horse barns and pole barns, at a place called Collins Metal Buildings in Chippewa.
Lucas and Stern walked through with the cops, looking behind books and under desks, and then the cops got serious about the search, and began pulling the place apart. They found four guns hidden in various drawers, all compact .38 caliber revolvers, fully loaded; and in one drawer, under the revolver, found a couple hundred packs of orange and double-wide Zig-Zags.
The main room had wall-to-wall carpeting, but one of the cops found that it hadn’t been tacked down. They rolled it one way, found nothing, rolled it the other way and found several loose floor planks. Under the planks they found twenty tightly sealed, highly compressed bags of marijuana, probably a pound each, and two kilos of cocaine.
“So it wasn’t entirely metal buildings,” Stern said.
“This is good,” Lucas said. “This gives us a contact point for Pilate, a reason for the two of them to be seeing each other.”
“Wonder if they took his truck?” Stern asked. “We got people looking for it, haven’t heard anything back.” He checked with his office, shook his head, and said to Lucas, “Nothing. If you see a two-year-old blue Ford Explorer pickup . . .”
The search continued: a half hour into it, Stern took a call, wandered into a corner, looked over at Lucas, hung up.
“Malin had a debit card with Wells Fargo. It was used twice, once just before midnight last night, then again a little while after midnight. You know, two separate days, maximum withdrawals both times, six hundred bucks each. There are recognizable photos of the woman who put the card in.”
“Excellent,” Lucas said.
“Better than that, big guy,” Stern said. “You know where they used them at?”
“Where?”
“St. Paul,” Stern said.
Lucas stepped back: “Ah, man. I probably passed them on I-35 last night. They were heading south and I was going north.”
“Ships in the night,” Stern said. “Anyway, Wells Fargo moved the photos to the St. Paul cops, and they sent them down to us. Let me get my iPad, we’ll take a look.”
He was back in two minutes with the slate. “Got her,” he said.
He passed it to Lucas.
Skye was looking straight into the ATM camera, hoodie back on her shoulders. She looked scared to death.
“Skye!”
“That’s—” Stern began.
“Oh, boy, oh boy . . . I’m going,” Lucas said.
T
he night before:
Neal Ray Malin felt crowded in the RV, like a big dog in a small kennel. When he shifted his weight, he could feel the RV move. He was on his feet, his hair like a haystack, fat cheeks with a bristling beard, facing Pilate, both of them angry, and he said, “I told you what the terms was: the terms was cash on the barrelhead. I don’t want to hear this bullshit about promising to pay. That’s not how we do business.”
“That might not be how you do business in the backwoods, but it’s how we do it in L.A.,” Pilate said. “I got contacts all over the movie business, we get top price—”
“Excuse me,” Malin said, looking around the RV. He was a bulky man with skinny legs. Cowboy boots poked out from under his boot-cut jeans. “I gotta say, this don’t exactly look like a big-time director’s place.”
“Hey! We’re good for the money. I got a reputation in L.A.—”
“Look out the window, you fuckin’ moron, you see any skyscrapers out there?” Malin asked. “Does that look like Rodeo Drive?”
He said Rowdee-oh Drive, and Kristen smirked over her pointed teeth and said, from behind him, “That’d be Rodeo Drive, dumbass. Row-Day-Oh.”
“Fuck a bunch of roads, I’m going,” Malin said. “If you actually get the cash, I’ll be in Chippewa. You got my number.”
Pilate put his hand up, toward Malin’s chest: “Wait a minute.”
“I ain’t waiting,” Malin said. He was wearing one of those loose Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirts and now dropped his hand down to his side, slipped it under the
Lucas and Stern walked through with the cops, looking behind books and under desks, and then the cops got serious about the search, and began pulling the place apart. They found four guns hidden in various drawers, all compact .38 caliber revolvers, fully loaded; and in one drawer, under the revolver, found a couple hundred packs of orange and double-wide Zig-Zags.
The main room had wall-to-wall carpeting, but one of the cops found that it hadn’t been tacked down. They rolled it one way, found nothing, rolled it the other way and found several loose floor planks. Under the planks they found twenty tightly sealed, highly compressed bags of marijuana, probably a pound each, and two kilos of cocaine.
“So it wasn’t entirely metal buildings,” Stern said.
“This is good,” Lucas said. “This gives us a contact point for Pilate, a reason for the two of them to be seeing each other.”
“Wonder if they took his truck?” Stern asked. “We got people looking for it, haven’t heard anything back.” He checked with his office, shook his head, and said to Lucas, “Nothing. If you see a two-year-old blue Ford Explorer pickup . . .”
The search continued: a half hour into it, Stern took a call, wandered into a corner, looked over at Lucas, hung up.
“Malin had a debit card with Wells Fargo. It was used twice, once just before midnight last night, then again a little while after midnight. You know, two separate days, maximum withdrawals both times, six hundred bucks each. There are recognizable photos of the woman who put the card in.”
“Excellent,” Lucas said.
“Better than that, big guy,” Stern said. “You know where they used them at?”
“Where?”
“St. Paul,” Stern said.
Lucas stepped back: “Ah, man. I probably passed them on I-35 last night. They were heading south and I was going north.”
“Ships in the night,” Stern said. “Anyway, Wells Fargo moved the photos to the St. Paul cops, and they sent them down to us. Let me get my iPad, we’ll take a look.”
He was back in two minutes with the slate. “Got her,” he said.
He passed it to Lucas.
Skye was looking straight into the ATM camera, hoodie back on her shoulders. She looked scared to death.
“Skye!”
“That’s—” Stern began.
“Oh, boy, oh boy . . . I’m going,” Lucas said.
T
he night before:
Neal Ray Malin felt crowded in the RV, like a big dog in a small kennel. When he shifted his weight, he could feel the RV move. He was on his feet, his hair like a haystack, fat cheeks with a bristling beard, facing Pilate, both of them angry, and he said, “I told you what the terms was: the terms was cash on the barrelhead. I don’t want to hear this bullshit about promising to pay. That’s not how we do business.”
“That might not be how you do business in the backwoods, but it’s how we do it in L.A.,” Pilate said. “I got contacts all over the movie business, we get top price—”
“Excuse me,” Malin said, looking around the RV. He was a bulky man with skinny legs. Cowboy boots poked out from under his boot-cut jeans. “I gotta say, this don’t exactly look like a big-time director’s place.”
“Hey! We’re good for the money. I got a reputation in L.A.—”
“Look out the window, you fuckin’ moron, you see any skyscrapers out there?” Malin asked. “Does that look like Rodeo Drive?”
He said Rowdee-oh Drive, and Kristen smirked over her pointed teeth and said, from behind him, “That’d be Rodeo Drive, dumbass. Row-Day-Oh.”
“Fuck a bunch of roads, I’m going,” Malin said. “If you actually get the cash, I’ll be in Chippewa. You got my number.”
Pilate put his hand up, toward Malin’s chest: “Wait a minute.”
“I ain’t waiting,” Malin said. He was wearing one of those loose Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirts and now dropped his hand down to his side, slipped it under the
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