“Leave Maria out of this. She knows nothing about anything.”
“You’re quite protective of her, aren’t you?” Jake said.
Shaft’s nostrils flared and he jutted his chin. “Of course I am. She’s my brother’s wife and she wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Thanks for your time,” Jake said, as he turned and stepped outside the office door. He waved a hand. “See you later, Shaft.”
The door slammed behind him. Jake turned back and put his ear to the door. He could make out Shaft cursing, then a few moments later, a murmuring voice. Shaft was on the phone with someone, perhaps Maria.
Jake went back outside and nodded at a worker coming through the door. The truck was pulling away from the loading dock, another one waiting to back in.
He hurried to the front of the building, hopped in his car and drove it around back, parking it five slots past Shaft’s pickup. He jumped out, moved to the rear of the property, sat on the grassy strip along the fence, leaned back, and brought up his knees.
Though Shaft’s face told otherwise, he didn’t admit to the affair. And if his words were any indication, he came close to admitting he knew about the money. Whether or not he killed Norton, Jake didn’t know, but one thing he knew for sure, Rocky Shaft was involved in this somehow.
He had riled Shaft up pretty good, and if Shaft was as anxious as Jake assumed he would be, then the angry man was going to make a move, and make it soon.
Chapter 36
Thursday, 10:43 a.m.
HANK TURNED the steering wheel and eased the Chevy onto Auburn Street. To the right, small houses that had been the standard for modern family homes in bygone days, now stood as examples of decay, neglect, and abuse.
Across the street, decrepit tenements and graffiti-clad low-rises lined the inner-city street. According to the address King had obtained, Harland Eastwood lived in one of them.
King peered through the passenger side window as the vehicle rolled over potholes and bulging asphalt. “Pull up here,” he said, waving toward the curb. He pointed to one of the buildings. “That’s the place.”
Hank pulled over, shut down the engine, and they stepped out. Litter swam by his feet as a sudden breeze came up, whirling dust and debris in and out of the gutter.
A pair of lethargic women lounged in lawn chairs on a postage-stamp lawn. With nothing better to occupy their time, they watched curiously as the cops crossed the street and approached the ravaged building.
Home to the idle poor, the unemployed, and the squatters, the ancient two-story building was doomed never to see a much-needed makeover. Rather, when the booming city demanded more space, these buildings would be leveled, and gleaming new high-rises to house the middle class would take their place. The poor would be pushed out, forced to huddle elsewhere.
King pushed open the door leading into a darkened lobby. The door squealed as it scraped against the tiled floor and remained open.
“Upstairs. 204,” King said, striding across the lobby to a set of concrete and metal steps leading upward.
Hank followed him to the second floor where the top of the steps opened into a short hallway. A musty smell filled the close, warm air, mixed with what could be human waste or something an animal left behind. It filled Hank’s nose, and he could taste it on his tongue.
They walked the tattered and stained carpeting to the end of the hall and stopped in front of 204.
King tapped on the door. There was no answer.
He tapped again, waited a moment, and then rammed the door with his shoulder. It held.
Hank grabbed King’s arm. “You can’t do that. We have no probable cause, and no warrant to search this place.”
King spun to face Hank. “We’re not going to search. Just talk.” He wrested his arm from Hank’s grasp and rammed the door again. Wood splintered and crackled as it burst inward and slammed against the inner wall.
Hank was growing tired of King’s cowboy attitude. He would always have his partner’s back, but Hank was determined to make it clear, he wasn’t going to put up with King’s illegal antics much longer.
“Relax, Hank,” King said, as he stepped into the apartment.
If it were possible, the stench inside the room was worse than the hallway. Human sweat, and something like the smell of rotting fish, greeted Hank as he followed King in.
His eyes roved over the contents of the one-room apartment, not much more than piles of old clothes, fifty-year-old furniture, and cast-offs of all kinds.
Across the room, a man clad only in boxer shorts, a beer belly hanging over his waistline, struggled to a seating position on a caved-in couch. His dark, sleep-filled eyes were wide, and the mouth on his oval face hung open.
“What the—”
King interrupted. “Harland Eastwood?” he asked, pulling back his shirt to reveal the badge fastened to his belt.
“I didn’t do nothin’,” Eastwood said, brushing back his stringy, dark hair.
King looked down at the startled man, “That’s not what I hear. Possession of drugs with intent to traffic.” King’s eyes roved around the room. “I bet if I looked around a little, I’d come up with something.”
“Where’s your warrant?” Eastwood asked, sitting back and folding his arms.
“We have probable cause,” King lied.
Hank nudged King aside and turned to Eastwood. “Look. We just want to ask you a couple questions then we’ll go. We can forget all about drug possession charges.”
Eastwood’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of questions?”
“About the guys you work for.”
“I’m unemployed.”
“Great,” Hank said. “Then you won’t mind talking to us about your ex-boss.”
Eastwood gave a blank, confused stare.
“We want to know about a drug money heist that went down a few months ago,” King said. “Talk to us and we were never here.”
“Mind if I get dressed,” Eastwood asked. He leaned forward, reached down, and picked up a pair of faded jeans beside the couch, then stood and slipped them on. He pulled a wrinkled t-shirt from a pile and worked it over his head.
“What d’you wanna know?” the man asked, tucking his hands into his pockets.
“Who pulled the heist?” Hank asked.
Eastwood shrugged. “Nobody knows.” He paused. “As far as I can tell, that is.”
“Somebody must know.”
“Maybe. But if so, they didn’t tell me.”
“How much money was taken?” King asked.
“About five hundred large. Least, that’s what I heard.”
“How many gunmen?”
Eastwood cocked his head. “You mean, how many guys robbed them?”
“Yes. How many?”
“Three.”
“You’re sure?” Hank asked.
“Positive. There were three.”
“Because you were there, weren’t you?” King asked.
Eastwood said nothing.
King reached out and pushed Eastwood onto the couch. “You were there, right?”
Eastwood looked up at King. “Maybe.”
Hank touched King’s arm. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is if he’s telling the truth.”
“It’s the truth,” the man said.
“Did you recognize any of them?” King asked.
Eastwood shook his head adamantly. “They wore masks.”
“And your boss has no idea who it was?”
“Not that I know of.” Eastwood tilted his head slightly. “Why do you guys care about this? If drug money gets stolen, why are the cops involved?”
Hank looked at King, and then back at Eastwood. “Because one of the guys we think pulled the robbery is dead. Maybe two. And we want to know who killed them.”
Eastwood’s eyes darted back and forth between the two cops. “I hope you’re not looking at me for that.”
“Should we be?”
“Of course not.” Eastwood swallowed hard. “And I don’t think my boss was involved either or I would’ve heard about it.”