the back of the shed and found a blank wall—but the weeds next to one part of the cinder-block foundation were worn and scuffed, almost like an animal trail that went nowhere, ending at the foundation. Lucas stooped, pushed on a block, and it moved. A few seconds later, he’d pulled out four blocks, and kneeling, and cranking his head around, he could see a man-sized hole in the floor.
“Somebody’s been going in and out,” he said.
“You want me to go in?” asked the Latino.
“No, no—let’s do it right.” He pushed the block back into place.
R EASONS CAME BACK with his cell phone and said, “The city engineer says it’s been condemned as an eyesore. The railroad’s agreed to tear it down, but just hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Bacon—the city engineer—he’s calling the railroad guy who knows about it, to get the okay to go inside. There’s something around back?”
“Yeah, somebody’s been going in and out,” Lucas said. He explained about the foundation.
Reasons went around to look and then went back to his phone. When he got off, they stood around looking at the shed, and at the port, and Lucas started talking to the Latino man about Mexico, and Reasons started bullshitting Nadya about dating in Russia, and then Reasons’s phone rang. He listened, nodded, and said, “Thanks.”
“We can go in. If we can get in.” A patrol car was rolling down the street toward them. “I called for a hammer,” he said.
The patrol car pulled to the curb. A uniformed cop got out of the car, lifted a hand to Reasons, went around to the trunk, popped it, and lifted out a sledge. “What do you need broke?” he asked.
T HE COP TOOK three swings to break the padlocked latch off the door; even then, the door was jammed shut. The cop went back to his car, dug around in the trunk, and returned with an eighteen-inch-long screwdriver. “When I started on the force, they called all that shit ‘burglar’s tools,’ ” Reasons said.
“Yeah, but that was a hundred years ago,” the cop said.
He worked the blade of the screwdriver around the edge of the door, grunted, “Warped,” and Reasons said, “Well, Jesus, don’t baby it—they’re gonna tear the fucking thing down.”
Then the door popped, and they all clustered together and peeredinside. They could see what looked like the remains of a camp: and a briefcase with paper scattered around.
“Think we can go in?” Reasons asked.
“I’m going,” Lucas said. “Fuck a bunch of crime-scene weenies.”
The interior had an animal smell about it: the place had been inhabited, and recently, by somebody not fastidious. A flat pad made of bubble wrap was pushed against one wall, with an army blanket on top of it. A bed, Lucas thought.
Peeking from under the briefcase, he could see one half of what looked like a wallet. He stooped, took a pencil out of his pocket, and used the pencil to drag the wallet into the open.
“What do you see?” Nadya called.
Lucas got down on his knees and pushed his face close to the wallet. “A wallet. A bunch of cards in Russian and an ID card in English that says, ‘Oleg Moshalov.’ ”
“Sonofabitch,” Reasons said.
6
W HEN R EASONS SAID , “Sonofabitch,” Lucas stood up and backed out of the shed, slapped his hands together to get rid of the dust, and said, “Better call your crime-scene guys.”
C RIME - SCENE INVESTIGATION had somehow become the flavor-of-the-month on TV shows, but Lucas could not remember the last time that crime-scene guys had actually broken a case. They gathered evidence—blood, semen, hair, fingerprints, firearms and shells, tool marks, clothing fibers—that could be used to pin a suspect after the cops found him, but the cops had to find him first.
In the one major case in which the crime-scene people were dominant, and in which Lucas had participated, if only from the sidelines, a hot assistant county attorney and her crime-scene buddies had
“Somebody’s been going in and out,” he said.
“You want me to go in?” asked the Latino.
“No, no—let’s do it right.” He pushed the block back into place.
R EASONS CAME BACK with his cell phone and said, “The city engineer says it’s been condemned as an eyesore. The railroad’s agreed to tear it down, but just hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Bacon—the city engineer—he’s calling the railroad guy who knows about it, to get the okay to go inside. There’s something around back?”
“Yeah, somebody’s been going in and out,” Lucas said. He explained about the foundation.
Reasons went around to look and then went back to his phone. When he got off, they stood around looking at the shed, and at the port, and Lucas started talking to the Latino man about Mexico, and Reasons started bullshitting Nadya about dating in Russia, and then Reasons’s phone rang. He listened, nodded, and said, “Thanks.”
“We can go in. If we can get in.” A patrol car was rolling down the street toward them. “I called for a hammer,” he said.
The patrol car pulled to the curb. A uniformed cop got out of the car, lifted a hand to Reasons, went around to the trunk, popped it, and lifted out a sledge. “What do you need broke?” he asked.
T HE COP TOOK three swings to break the padlocked latch off the door; even then, the door was jammed shut. The cop went back to his car, dug around in the trunk, and returned with an eighteen-inch-long screwdriver. “When I started on the force, they called all that shit ‘burglar’s tools,’ ” Reasons said.
“Yeah, but that was a hundred years ago,” the cop said.
He worked the blade of the screwdriver around the edge of the door, grunted, “Warped,” and Reasons said, “Well, Jesus, don’t baby it—they’re gonna tear the fucking thing down.”
Then the door popped, and they all clustered together and peeredinside. They could see what looked like the remains of a camp: and a briefcase with paper scattered around.
“Think we can go in?” Reasons asked.
“I’m going,” Lucas said. “Fuck a bunch of crime-scene weenies.”
The interior had an animal smell about it: the place had been inhabited, and recently, by somebody not fastidious. A flat pad made of bubble wrap was pushed against one wall, with an army blanket on top of it. A bed, Lucas thought.
Peeking from under the briefcase, he could see one half of what looked like a wallet. He stooped, took a pencil out of his pocket, and used the pencil to drag the wallet into the open.
“What do you see?” Nadya called.
Lucas got down on his knees and pushed his face close to the wallet. “A wallet. A bunch of cards in Russian and an ID card in English that says, ‘Oleg Moshalov.’ ”
“Sonofabitch,” Reasons said.
6
W HEN R EASONS SAID , “Sonofabitch,” Lucas stood up and backed out of the shed, slapped his hands together to get rid of the dust, and said, “Better call your crime-scene guys.”
C RIME - SCENE INVESTIGATION had somehow become the flavor-of-the-month on TV shows, but Lucas could not remember the last time that crime-scene guys had actually broken a case. They gathered evidence—blood, semen, hair, fingerprints, firearms and shells, tool marks, clothing fibers—that could be used to pin a suspect after the cops found him, but the cops had to find him first.
In the one major case in which the crime-scene people were dominant, and in which Lucas had participated, if only from the sidelines, a hot assistant county attorney and her crime-scene buddies had
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