The Death Box (8 page)

“You are not his,
princésa
. El Jefé has others. Surely you are not blind to it: you see everything.”

“I am his when he needs me. And he needs me to run this enterprise.”

A flash of anger. “I run this enterprise.”

The woman hid a smile. “Ah, forgive me, Orlando. I meant the part of the enterprise that keeps track of things. So that he can—”

“So he can count the money we make,” Orzibel said.

“Be careful, Orlando. Dangerous words lead to dangerous places.”

Orzibel froze, eyes darting side to side as if fearful of hidden listeners. “I was not speaking against
him
,” he said quickly. “I have nothing but respect for his enterprises. He should be praised for having so much money to count.”

“Which bring us back to Leala, Orlando. Her innocence, her naïveté. That’s what our special client pays big money for, no? Why did you not include her in the parade?”

“Did you not hear?” Orzibel snapped. “I decided to send Leala to Cho.”

“But Leala is a virgin, is she not? Worth more money?”

“Why are you questioning me? You make decisions about the numbers. I make decisions about the product.”

The woman leaned back in the cushioned chair and regarded Orzibel as if he were a caged animal at a zoo. “Things get a bit hot yesterday, Orlando?” she said after a moment’s reflection. “Just couldn’t control yourself? Again?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I inspected Leala myself, Orlando. Two days ago she was a virgin. What would my finger find today?”

“Fuck you,” Orzibel hissed. But at the edges of his eyes, fear.

The woman’s eyes remained level and unblinking. “What would you do if the Jefé discovered he has lost money because you lost control, Orlando? Could you ever return to pimping runaways collected from parks and bus stations?”

Orzibel’s hands clenched into fists, his eyes blazing. He seemed to waver between worlds. Then, as if depleted of oxygen, his head slumped forward. He started to speak, but threw his hands up in surrender.

“I-I had a moment of weakness. It was all a mistake and I humbly beg you to, to …”

The woman began laughing. “Begging demeans you, Orlando. Plus it’s not sincere.”

“I am confessing my sins! The girl’s flesh was too beautiful for my will. Something dark came over me and I—”

“Please, Orlando, you’re turning my stomach. But be assured I will keep my tongue on the matter and you will stay safe from wrath. Go with the girls you have selected. But make sure Chaku stays close during the man’s pleasures. Mr Chalk is truly sick.”

“Sick is money,” Orzibel muttered, turning for the door. He paused in the entrance. “
Gracias
for your silence in the matter of my weak moment. I am in your debt, Amili Zelaya.”

“Here you go, Carson.” Roy handed me a small box and a file folder bulging with official documents. “You’re officially official. I got you a brand-new shootin’ iron, too, a Glock 17. And your shield.”

I took the badge and almost moved it to my pocket, but it felt so good I closed my fingers around the metal. “What’s my designation, Roy? You ever figure that one out?”

He handed me my ID card. I stared. “‘Consulting Investigative Agent, Senior Status’? What’s it mean?”

Roy grinned like he’d just invented the rainbow. “I’m not quite sure, since you’re the only one. You’re an investigative agent like the crew, but you’re also a full-time consultant like the art and finance guys. It gives you the broadest range of freedom I could buy.”

“How about ‘Senior Status’?”

“That’s kinda like four-star general in the pecking order. It means people will want to be nice to you.”

“The crew?”

“Well, most people.”

“What’s this second box?”

“Gershwin’s party favors. You got ’em for him, you can give ’em to him.”

I saw a bunch of papers and a holstered nine, the holster stained and the weapon nicked and losing its finish. “OK,” Roy said, “So maybe it’s not a new piece. Tell the kid to keep it in the holster and we’ll do fine.”

I studied Gershwin’s new ID card. “Provisional Investigator?”

“I let him in the door, but he’s not getting the big key. This’ll let him do whatever odd jobs you need.”

I thanked Roy and turned for Gershwin’s private Siberia. On the way I dropped the badge in my pocket and patted its weight. It felt good.

“Provisional?” Gershwin asked when I got back, staring between me and his new ID.

“Don’t start with me,” I said. “I’m a four-star general.”

He slid the card in his wallet. “That mean I have to salute you, Alabama?”

“No. It means you call me Detective Ryder. You have to keep your ass on the concrete firms, our only lead. There’s a lot to do in digging up employees with records.”

Gershwin reached for the Yellow Pages and opened to a sticky tab. “There’s over twenty concrete companies in the area, more if you include surrounding counties. If each company has twenty employees to be checked out, that adds up to—”

“I knows how math works, kid.”

A smirk and waggled finger. “Ah, Deee-tective Ryder, but what if there’s a short cut that names ex-cons working around concrete trucks?”

“Sure. And what if there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

He handed the book to me. “What do you see?”

“Ads for concrete companies.”

“Look closer. A lot of them have little logos: Better Business Bureau, Business Alliance of Florida, American Association of Concrete Haulers, that sort of thing.”

I nodded. “True. What I don’t see is a listing of the criminal backgrounds of the employees, which is what we’ve got to get working on.”

“Check out the Redi-flow company, lower right.”

A half-page ad featuring a drawing of a truck dispensing concrete into a foundation as workers looked on. The ad had the usual listing of professional-organization logos plus an outline of a fish holding the letters CPP. “It’s all the same except for the fish logo,” I said. “You know what it means?”

“It stands for the Christian Prison Project, religious businesspeople who mainstream ex-cons back into civilian life, get them starter jobs. I figured that’s what Redi-flow does, and if so, they have ex-cons on the payroll, right?”

I’d thought the kid was joking, but he’d combined brains and observation and come up with gold.

