CHAPTER 30
DEL RIO HAD parked on South Anderson, across from the Red Cat Pottery warehouse. The warehouse was red brick that had been whitewashed a few times; whitewash was flaking off, revealing partial names of previous, now defunct, businesses.
From their spot on South Anderson, they could clearly see the loading dock around the corner on Artemus. There was a sixteen-wheeler parked in the bay, a guy with a forklift loading pallets into the back. A couple of brothers were on the sidewalk smoking, then they flicked their butts into the gutter and climbed up into the cab of the big rig.
At five in the afternoon, vans and small trucks were making their last drops in this mixed-use light-industrial area. Gates were closing, people leaving for the day.
Twenty minutes into their wait, Del Rio heard a motorcycle coming up the street behind him, then the motor cut out. In the rearview mirror he saw a guy get off the bike and disappear into his blind spot.
Del Rio heard the back door of the fleet car open.
He jerked around to see a guy get into the backseat with a black-and-silver helmet. He was about thirty, blond, blue eyes, five-ten, 160, and tight. Muscles rippled under his T-shirt.
Had to be the ballet dancer.
Dude reached a paw over the seat, said, “I’m Christian Scott. Scotty. How ya doing?”
Del Rio shook his hand. “Rick Del Rio. This is Emilio Cruz. My sidekick.”
Cruz said, “Yeah, I kick him in the side from time to time. Nice to meet you, Scotty.”
“Thanks. You too. Is this the place?” he asked, looking out at the Red Cat warehouse.
“We’ve been told it is.”
“Have you checked it out?”
“Nah, we’re just watching the paint fall off. They should be closing up in about a half hour.”
“Okay with you if I do a little reconnaissance now?”
“No problem,” said Del Rio.
Scotty got out of the car. There was a little spring in his step as he crossed the wide street, went over to the loading dock on Artemus, and shouted something up to the forklift driver.
The driver pointed to a door up a flight of metal stairs and Scotty waved at him, took out his phone, sprinted up the steps, and pulled the door open.
“I don’t know if he’s gay,” said Del Rio. “A little bouncy on his feet, maybe.”
“Bet you a hundred this Scotty was a cop.”
“How do you figure?”
“I know eleven hundred cops. He feels like one of them.”
“Then I’ll keep my money. And I’ll ask him,” Del Rio said.
Another fifteen minutes had passed—Del Rio feeling uneasy that the guy had been in there for so long, wondering what Jack knew about him and how Scotty was supposed to fit into the team—when Scotty came around the corner, a piece of paper rolled up in his hand.
He looked both ways as he negotiated the street traffic, then he got back into the car.
“I inquired about a job,” he said, grinning. “This is my application form. I got a little tour of the place.”
Del Rio was laughing inside, but he didn’t show it. The kid was smart.
“What did you see?”
“Very decent security,” he said. “Got cameras over the doors, wires in the windows. The van, gotta be the one we want. It’s white, scraped all to hell on one side. Parked in the back northeast corner. I didn’t want to be too obvious, but I walked by it.”
“Jesus,” said Cruz. “You do a lot with fifteen minutes, dude.”
“Let’s get this fifty-thousand-dollar ride off this block,” Scotty said. “I got pictures.” He showed his phone. “Maybe we can work up some ideas.”