There was a quiet murmur of conversation and an occasional laugh. I noticed more than one person wearing headphones, plugged into their private sounds.
At a nearby table I watched three people armed with hand-held propane burners soldering tiny nails to the backs of little cloisonné American flags. Lapel pins, I guessed, thousands of them. Farther along I saw the logos for baseball teams being Super Glued to ballpoint pens. And truck emblems being attached to belt buckles. And a computer company’s logo being glued to key holders. And…
“Can I help you?”
She had long brown hair tied in a ponytail. Late teens, T-shirt and jeans. Her smile was genuine, but she had a sad face, with large, wet brown eyes. She’d been pushing a rubber-wheeled cart laden with small boxes.
“Yes, I’m looking for Jeremy Stone.”
Her delicate brows went up, making her eyes even larger.
“Does he work here?”
“I believe he does.”
She shook her head. “There’s Jerry who works in shipping, but I don’t know his last name. We could ask.”
I followed her down a long, wide aisle formed by freestanding metal shelves. At the rear of the building was a loading bay, its wide steel door rolled up. A couple of guys were carrying boxes into the rear of a semitrailer. The driver, a wiry little man with a thin mustache, looked on, arms folded. Loading was not in his job description.
“What about those?” he asked one of the guys, and nodded toward boxes stacked beside the door.
“Some are for UPS, and some go out tomorrow.”
The brown-eyed girl rolled her cart past the men to a long table against the rear wall. The young guy working there was hefty, with short blond hair and acne scars on the back of his neck. A cigarette was tucked behind one ear. He wore jeans, running shoes, and a T-shirt, which seemed to be the uniform of the day at Butler Manufacturing. He wrapped packing tape around a box, slapped on a shipping label, and made a notation on a clipboard.
“Jerry?”
He turned around, glanced at me, then frowned at the cart.
“Geez, Molly, these aren’t going out today, are they? It’s almost quitting time.”
“I don’t think so.” She pulled an order form from between two boxes and handed it to Jerry.
He scanned the sheet, then said, “Northfield Distributing, Minneapolis. More of these cheap plastic mugs. They go tomorrow. Would you put them over there?”
“Sure, ah, Jerry? This man wants to ask you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Jeremy Stone,” I told him.
His eyebrows went together briefly, then straightened out. “Don’t know him.”
“He’s supposed to work here,” Molly put in.
Jerry shook his head. “There’s no one here by that name.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve worked here for five years, and I’ve never heard of the guy.”
“Could Jeremy Stone be a customer? Or a supplier?”
His brows pushed together, and he shook his head slowly. “I’ve never seen that name on an invoice. Of course, he might own a company with a name other than—”
“What are you doing back here?”
We all turned to see Kenneth Butler hustling toward us—jacket off, sleeves rolled up, tie unloosened. He looked ready to fight. Molly got busy unloading her cart, and Jerry turned to his table.
“Hi, Kenneth.”
“Didn’t you see the sign?” he asked angrily.
I shrugged. “So who’s smoking?”
“Employees Only,” he snapped.
“I must’ve missed that one.”
“I want you out of here. Now.”
“Good,” I said, motioning for him to lead the way. “We can talk in private.”
Molly was watching us out of the corner of her eye. I winked at her, and she looked away. Then I quickly scanned the rear of the building. In addition to the loading-bay door, there was an exit door, closed, with telltale wires running along the top frame. There were also small hinged windows near the ceiling. As I turned to go after Kenneth, an employee pushed one closed with a long pole.
Kenneth led me through the Employees Only door, up the hallway, and past the outer office. He pointed to the front entrance. I saw wires over the top frame. Beside the doorframe was a metal box with a keyhole and a pair of LEDs, one red, one green. The green one was lit.
“Out,” he recommended.
It seemed presumptuous to ask him for a look at his books.
“We’ll talk again,” I told him.
I drove off in the smoky Toyota and headed for Home Club to buy a ladder.
CHAPTER 24
IT WAS MIDNIGHT WHEN I RETURNED to Butler Manufacturing.
I steered the Toyota down a gentle incline and around to the rear of the building. The loading area was well lighted but mostly hidden from the street. Of course, if a cop, real or rent-a, checked back here, it would prove embarrassing. Honest, Officer, I was only washing windows.
I climbed out and zipped up my jacket against the chill air. Then I untied the cords from the front and rear bumpers and dragged the extension ladder from the roof of the car. It was aluminum, light but still awkward to handle. I carried it to the rear of the building and ran up the extension. It rattled loudly, the sound echoing off the cinder-block wall and asphalt yard.
I waited, listening for sirens. Nothing. I heard a car go by on Dartmouth.
I leaned the ladder against the building and positioned it under a small, high window near the loading dock. The window was about fifteen feet up, and the ladder didn’t quite reach it. I belted on my tool pouch and climbed the ladder. Slowly, because it wobbled.
The window was covered by a heavy mesh screen, fastened at the corners with hex-head bolts. I took out three of the bolts with a snap-on ratchet wrench and dropped them in my pouch, then pivoted the screen on the remaining bolt, letting it hang beneath the metal-cased window.
