.”

Gershwin moaned. I said, “Sure. We’ll eat.”

Kazankis led us to a lunch room, Spartan, like you’d expect in a concrete-supply concern: a long table, plastic chairs, a wall calendar from a truck-transmission company. A big red fire extinguisher hung from the wall beside a stained refrigerator. The bag of chow centered the table and Kazankis distributed paper-wrapped sandwiches and bags of tortilla chips. He opened the fridge to display several types of soda and I opted for Seven-Up, Gershwin for a papaya beverage. Kazankis grabbed himself a Diet Pepsi and sat, saying a quick grace. “You been here long, Mr Kazankis?” I said when he’d finished, making conversation as I gnawed the sandwich, a big, fat pile of delicious. “This location?”

“My daddy had a crane business, leasing. I started with him when I was eighteen, running the lot while he stayed inside mostly, bum leg from the big war made his walking difficult. Cranes were getting larger and more sophisticated, especially the self-assembling units. Plus you had to rent a lot of acreage to store all that stuff. About the time he retired, a lot of road-building was happening, so I got into concrete. In addition to pouring, we lease portable mixing factories assembled on construction sites.”

I nodded out the window as one truck left the mixing tower and another took its place. In a far corner of the lot a hoist was loading a huge, convoluted box inset with pipes and valves onto a semi-trailer, part of a mixing plant.

“Which brings me to your late driver, Carosso. Did he have any close friends here. Or anyone he spent time with?”

A sigh, like a disappointed parent. “Paul was a lone wolf, not sociable. It was Paul’s soul that concerned me. Some guys here, we form a bond in the Lord, a fellowship. But Paul never seemed to find the Spirit.”

Gershwin raised an eyebrow. “Any thoughts why?”

“Some people can’t let go of the past, Detective Gershwin. Or maybe the past isn’t done with them yet, I don’t claim the wisdom to know. But Paul never had the look of a man who truly wanted to break with his past, and it always troubled me.”

“You’re saying he wanted to return to crime?” I said.

“I’m saying maybe I misread him in prison. I think the idea of easy money kept calling his name.” He paused, seemed to look inward. “I guess I’m saying yes, I must have failed with Paul.”

“You mentioned having something interesting for me, Mr Kazankis?”

It snapped him from his dark moment. “Ah, yes. Some men, even our successes, have a hard time releasing their pasts. Not committing crimes, but the codes of such a life. Not telling about suspicious things they’ve seen.”

“Ratting,” Gershwin said, taking a sip of liquid papaya. “It’s bad form in the crime crowd.”

“I was speaking to employees about Paul. One man looked unsettled and I knew he had something to say. We prayed past it and I’ve asked him here.”

Kazankis went to the door and waved in a fiftyish man, medium height with small brown eyes in a round face made rounder by frontal balding. His hands twitched at his waist and he wore a blue uniform with the company logo on a shirt pocket.

“Thomas Scaggs, gentlemen. He works in the conveyor tower and has a wide view of the whole yard and out to the road.”

Kazankis gestured the man to sit. Scaggs looked nervous, boxed into himself. No one offered handshakes. “Now, Mr Kazankis?” Scaggs said, looking at Kazankis as if he needed permission.