He quickly turned the key in the trunk of a maroon sedan, knowing he didnât have much time. The Human Beach Ball would be back in the bunker in a minute. Gibbons imagined him collapsing into a squeaky desk chair at a cluttered metal desk, picking up the phone and starting to make the call, then looking up at the bank of black-and-white monitors right in front of him and seeing the pain-in-the-ass fed searching trunks.
Gibbons jiggled the key and finally got the trunk open. He scanned it quickly, lifted the mat and checked the tire well, slammed it shut, and moved on to the next car, a smoke-gray one. He knew this was an illegal search, but he didnât give a shit. Getting a warrant was a pain in the assâby the time you finally get a judge to sign one, nine times out of ten either what youâre looking for isnât there anymore or the investigation has taken you in another direction. Gibbons preferred one-stop shopping.
âShit.â The trunk of the smoke-gray Accord was empty, too. He skipped a few cars down the line and tried a silver job. Joe hadnât made it to the bunker yet. He was trying to maintain a fast walk now. Gibbons kept seeing himself on those monitors, multiple images from different angles. Maybe he shouldâve gotten a warrant.
He popped the trunk and his eyes narrowed when he spotted a balled up thermal blanket and one of those crinkly plastic bags. The bag was full. Quickly rifling through the top, he found aluminum foil, plastic wrap, cellophane, and a couple of empty Coke cans. He didnât notice anything unusual at first because the cans looked like ordinaryred-and-white Coke cans. Then he looked at the fine print on the side of one of them. It was written in Japanese characters.
Gibbons chewed on the inside of his cheek. Maybe those Jap auto workers arenât as perfect as they always make them out to be on TV. Maybe they goof off just like everybody else in the world, except they do it in the trunks of the cars.
But then he spotted something else. A white plastic hose wedged between the wall and the floor of the trunk. It didnât have any fittings on the end and had no apparent purpose that he could see. He took a closer look and saw that the end of the hose was pretty chewed up. He grabbed the hose and pushed it back toward its source. It moved freely. He shut the trunk halfway, looked through the back windshield, and moved the hose again. As he suspected, the other end jutted in and out of the crease in the backseat.
He walked around to the driverâs side of the car and inspected the dash through the window. On the climate control panel, the vent switch was on âFresh.â He cupped his hand over the window of the next car and saw that the vent lever was on âRecirculate.â The vents in the silver car were apparently left open so fresh air could get in and feed this air hose. It looked like somebody had spent some time in this trunk. Rents werenât that high in Japan.
Gibbons went back to the trunk, yanked out the hose, wound it around his hand, and shoved it in the pocket of his raincoat. He picked up one of the Coke cans, wrapping some tin foil around it to preserve any possible fingerprints, and put it in his other pocket. He shut the lid and put the keys back in his pants pocket, then wandered back into the aisle to wait for Joe, wondering whether the fat ass had spotted him on a monitor with his head in the trunk of that car.
Inside the bunker, Joe was panting, trying to catch his breath, pointing to the business card in his hand. âF . . . BI,â he rasped. âJesus . . .â
John DâUrso sat on the edge of the cluttered metal desk, gently patting the steel-gray hair at the back of his head as he stared up at the monitors. There were eight of them, two horizontal rows of four, each one a fish-eye panorama of cars, cars, and more cars. All except for the second from the right on the top row. That monitor was
Gibbons jiggled the key and finally got the trunk open. He scanned it quickly, lifted the mat and checked the tire well, slammed it shut, and moved on to the next car, a smoke-gray one. He knew this was an illegal search, but he didnât give a shit. Getting a warrant was a pain in the assâby the time you finally get a judge to sign one, nine times out of ten either what youâre looking for isnât there anymore or the investigation has taken you in another direction. Gibbons preferred one-stop shopping.
âShit.â The trunk of the smoke-gray Accord was empty, too. He skipped a few cars down the line and tried a silver job. Joe hadnât made it to the bunker yet. He was trying to maintain a fast walk now. Gibbons kept seeing himself on those monitors, multiple images from different angles. Maybe he shouldâve gotten a warrant.
He popped the trunk and his eyes narrowed when he spotted a balled up thermal blanket and one of those crinkly plastic bags. The bag was full. Quickly rifling through the top, he found aluminum foil, plastic wrap, cellophane, and a couple of empty Coke cans. He didnât notice anything unusual at first because the cans looked like ordinaryred-and-white Coke cans. Then he looked at the fine print on the side of one of them. It was written in Japanese characters.
Gibbons chewed on the inside of his cheek. Maybe those Jap auto workers arenât as perfect as they always make them out to be on TV. Maybe they goof off just like everybody else in the world, except they do it in the trunks of the cars.
But then he spotted something else. A white plastic hose wedged between the wall and the floor of the trunk. It didnât have any fittings on the end and had no apparent purpose that he could see. He took a closer look and saw that the end of the hose was pretty chewed up. He grabbed the hose and pushed it back toward its source. It moved freely. He shut the trunk halfway, looked through the back windshield, and moved the hose again. As he suspected, the other end jutted in and out of the crease in the backseat.
He walked around to the driverâs side of the car and inspected the dash through the window. On the climate control panel, the vent switch was on âFresh.â He cupped his hand over the window of the next car and saw that the vent lever was on âRecirculate.â The vents in the silver car were apparently left open so fresh air could get in and feed this air hose. It looked like somebody had spent some time in this trunk. Rents werenât that high in Japan.
Gibbons went back to the trunk, yanked out the hose, wound it around his hand, and shoved it in the pocket of his raincoat. He picked up one of the Coke cans, wrapping some tin foil around it to preserve any possible fingerprints, and put it in his other pocket. He shut the lid and put the keys back in his pants pocket, then wandered back into the aisle to wait for Joe, wondering whether the fat ass had spotted him on a monitor with his head in the trunk of that car.
Inside the bunker, Joe was panting, trying to catch his breath, pointing to the business card in his hand. âF . . . BI,â he rasped. âJesus . . .â
John DâUrso sat on the edge of the cluttered metal desk, gently patting the steel-gray hair at the back of his head as he stared up at the monitors. There were eight of them, two horizontal rows of four, each one a fish-eye panorama of cars, cars, and more cars. All except for the second from the right on the top row. That monitor was
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