This afternoon, when I’d been inside, I’d seen wires for the burglar alarm on all the doors, but not on the upper windows. Still, it was nerve-racking to force the window lock with a heavy screwdriver and wait for the clang of alarm bells.
Silence.
I pushed the window open. It was hinged on the bottom, and it swung in about forty-five degrees, stopped there by its chain. I unhooked the chain and eased the window all the way down until it lay flat against the inside wall.
Then I switched on my flashlight and shone it inside the cavernous building. I was above the fluorescent light fixtures, and they looked like long, pale coffins floating in air. The shelves and tables below were ominous dark shapes. I shone my light straight down. The concrete floor wasn’t down quite as far as the asphalt outside—perhaps twelve feet.
I switched off the light, tucked it in my pouch, and climbed through the window opening feet first. Then I rolled over, and the windowsill bit into my stomach, my arms, my hands. I dangled for a moment over the abyss, then let go. It was only about a four-foot drop, but my ankles hurt when I landed. I’m too old for this shit.
I switched on the flashlight and made my way through the work area to the front, trying to ignore what I’d left outside: abandoned car, open window, ladder. A trifle suspicious.
Quickly, I walked up the hallway, then through the outer office to Kenneth’s office. The door was closed and locked. I picked it open.
I went directly to the file cabinets and the personnel records. They were in alphabetical order, a file for each employee, containing name, address, phone number, names of spouses and children, original job application, health insurance information, and so on.
There was no file for Jeremy Stone.
I found the accounting books in a bottom drawer—money owed, due, received, paid. Company names only.
Next I pawed through invoices and shipping statements. Nothing. I scanned thick folders of business correspondence. No letters to or from Jeremy Stone.
&n
bsp; Not a goddamn thing.
I shone my light on Kenneth Butler’s desk. There was a telephone, a stack of catalogs, and a Rolodex. I flipped through all the S’s. No Stone, Jeremy. I flipped through the J’s. No Jeremy Stone.
End of the line. Christ, I’d thought I’d find something.
I started to leave. And then I remembered my first visit here last Monday. When I’d walked in, a ledger had been open on the desk. Kenneth had shoved it in the drawer. Nervously, it had seemed.
I stepped around to the business side of the desk, picked open the lock on the wide, shallow drawer, and slid it open. Inside was a big book with a green cover. I laid it open—the payroll record for Butler Manufacturing. The employees were listed in alphabetical order. And there he was, near the bottom of the page—Jeremy Stone. Name, social security number, salary, federal and state withholding, FICA, and net earnings. I turned pages and found Stone on every one. Since the first of the year he’d been clearing just under two thousand dollars every other week. Which meant he took home about fifty grand a year. Not bad for an employee who no one had ever heard of.
I scanned the column of net earnings. The employees’ salaries ranged from $12,000 to $24,000, with the exception of Kenneth Butler, who made a tidy $75,000. He was the only one who made more than Jeremy Stone, and Stone made twice as much as anybody else—including, I noticed, Wes Hartman.
What did Jeremy Stone do for his money?
I ran my finger up the column to Stone’s social security number and carefully copied that most sacred nine-digit identifier, as personal and individual as a set of fingerprints. Then I locked the ledger in the desk drawer and left the office, pulling the door closed behind me. I moved through the outer office to the hallway.
A car pulled up out front.
For a moment I froze, unsure whether to duck back and hide in the office. If the people in the car (cops?) went back there, I’d be trapped. On the other hand, if I chose the hallway, there was a good chance I’d be seen through the glass front door before I made it to the Employees Only door. But the work area had a number of exits, including an open window.
I sprinted down the hall, shouldered through the door, and pushed it closed.
The outside lock clicked open, and there was sudden light under the door, shining on the toes of my shoes.
I hurried through the shadowy maze of tables and shelves to the rear of the building. Then the overhead lights flickered and came on, filling the area with cold white light. I hunkered down behind a rack of shelves and waited for someone to tell me to come out with my hands up.
No one did.
There were footsteps on the concrete. They moved past me. I peeked around the shelves.
Wes Hartman was walking away from me, carrying a gym bag in one hand.
What the hell was he doing here at midnight?
Maybe he’d driven by, seen my car and ladder, and come in to investigate. Although his movements weren’t guarded or tense. He walked purposely, shoulders back, head erect.
He moved out of sight, I considered hustling out the front door. But someone else might be waiting there. Besides, I was curious about Hartman.
I crept after him, careful not to make a sound.
He walked directly to the packing area near the loading dock. A few dozen boxes were stacked there, ready to be shipped tomorrow, some the size of beer cases, some smaller. Hartman began unstacking boxes, checking labels. He found the one he was looking for and slit the packing tape with a pocket knife. He opened the box, then opened the gym bag beside it. His back was to me, blocking my view, but it looked as if he were taking something out of the box and putting it in his bag.
What was he doing, stealing belt buckles?
I considered stepping up and scaring the shit out of him, demanding to know what he was doing. Of course, he could demand the same of me. And no matter who called the cops, I’d be the one busted for breaking and entering.
