Chương 7
He agreed.
He had no intention of obeying.
The sky was turning from black to dark blue when Tony drove them to a Torino Imports office three blocks from the main facility. Delivery trucks moved through the streets, brakes sighing, headlights streaking across wet pavement. Men in hooded sweatshirts rolled pallets beneath sodium lamps. The city was waking in pieces.
Vincent had not visited the operation before dawn in years.
Workers recognized the Cadillac. Conversations quieted as he crossed the lot.
The overnight supervisor, Hector Ruiz, met them inside a cramped office decorated with his children’s school photographs and a calendar from an auto parts store. He wore steel-toed boots, a reflective vest, and the exhausted suspicion of a man called into trouble by someone who could fire him.
“Mr. Torino.”
“Hector.”
“Is there a problem with the restaurant order?”
“Loading bay forty-two.”
Hector’s gaze moved toward Marco, then Tony. “What about it?”
“Who uses it?”
“Overflow.”
“For what?”
“Depends.”
“Tonight.”
Hector scratched his jaw. “No scheduled loads.”
“Monday.”
He turned to the computer.
Vincent watched his hands. The right hand trembled slightly when he entered his password.
The schedule showed bay forty-two empty from Monday evening until Tuesday afternoon.
“Camera footage,” Marco said.
Hector clicked through a second program. The camera covering the bay had stopped recording at 8:07 Monday night and resumed at 12:31 Tuesday morning.
“Maintenance?” Tony asked.
“No ticket,” Hector said.
“Who can disable it?”
“Me. Day supervisor. Systems contractor. Mr. Rinaldi.”
The last name emerged reluctantly.
“Did Sal come here Monday?” Vincent asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Hector.”
“He comes and goes. He doesn’t sign in.”
“Who worked the yard?”
Hector named three men. One had called in sick the next day. Another had left for Pennsylvania. The third, Milo Sanders, was still on site.
They found Milo beside a produce truck, smoking beneath a NO SMOKING sign. He was twenty-four, narrow-faced, with an orange knit cap and grease on his sleeves.
When he saw Vincent, he dropped the cigarette and stepped on it.
“Mr. Torino.”
“Monday night,” Vincent said. “Bay forty-two.”
Milo’s eyes moved toward Hector.
“Look at me.”
Milo did.
“What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
Vincent waited.
Forklifts beeped behind them. A driver shouted in Spanish. A pallet wrapped in plastic passed close enough to stir the air around Vincent’s coat.
Milo glanced toward the open yard. “A van.”
“What kind?”
“White cargo van.”
“Rear windows?”
“No.”
“Who drove it?”
“I didn’t see.”
“Who opened the gate?”
Milo swallowed. “Mr. Rinaldi.”
Hector closed his eyes.
“What happened at the bay?”
“Two guys unloaded something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You watched.”
“I was on break.”
“You watched.”
Milo rubbed both palms against his pants. “They took three women out.”
Tony became very still.
“Alive?” Vincent asked.
“Yeah.”
“Walking?”
“One was. Two needed help.”
“Where did they go?”
“Into the cold storage section.”
“What happened after?”
“A box truck came around eleven. They put them in that.”
“Company markings?”
“Fresh Harbor Seafood.”
Marco typed the name into his phone.
“Why didn’t you report it?” Vincent asked.
Milo looked at him with startled disbelief.
“To who?”
The answer remained between them.
Vincent owned the yard. Sal opened the gate. Harlan wore the badge. Milo was paid nineteen dollars an hour and had a daughter’s photograph taped inside his locker.
“To me,” Vincent said.
Milo’s fear turned briefly into anger. “Mr. Rinaldi said it was your business.”
Vincent felt Tony watching him.
“And you believed him?”
Milo looked toward the trucks. “I believed I wanted to keep my job.”
No one spoke.
The sun’s first weak light touched the tops of the warehouse roofs.
Vincent said, “Go home.”
Hector stepped forward. “Mr. Torino, he abandoned his shift.”
“He’s going home with pay.”
“For how long?”
“Until I call him.”
Milo did not move.
“Go,” Vincent repeated.
The young man walked toward the employee lot without retrieving his cigarette.
Marco held up his phone. “Fresh Harbor Seafood dissolved eighteen months ago. Registered address is a mailbox in Newark.”
“Find the truck,” Vincent said.
He turned to Hector.
“You’ll give Detective Mara Reed access to every system she requests.”
Hector stared. “Police?”
“Every system.”
“What do I tell Mr. Rinaldi?”
“Nothing.”
“And if he asks?”
Vincent looked at the dark camera above bay forty-two.
“Tell him I came looking for tomatoes.”
Back at Teresa’s house, Sophie was awake at the kitchen table wearing her torn turquoise shirt again. Teresa had washed it and stitched the sleeve with blue thread, though the repair did not match the fabric. A bowl of oatmeal sat untouched in front of Sophie.
Her sneakers were still on.
Vincent entered through the side door. She searched his face immediately.
“You didn’t find her.”
“Not yet.”
“You said you would.”
“I said I would find out where she is.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No.”
“It is to me.”
Teresa placed a mug of coffee in front of Vincent. “She’s been awake since five.”
“I slept.”
“You closed your eyes,” Teresa said. “That is not always sleep.”
Vincent sat across from Sophie. His suit smelled faintly of warehouse diesel.
“We found the place your mother wrote about.”
Sophie stared at the oatmeal.
“Men used it to move women in trucks,” he continued. “Your mother may have seen records of that.”
“Was she there?”
“We don’t know.”
“You didn’t look?”
“We looked.”
“Then you know.”
“The place was empty.”
Her spoon rolled against the side of the bowl.
“Did they kill her?”
Teresa’s hand tightened around the coffeepot.
Vincent said, “There was no sign of that.”
“That’s not no.”
“No.”
Sophie pushed the bowl away. “You talk like the police.”
Tony, standing near the sink, looked down at his shoes.
Vincent reached into his jacket and put the folded five-dollar bill on the table.
Sophie’s eyes fixed on it.
“The job is not finished,” he said. “I haven’t returned this.”
“You’re not supposed to.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you take it out?”
May you like
“To show you I remember.”
She touched one corner, confirming it was real, then withdrew her hand.
