Ocean Prey (A Prey Novel #31) - John Sandford Page 0,60
the shine off his scalp, one that was mostly bald before he got it shaved, Lucas thought.
“We might have found a fake wall,” he said. Lucas trailed him back to a small bedroom, now full of exercise equipment—a stationary bike in front of a wall-mounted TV, a weight rack with weights. One of the SWAT cops pointed at a bookcase. “I work construction on weekends. That bookcase ain’t right. From the side, it’s fourteen inches deep, but he’s got nothing in it but CDs and Blu-Rays and they barely fit.”
“How does it move?”
“Can’t see anything. Maybe it just pulls straight out, but I can’t get it to move. There might be a stopper or something.”
“What would happen if you hit it with your ram?” Lucas asked.
“It’s just veneer over chipboard,” the construction cop said. “It’d fall apart.”
“Then hit it.”
One of the cops went back outside to get the ram and the construction cop began unloading the shelves of the CDs and Blu-Rays. He was on his knees unloading the bottom shelf and he said, “Up . . . here it is.”
The team leaders asked, “What?”
The construction cop lay on the floor, looking up at the bottom of the next-to-the-bottom shelf. “Some kind of pin . . . We need a screwdriver. A big one.”
“Saw a screwdriver in the utility room, there’s some tools,” another cop said.
Lucas walked around a corner to the utility room, saw a nylon tool bag, found a half dozen screwdrivers, shouted back, “Phillips or flat-blade?”
The construction cop yelled back, “Phillips.”
Lucas carried the screwdriver back as a cop was arriving with the ram. Lucas handed the screwdriver to the cop on the floor, who did something under the shelf, grunting, and then said, “It’s coming out.”
He threw a wooden peg out, then said, “There’s a hook behind it . . . Okay. It oughta move.”
The team leader and another cop got on opposite sides of the bookcase and pulled it loose. There was a six-inch deep space behind it, with a half dozen shelves. Three of the shelves were empty; the two top shelves held a half dozen plastic bags filled with a pale brownish heroin, and two bags of cocaine. The third one down held bundles of cash.
“You’re right, he’s dead,” the lead cop said. “He sure as shit wouldn’t leave all that cash behind, not to speak of all the dope.”
“Dead, or spending the night with his girlfriend,” another cop said. “Or running for his life.”
Lucas nodded: “We need to put out an urgent bulletin on him. If he’s not dead yet, he’s going to be. Though I think he’s probably dead. Goddamnit, I need that guy.”
* * *
Lucas sat in the truck, phoned Weaver and told him what they’d found. “There must be two kilos of heroin in there, maybe a half kilo of coke. That could mean he was working with our Coast Guard killers the whole time. Bob and I talked to a guy who said Elliot was close to the top distribution level here, that he’s got quite a few dealers working for him who are selling on a semi-wholesale level. Or maybe this was Elliot’s inventory and it all comes from the Mexican side, like he said it did.”
“Okay. Well, we’ll get that bulletin out on him, make it a big deal. We’ll find him if he’s still walking around South Florida.”
The situation at Romano’s shop was slowly being cleaned up and Romano and Bianchi had been shipped to the Miami federal lockup on gun charges. Bob’s body was at the medical examiner’s and the wounded federal agent was still in surgery at Jackson Memorial Hospital.
“Why don’t you head back to Lauderdale? We’ll bring your car and stuff from the motel . . . we got car keys from Bob,” Weaver said. “The shooting team still wants to talk with you about what you saw.”
* * *
Parker came back to the truck, got in the driver’s seat and said, “Headed for Lauderdale. Think I ought to use the lights and siren?”
“Lights, no siren,” Lucas said. “Goddamn thing is too loud.”
They drove out to I-95, in silence, reflections from the lightbar ticking off the hood. After they turned up the expressway, Parker said, “I have a comment, but I don’t want to annoy you after . . . what happened.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve never been on a raid like that one at Elliot’s. Finding all that heroin. That was cool. I liked it.”
“You’ve got the stress gene,” Lucas said. “Are you out of