G&G Logistics: a gray box lit with floodlights, giant containers on iron stilts lined up to the seven bay doors. A yellow cross-bar gate blocked the entrance to the property. The front door of the building was propped open, light from inside spilling onto a pile of garbage bags heaped at the bottom of the short staircase.
Farraday’s truck was parked on the far end of the industrial cul-de-sac. We slid in behind him, killing our headlights. The truck was locked, empty.
We ducked under the cross-bar and entered the property. The Colt was heavy and I didn’t trust myself to draw it from my waistband. I carried it at my side, the barrel pointed down.
We knocked, then stepped inside. The reception corridor was brightly lit but the desk was empty. Time cards were neatly stowed in their pouches on the wall, CROWHURST, L among them. We walked to the door that led out onto the warehouse floor.
The floor itself was dark. Lanes built out of industrial shelving held skids of shrink-wrapped goods, boxes, building materials. The offices to the right were a maze of drywall and plywood. A steep staircase and gantry led to a second floor.
We went through the ground floor rooms, using the penlight to locate light switches. Break room with table and soda machine. Front office, a controlled mess of paperwork covering each workspace.
No Farraday. No Essex. No Crowhurst.
“Maybe he’s in custody already,” I said.
“And Farraday had to leave his truck?”
“It’s possible.” The possibles and maybes and unknowns were piling up.
We checked the loading bays. The doors were all secured save one. A stack of dirty pallets and an ancient forklift flanked the mouth of the container. The penlight showed a wall of boxes a few feet inside. Crowhurst’s work had been left unfinished.
“What do you want to do?” Sonia asked.
“Check upstairs, take a quick look around the warehouse floor. Then get out of here.” It felt good to say it. “Leave it with the police and go home.”
“I’ll phone them,” she said.
We walked back toward the stairs. Sonia had her phone out. I shone the penlight toward the warehouse shelves but it did nothing to illuminate the dark towers.
I called out, “Anyone here,” and heard my echo return to me through the vast space.
“Signal’s weak,” Sonia said. “I’ll try phoning from reception.”
I watched her move toward the entrance, holding her phone up to catch a signal. I thought of calling her back. Irrational—we were alone, I had the gun.
Coming up the stairs I could see the second floor was one single room perimetered by a catwalk, an executive office with a long window that overlooked the warehouse floor. A bank of switches near the entrance probably controlled the warehouse lights. An intercom below them. The door was shut.
I opened the door and, startled, pointed the Colt at the bloody face of Dana Essex.
A deep gouge in her forehead spilled a curtain of red over her cheek. Her eyes were opened wide. I saw them look beyond the gun barrel and recognize me. She collapsed forward onto my shoulder.
“Thank God,” she said.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s Lee,” she said, straightening up, pointing into the office. “He’s here, he dragged me here, something about his money. Dave—Dave—you’ve got to get us out of here.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’ll be all right.”
I looked into the office and could see only shadows. My feet crossed the threshold and I saw an inert form splayed out by the desk, Farraday, his face perforated and throat torn open. And I felt a hand cross behind me to rest on my left shoulder, an almost avuncular gesture, and something cold punched into my ribcage.
I turned and struggled, lost my grip on the gun. I tottered off balance and fell backward onto the metal grate of the catwalk.
The pain in my side was watery and dull and I knew I was leaking blood.
“I told you to stay away if you wanted to be safe,” a voice said chidingly. “At the very least, Dave, you can’t accuse me of lying to you.”