Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(63)

They’d chosen the midnight to eight a.m. shift because of the skeleton crew. A team of two security guards rotated between the front gate and the main building every two hours. Vehicles came and went at odd hours, so the depot never technically closed. The overnight mechanic who handled off-hours intakes would be asleep on a cot in the garage.

Gibson pulled up at the gate and watched Bill Michaels rouse himself from his chair, find his clipboard and hat, and slide open the door to his hut. Having done his homework, Gibson knew quite a bit about the man. Michaels had graduated from Norfolk State with a degree in criminal justice. He was an ex-cop and a deacon at the First Baptist Church in Amherst, Virginia, and had recently purchased a used Sea Ray pleasure boat. Gibson knew Michaels’s wife’s and children’s names. He had learned enough about Michaels that Deja Noble’s plan to take the depot at gunpoint had been a nonstarter for him. There were lines he would cross and consequences he would bear, but putting Bill Michaels in harm’s way wasn’t ever going to be one of them.

Deja had sneeringly called him soft. Actually, that was the Sunday-night version of what she’d called him, but Gibson had insisted on no guns. The current plan, Gibson’s plan—if it worked—would see them in and out with no one the wiser. The depot wouldn’t even know a crime had been committed. That part had appealed to Deja, and she’d grudgingly agreed to let him do it his way, but with one parting caveat.

If you go in there unarmed, and they roll you up, that’s on you. That’s your time to do. Now, you start making out like we know each other to reduce your time, and I’ll be sure to introduce you to some folks inside who really know me. You hear?

He heard.

Bill Michaels slid open the glass door of his hut and offered an amiable smile. He took Gibson’s paperwork and scanned the name off the Robert Quine ID.

“Heya, Robert,” he said, flipping through the yellow sheets of Gibson’s counterfeit paperwork, making notes on his clipboard as he went.

Deja swore it would hold up, but Bill Michaels was no rent-a-guard with a GED. He was ex-Bureau of Criminal Investigation with numerous commendations and had cashed out on a disability retirement because of chronic back problems. He’d been a good investigator, and a bad back wouldn’t have dulled his instincts. In truth, this was the riskiest moment of the whole job. The depot had only one layer of security with the cameras disabled. They should have no problem once Michaels waved them through.

“How’s the back?” Gibson asked.

“Manageable. Started a yoga class.”

“Yoga?”

“Yeah, it’s helping, I think. Me and fifteen girls my daughter’s age. They think I’m adorable.” Michaels sighed. “I may be the class mascot. But you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Michaels’s brow furrowed, and he started flipping back and forth between pages. Gibson’s heart climbed his throat as if it wanted to get a better look.

“Problem?”

“These forms are out of date. We switched over in January.”

“Sorry.”

Michaels shook him off. “You’re in good company. Half the stations are still on last year’s.” Michaels crossed out a box and made a correction. “We sent three memos, but you know cops, never throw away a damn thing. Pain in my ass.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Gibson said.

“Appreciate it. So, you dropping this old tub off?” Michaels slapped the side of the van.

“Yeah, it’s way past overdue. Afraid it was going to die on me on the way over.”

“Careful.” Bill winked. “Still gotta make it over to intake. Aldo’ll be pissed if you wake him up to get out the pickup to drag it the last hundred yards.”

Gibson chuckled agreeably—good old Aldo—and put a finger to his lips. The guard tore off two pink copies and handed the yellow originals back to Gibson.

“Who’s that?” Bill asked, pointing to Swonger’s car with his pen in between checking boxes on his clipboard.

“My ride back.”

“Good man. You better be buying his drinks. Sign here.” Michaels held the clipboard up for him to initial. “You know where you’re going?”

“Like I live here.”

“I heard that,” the guard said and took out his phone. “All right, last thing. I gotta take your picture.”

“Really?” That wasn’t standard.

“Damn security keeps crapping out, so I’m keeping a photo log of everyone coming in until they get around to fixing it.”

Damn, damn, damn. Normally you could count on lowest-common-denominator thinking, but leave it to good old Bill Michaels to blow the curve. Gibson had shut off the security, and Michaels had found a sensible, outside-the-box solution. Man deserved another commendation. Unfortunately, Gibson couldn’t see a way around it.

“Yeah, whatever,” he managed through a forced smile.

Michaels stepped back, lined up his camera, and took a photograph. “All right, see you in a few.”

“Few as I can manage.”

The gate swung up, and Gibson pulled forward to wait for Swonger to be checked through. He slipped his gloves back on while watching in the rearview. He wasn’t sold on Swonger’s ability to play any part but his own, but Swonger talked his way through and the gate went up.