The Death Box(56)

“What you saw, Thomas. Everything.”

“A-a few times I saw Carosso out front by the gate, looking down the road. Then a big black SUV pulled up, two guys inside. Paul went over and they talked. Each time they handed him something and he jammed it in his pants.”

“What did you think?” I asked. “Drugs?”

He looked at me for a split second, then at the floor. “It could have just been a bet that hit.”

“A bookie that delivers way out here?” Gershwin said.

Scaggs shrugged.

“How many times did you see this, Mr Scaggs?” I asked.

He frowned heavily, like I was requesting the fast solution of a quadratic equation. “Uh … five-six times, maybe. Over a couple years.”

“That long? You’re sure?”

“I got a promotion to the tower two years back this month. I saw Paul and the black car my first week.”

“Could you see into the vehicle, sir?” I continued.

“It was a black man driving, that I know. The other man was a white guy, big. Wore sunglasses. A suit, too.”

“You see the license tags?” asked Gershwin.

“Hunh-up. Way too far.”

It turned out to be all Scaggs had; not a lot, but it suggested Carosso was into something before he ran the truck full of bodies to the cistern, which I was ninety-five per cent sure he’d done. And maybe Carosso was more tightly connected to trafficking than we’d figured.

“Thank you for your help, Mr Scaggs,” I said, but I was speaking to his disappearing back. Kazankis looked my way, his eyes expectant.

“I hope that helps you in some way. I wish I had more to tell you about Paul’s relationships, but he had no relationships.”

Gershwin shook his head. “No one has even been to his house?”

Kazankis gestured to the room around us. “I never once saw Paul eat lunch here with the others. I can’t imagine Paul having guests from Redi-flow. Most workers here couldn’t tell you the color of Paul’s eyes. I know,” he confessed. “I asked.”

I stood. But before we left, I had one final piece of info to impart.

“Speaking of guests, Mr Kazankis, we heard Paul Carosso supposedly had a niece living with him last year. He ever mention such a thing?”

Kazankis frowned. “I don’t recall Paul having a close family. I check because family can be a powerful influence in redemption.”

“We have an interesting description of the girl: mid teens, probably Hispanic. Sometimes agitated. Almost never out of the house.”

Kazankis started to speak, but was stopped by a thought that furrowed his brow. “You’re saying what I think you’re saying?”

“If you’re thinking the worst, then I expect so.”

All Kazankis could do was stare, his hand clenching at the air, like he was trying to find something to hold on to. “Gracious Lord, no. Not a little girl.” He turned fearful eyes to me. “Paul’s in Hell, isn’t he?”

“Not my field of expertise.”

Kazankis walked stiffly to his window and looked out over the yard. The portable concrete factory was pulling away, but Kazankis’s eyes were in the past. “I was Paul’s vehicle from incarceration,” he whispered. “His road to more sin.”

“The fault was Carosso’s, Mr Kazankis. Your intentions were honorable.”

Kazankis turned with his broad hands out and searching for ours. “Pray with me, gentlemen. Pray for a sinner and for the innocents who bear the sin.”

“I’m, uh, more inclined to my own forms of expression, Mr Kazankis.”

“Of course. Excuse me …” He dropped to his knees with hands clasped. Tears streamed down his cheeks. I had intended to thank him for lunch and tell him we were likely finished with our visits here, but instead I nodded toward the door and Gershwin and I tiptoed away, quietly retreating from Kazankis’s misery.

When we hit the lot and I switched my phone back on I found two voicemails, Victoree Johnson asking me to call her, the same from Doctor Morningstar. The din on the lot was oppressive, so I drove across the tracks to return the calls, parking beside a battered tank big enough to hold the Rover. Gershwin stepped out to heed the call of nature.

“I just got a call from a terrified young woman who said her name was Leala,” Johnson said. “She claimed she’d been smuggled here on a ship, then escaped from people holding her against her will. She was from Honduras. Listen, Detective, I uh – I gave the girl your number. I’m not sure why, just in case, I guess.”

“But I don’t speak—”

“Leala, if that’s her real name, has quite good English. I doubt she’ll call, but …”