I moved down the row of shelves, hoping for a look at what he was taking.
I bumped a table.
I froze, holding my breath. I hadn’t made much of a sound. Perhaps Hartman hadn’t heard.
“Who’s there?” he said loudly.
Oh, fine.
“Is someone in here?”
I curled up under a table. I couldn’t see Hartman. But I could hear him moving toward me. And then he was standing right beside me. From my vantage point all I could see were his fancy running shoes and faded designer jeans. I waited for him to look under the table. Hi, Wes, I dropped a contact. He stood there for a moment, then moved away. Only now could I see that he was carrying a gun.
He held it before him, pivoting this way and that. Then he returned to the rear of the building and the packing area. I opted to stay put.
After a few minutes, I heard him walking through the building to the front. Then the light went out.
I uncurled from my burrow, flipped on my flashlight, and made my way to the front. There was no light under the door. I heard the muffled sound of a car start and drive off.
I walked back to the packing table.
The stacks of boxes looked undisturbed. I began moving boxes around, trying to find the one that Hartman had cut open. But he’d either taken it with him or resealed it, because none of the boxes appeared to have been tampered with. Of course, even if I could identify the box, I probably couldn’t tell what he’d removed.
I dragged a table under the open window. Apparently, Hartman had been too preoccupied to notice it. I climbed onto the table, jumped up, grabbed the windowsill, and pulled myself into the opening. It was awkward as hell to get myself turned around. I stood on the ladder, reached into the opening, and pulled the window up. I refastened the chain and pulled the window closed. Then I pivoted the wire screen over the window and replaced the corner bolts. What if the cops showed up now? Busted for fixing and leaving.
I tossed my tools in the trunk of the Toyota, tied the ladder to the roof, and drove away.
I wondered what Wes Hartman considered valuable enough to steal from Butler Manufacturing. And was it just a coincidence that I’d gone in there the same night as Hartman? Or was this something he did every night?
CHAPTER 25
ON SATURDAY MORNING, I presented George the handyman with an almost new ladder, used only once.
I’d found him on the south side of the house, plucking tiny weeds from Mrs. Finch’s tulip bed. He looked shrunken inside his faded blue work shirt and Big Ben overalls, the cuffs rolled twice to clear the square toes of his old boots. His face was as brown and wrinkled as yesterday’s lunch sack. His hands were too big for his body—knobby, gnarly, yellow-nailed things, tough as juniper roots.
He squinted one eye at the ladder.
“What’s wrong with it?” He had a voice like a cat clawing sandpaper.
“Nothing.”
“Why do you want to give it to me?”
“You can use it, can’t you?”
“Sure. Can’t you?”
“No, George, I can’t.” Take the damn thing.
“Where’d you get it?”
“I bo— I found it. Sort of.”
“Oh?” Tell me more.
“I saw it fall off the back of a truck.”
“Ah.”
“I waved at the driver, but he didn’t see me.”
“Ah-ha.”
“I thought about putting an ad in the paper, but who reads those things?”
He was still squinting, but not quite as hard. “Let me see it.” He took the ladder from me and began inspecting it as if I were a traveling salesman.
“How much you want for it?”
“Nothing, George, it’s yours.”
“Hmm.”
Je-sus. “On one condition.”
“Oh?”
“You don’t tell anybody you got it from me, you understand? You bought it. I never saw it before in my life.”
“Gotcha,” he said, and hauled it into the backyard, the proud new owner of
a ladder with a past.
I put gas and oil in the Toyota and drove west.
The driver’s licenses for two of the three Jeremy Stones included social security numbers, an option in Colorado. One of them matched the number I’d lifted from the payroll book of Butler Manufacturing.
Jeremy Leonard Stone. My man.
The copy of his license photo wasn’t too sharp, but Stone was a mean-looking dude. Maybe it was the scar over his eye. Or maybe it was the possibility that he’d been involved in a murder or two, not to mention a couple of attempts on my life. Yeah, that would definitely ugly him up.
The address was in west Denver, just off the Sixth Avenue Freeway, a neighborhood of small, frame houses. Jeremy Stone’s needed paint.
It was a dirty white cracker box with a patched roof, faded fake shutters, and yellow-stained rain gutters. The yard had yet to be mowed this year, and there were clumps of grass half a foot high, probably where the neighborhood dogs had dropped their fertilizer. Windblown papers decorated the front stoop. The screen door hung open, its restraining spring broken and the wire mesh sagging with age.
Butler Manufacturing pays this guy fifty grand a year?
Maybe this wasn’t my man, after all. But no, the numbers matched. It had to be him.
I unholstered the Magnum and held it behind my leg.
The doorbell button had been painted over years ago, so I banged a fist on the door.
It was opened by a corpulent woman in a green blouse and blue pants. Her round face was free of makeup and framed by limp blond hair. She had watery blue eyes, set too close together.
“What is it?” she demanded, frowning.
“Are you Mrs. Jeremy Stone?”
“Are you from the collection agency?”
“No.”
Blood Relative (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 4) Page 14