“So we’re going to the Parole Board next, Gershwin?”

He waved a sheaf of pages. “Nope. They just faxed me a list of company hires. The business is owned by a dude named George Kazankis. Turns out Kazankis has hired twenty-six ex-cons in twelve years in business.”

I felt my pulse quickening. “Light-timers or hardcore?”

“Anyone’s fodder for Kazankis’s personal ministry. He’s also got a good record for keeping them straight: most have managed to stay out of the joint.”

I shot a thumbs up. “Sounds like we pay a visit to Mr Kazankis. But first we stop by the motor pool.”

12

“Son of a bitch,” Gershwin said, staring at yards of gleaming black metal and chrome. “That’s yours?”

I looked to the guy who just handed me the keys, a label on his stained blue work shirt embroidered with the name Julio. He nodded. “All yours, Detective Ryder. Captain McDermott said you were senior status. That means the Tahoe.”

I climbed inside. After my pickup, the thing felt like I was in the pilot house of a destroyer. The instrumentation appeared to have been pulled from a Cessna. The new-vehicle smell made my head light. I jumped out.

“Got anything smaller, Julio?”

Julio stared at me like I’d asked a waiter to return a prime filet and bring a can of tuna instead. “But this is what all senior personnel drive, Detective.”

“Dude,” Gershwin said. “I mean Detective Ryder, this is hot wheels deluxe.”

“What else you got, Julio?”

“All the others are standard cruisers.”

I saw a line of cars and trucks across the lot. “What are those?”

“Seized contraband, vehicles taken from criminals. When someone gets caught the state can take away—”

“I know how it works, bud,” I said, not mentioning my house was in the same condition. “Anything available over there?”

“All are, I suppose. They get taken out for surveillance because they don’t look like police vehicles.”

We followed Gershwin to the line-up, a dozen cars and trucks, some looking new, most in obviously used condition. I was immediately drawn to a beige Land Rover Defender, fully outfitted with heavy black grille guard, full roof racking, and a high-sprung body with more right angles than curves.

“Tell me about the Rover, Julio.”

“That?” Gershwin wrinkled his nose. “It’s left over from an Indiana Jones movie.”

“You don’t want the Rover, Detective,” Julio argued. “It’s sprung like a tank.”

“And built like one, too,” I said, admiringly. “Where’d it come from?”

“A Lauderdale dope dealer who had it custom-outfitted in South Africa for a month-long safari, but cut the trek short after three days. When he had the monster shipped over here, he liked how it looked a lot better than how it rode, probably why it’s only got two thousand miles on it. I also don’t think he much liked a manual transmission after the novelty wore off.”

“The Tahoe,” Gershwin pleaded.

“How long would it take to outfit the Rover with a siren, flashers, and an on-board computer hookup, Julio?” I asked. “Given that y’all don’t look too busy around here.”

Gershwin moaned.

Thirty minutes later, feeling better than I had all day, I aimed the revamped Rover for Redi-flow. It was southwest of Miami, down toward Homestead. Once off the highway we wove through streets that turned from storefront businesses to small and brightly painted houses clustered on miniscule lots festooned with tropical foliage. The houses soon grew sparse, the land as much sand as dirt, errant terns pecking at prickly pears for insects. I smelled swampland nearby but never saw water.

Within minutes we banged past a lot holding smaller dozers and graders, cranes, trucks, and machinery of indecipherable usage, and a small abandoned building beneath a faded sign showing a crane and proclaiming O
LYMPIA
E
QUIPMENT
R
ENTAL – SINCE 1975.

Gershwin pointed. “Think they’d rent us a crane, sahib? You could shoot at lions from above.”

“The Rover is fine. And it’s Detective Ryder.”

We passed over rail tracks into a complex dominated by piles of gravel and sand, metal towers hovering in the air, one large silo emblazoned with a tall cross, below it the words
REDI-FLOW CONCRETE, INC …
A M
IX
FOR
E
VERY
N
EED
. A half-dozen mixing trucks sat on the lot and two were pulled to one of the towers, workers standing beside them. In a far corner of the lot was a jumble of metal boxes and round tanks. I’d seen them at construction sites: portable mixing units conveyed on semis and set up where needed.

We pulled beside a squat building marked ‘Office’ as a helicopter blew by overhead, low enough to read the word
EVERGLADES AIR TOURS
on the fuselage.

Kazankis was in his early fifties, tall and square-built and in a blue uniform dusted with cement. He was ruggedly good looking, wavy silver hair pomaded and combed back from his high and sun-brown forehead. His voice was deep and resonant and had Kazankis stood with a Bible in his hand and started preaching about salvation it wouldn’t have been much of a shock.

I showed my new ID. “Why we’re here, Mr Kazankis, is we’re investigating a crime involving an amount of poured concrete that probably took a mixer.”

“You came to us because of who we hire?” he said quietly, meaning ex-cons. “I feel it’s my calling to help the fallen back to their feet.”

“I’m not questioning your calling, sir. I may wish to question some of your employees.”

“Our employees are no longer criminals. When first from prison, I employ them here. Some stay, others move to new careers. The record speaks for itself.”

“An exemplary record, indeed,” I said, credit due. “But you’ve had failures, Mr Kazankis. It goes with the territory.”

“True. I’ll be the first to admit cases of recidivism. Not, thankfully, very many. But given that the possibility exists … what may I do for you, Detective?”

“First, sir, what can you tell me about this sample?” I opened my briefcase and handed over a bone-free chunk of concrete. Kazankis flicked a thumbnail over its surface.

“Low aggregate. Mainly sand and cement with a dye, one of the umbers. Is this part of the crime you’re investigating?”

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.