What Happened to the Bennetts(94)

Dom didn’t say much either, but I could read his demeanor. He perched at the edge of the seat, driving inclined over the wheel. His gaze swept the surroundings, but his sight kept returning to the middle distance, maybe even turning inward, into his own past. He knew this dark and dirty terrain, and he emanated excitement like a steady electrical thrumming, as if he were a powerful, professional, machine.

I was in good hands.

I had to pray that was enough.

I wanted all of us to get out of this alive.



* * *



—

We reached a faded sign that read roper crane & rigging and pulled into a large, empty parking lot surrounding a corrugated metal building, about three stories tall. We drove past the building, took a right, and parked in front of a massive crane, which was even taller than the building. Its cab was almost a story high, the undercarriage five feet tall, and its tracks about twenty-five feet long. Black-tarped scaffolding encased the crane, its fabric tattered and torn. An American flag flapped at the top, fraying.

“Everybody out of the pool.” Dom cut the engine. “Tig, the toolbox.”

“Okay,” Tig answered, and we piled out of the van. No motion-detector lights went on, and Dom left the van doors open for light.

I looked around, orienting myself. The entrance to the building was across from us, a double door chained with padlocks. Above, at the upper reaches of the building, was a skinny catwalk that extended the length of the front and near side, with a series of doors and broken windows.

Otherwise the area was dark and deserted, with no ambient light from the businesses, since they were too far away. Thick clouds covered the sky, a darkly orange haze from the refineries, their stacks billowing ghostly white. The wind carried their chemical odor, overpowering the briny smells off the water. There was no sound, and the stillness felt settled in, as if the property had been abandoned for years.

“What you guys think?” Dom asked, his hands on his hips.

Tig nodded, setting down the toolbox. “It’s good.”

I turned to Dom. “What’s the deal with this place? This real estate has to be valuable. Who can afford to abandon it?”

“It’s in bankruptcy litigation. I used it back in the day and followed it since then in the paper.” Dom pointed up at the catwalk. “Those are the offices. That’s where you watch from, Jason.”

“Thanks,” I said, my emotions mixed. “You sure I can’t help?”

“You’ll help by staying out of the way.”

Richardson turned to Dom. “How long will it take until Reilly, or whoever, gets here?”

“Two and a half, three hours.”

“So we got time.” Richardson shrugged. “Maybe we’ll play a hand. Anybody bring cards?”

They all laughed, and Tig opened the toolbox with a soft grunt, took out flashlights, and gave them to Richardson and Skeet. He tucked a bolt cutter under his arm, then closed the box and straightened up. “Okay, time to make the donuts.”

Richardson turned his flashlight on the building, running a jittery circle of light over rust and grime on the weathered metal. “Hope there’s no rats. I don’t mind mice, but rats, no. Can’t take ’em.”

“I’m with you.” Skeet shuddered, his gold earring glinting. “I’ll take mice any day of the week. I tell my wife, they’re Mickey Mouse, only no pants.”

Tig chuckled. “I’m sure there’s no rats. No mice neither. Prolly fresh and clean inside like the Ritz.”

Richardson snorted. “Who you kidding? You never been to the Ritz.”

“Have so,” Tig shot back. “Had drinks there, many times.”

“You didn’t stay there.”

“Why would I? I got a house.” Tig clucked. “If I hadda stay there, I could stay there. What’re you saying? I’m a piker?” The three men walked to the entrance, their voices receding.

Dom slid a flip phone from his pocket. “I’m gonna call Reilly.”

“Should I go with them, or stay here, in case you need me?”

“Stick around.” Dom flipped open the phone, its faint orange screen shadowing his smile. “You can hear what a good liar I am.”





Chapter Sixty-Three



I sat next to Dom on the floor of the office, our backs against the wall of corrugated metal. The office was one of a row of offices on a cantilevered balcony of concrete, which was accessed by a long, rickety metal stairway. The space below was empty, but I assumed it had once held heavy equipment. The air smelled of dust, dirt, and dead mice. We’d heard telltale scuffling, but nobody wanted to know if they were rats or mice. I was guessing both.

We had been over and over the plan, discussing every particular, and there was nothing to do but wait in the dark. Tig, Richardson, and Skeet sat catty-corner to us, having dozed off. Dom rested with his eyes closed, but I knew he wasn’t sleeping. I left him to his own thoughts. Planes flew overhead intermittently, some closer than others, and one rattled the walls.

All I could think of was Lucinda, Allison, and Ethan. I tamped down any emotion that popped up, threatening to sidetrack my focus. I tried not to think about Hart, either. Or Contessa or Nerone. The face that kept coming to mind was Milo’s, his glittering eyes surfacing from my subconscious. I shifted position, unable to get comfortable.