The security guard stares at the badge, and for an instant I think I see longing in his eyes. “That’ll work.” He hikes up his pants. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to see Willie Steele,” I tell him. “He works here.”
“Willie? Sure. I saw him come in earlier.” He motions toward the booth. “I think he’s on line 7-W. Let me call, make sure he’s there.”
We wait while he makes the call. Beyond, huge machines rumble and grind and hiss. The second shift is in full swing. I see a young woman in blue jeans and an Ohio State sweatshirt feeding accordion paper into a massive cutting machine. At the end of the line, another person sends the cut papers down a conveyer belt.
The security guard emerges from his booth. “Okay, I just talked to the supervisor. Steele’s working tonight.” Tugging up his pants, he points. “I can’t leave my post. Just follow this walkway to where it tees, then go left. Line seven-W is midway down to the Paint Room there at the end. Lines are clearly marked. Willie’s on the glue wheel tonight. Supervisor’s name is Bob Shields. He’s expecting you.” Tony looks at me, and I see the burn of curiosity in his eyes. “What’d Willie do?”
“We just want to ask him some questions,” I reply.
He looks disappointed. “Let me know if you need any help with him. I never liked that guy.”
“Thanks,” I say.
The walkway is delineated with bright yellow tape. We follow it to the T junction, then turn left. Tony gave good directions, because midway to the end, we see a sign that says 7-W. Beyond, a conveyer belt with huge steel bins on either side rumbles like some massive engine. The accordion papers I’d noticed when we walked in have been cut and formed into cylinders. Held together with springs, they’re moving toward a rotating contraption where metal disks are glued onto the top and bottom. The operator then places each cylinder back on the assembly line and they make their way toward a huge oven.
A man with curly blond hair approaches us. Wearing black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looks more like a waiter in some upscale restaurant than an assembly-line supervisor. “Can I help you?”
We show him our badges. “We need to speak to Willie Steele,” I say.
“He do something wrong?” Shields asks.
“We just want to talk to him,” Tomasetti responds.
“Let me pull him off the glue wheel. Gotta get the break operator to replace him or things’ll pile up. Can you hang on a sec?”
Frowning, Tomasetti looks at his watch.
I smile inwardly. “We’ll wait.”
Shields rushes over to his desk, slides to a stop with the verve of a figure skater, picks up the phone. I see him looking at the man working the rotating machine, and I recognize the guy as Willie Steele. “That’s him right there,” I tell Tomasetti.
“Big guy.”
I think of the beating Mose took. “Big coward. Let’s see how tough Mr. Steele is when we haul him to the station.”
I see amusement in Tomasetti’s eyes. “I’ll give you the honors.”
“Hopefully, he knows I used to be Amish.”
“This is going to be a lot more fun than I thought.”
Shields comes back looking harried. “Break operator is on the way. Can you hang for a couple of minutes?”
Tomasetti sighs, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I’m about to reply, when I notice Steele looking at us. He’s frozen, his mouth open. The cylinders moving down the conveyer belt begin to pile up in front of him, and I realize he’s thinking about running.
The woman working next to him notices and stands up. “Hey!”
“We just got made,” I hiss.
Steele bolts.
“Shit,” I hear Tomasetti mutter, and then I’m running toward Steele.
“Halt! Police!” I shout. “Willie Steele! Stop!”
At the assembly line, a dozen faces turn to watch me as I sprint past them. Twenty feet ahead, Steele knocks over a stool, tosses a trayful of cylinders at me. “Fuck!” he shouts.
For such a big guy, he’s fast and agile. I’m running full out, but he’s still pulling away. Tomasetti is slightly ahead of me now. Wishing I hadn’t done those shots earlier, I hit my lapel mike, call for backup. If Steele gets out of the building and to his vehicle, he could get away.
Tomasetti and I are at an added disadvantage because Steele knows the layout of the building and we don’t. As long as we keep him in sight, we should be okay. Not an easy task when the guy runs like a freaking rhinoceros on speed.
He takes us toward a huge overhead door marked PAINT ROOM at the end of the walkway. He makes like he’s going to go right. I veer in the same direction, my arms pumping, my feet pounding the concrete. At the last minute, he goes left, and I lose another yard.