To his left, on the far side of the loading dock, Jake spied a small office. He waited for a lift truck to rumble by, then strolled across the floor and peered into the room.

Rocky Shaft sat at a small desk, filling out some forms. He seemed to have become shipping manager in place of his brother. Certainly the promotion would not be a motive for murder, just a logical step for the company to take in light of Werner’s demise.

Jake tapped on the open door. Shaft looked up and his face darkened. He tossed his pen on the desk, spun around, and glared at the visitor. “What do you want?”

Jake disregarded the surly tone and smiled politely. “I want to talk to you about your brother.”

Shaft’s voice took on a calmer tone. “What about him?”

“Norton didn’t kill him,” Jake said.

Shaft remained quiet a moment, then, “Norton killed my brother. I have no doubt about that, and all the evidence proves he did.”

“Evidence can be planted.”

Shaft shrugged. “And who planted the evidence?”

“Maybe you.”

Shaft slammed a fist on a table. “Are you accusing me of killing my own brother?”

“I’m not accusing anyone,” Jake said calmly. “I’ll let the evidence speak for itself.”

“Fine. Let the evidence speak and it’ll show I had nothing to do with it. You’re making accusations based on nothing.”

“Not exactly nothing,” Jake said. He paused and watched closely for Shaft’s reaction. “Did your brother know you were having an affair with his wife?”

Shaft flew from his chair and took a step toward Jake. His left fist clenched, a finger of his other hand pointing at Jake. “I’m not having an affair, and you know it.”

“According to witnesses, you are.”

Shaft folded his arms. “What witnesses?”

“You can drop the pretense, Shaft,” Jake said. “You might as well admit it.”

Shaft pointed toward the door, his face red. “Get out of here.”

“Maria admits you’re having an affair,” Jake said.

Shaft dropped into the chair, bewildered, frowning. He glared at Jake a moment, then, “Just go.”

Jake noted there was no second denial, just more anger. He took a chance. “I know where the money is, Shaft.”

“What money?”

“From the drug heist.”

A frown took over Shaft’s brow and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

Jake shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me. I’m only giving you a heads-up. You aren’t the only one who knows where it’s hidden, and certain people love to talk.”

Shaft stood again, took two steps toward Jake, and stopped. “I don’t have to speak to you or answer any of your questions. I’ve done nothing wrong.” He reached forward, poked Jake in the chest, and spoke in a low, menacing tone. “Get out of here.”

Jake didn’t budge. “I know you killed Norton and I can prove it.”

Shaft’s face flushed with anger. “You have no proof because I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I also know Maria’s in on it,” Jake said. “She knows the whole story.”

“Leave Maria out of this. She knows nothing about anything.”

“You’re quite protective of her, aren’t you?” Jake said.

Shaft’s nostrils flared and he jutted his chin. “Of course I am. She’s my brother’s wife and she wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Thanks for your time,” Jake said, as he turned and stepped outside the office door. He waved a hand. “See you later, Shaft.”

The door slammed behind him. Jake turned back and put his ear to the door. He could make out Shaft cursing, then a few moments later, a murmuring voice. Shaft was on the phone with someone, perhaps Maria.

Jake went back outside and nodded at a worker coming through the door. The truck was pulling away from the loading dock, another one waiting to back in.

He hurried to the front of the building, hopped in his car and drove it around back, parking it five slots past Shaft’s pickup. He jumped out, moved to the rear of the property, sat on the grassy strip along the fence, leaned back, and brought up his knees.

Though Shaft’s face told otherwise, he didn’t admit to the affair. And if his words were any indication, he came close to admitting he knew about the money. Whether or not he killed Norton, Jake didn’t know, but one thing he knew for sure, Rocky Shaft was involved in this somehow.

He had riled Shaft up pretty good, and if Shaft was as anxious as Jake assumed he would be, then the angry man was going to make a move, and make it soon.

Chapter 36

Thursday, 10:43 a.m.

HANK TURNED the steering wheel and eased the Chevy onto Auburn Street. To the right, small houses that had been the standard for modern family homes in bygone days, now stood as examples of decay, neglect, and abuse.

Across the street, decrepit tenements and graffiti-clad low-rises lined the inner-city street. According to the address King had obtained, Harland Eastwood lived in one of them.

King peered through the passenger side window as the vehicle rolled over potholes and bulging asphalt. “Pull up here,” he said, waving toward the curb. He pointed to one of the buildings. “That’s the place.”

Hank pulled over, shut down the engine, and they stepped out. Litter swam by his feet as a sudden breeze came up, whirling dust and debris in and out of the gutter.

A pair of lethargic women lounged in lawn chairs on a postage-stamp lawn. With nothing better to occupy their time, they watched curiously as the cops crossed the street and approached the ravaged building.

Home to the idle poor, the unemployed, and the squatters, the ancient two-story building was doomed never to see a much-needed makeover. Rather, when the booming city demanded more space, these buildings would be leveled, and gleaming new high-rises to house the middle class would take their place. The poor would be pushed out, forced to huddle elsewhere.

King pushed open the door leading into a darkened lobby. The door squealed as it scraped against the tiled floor and remained open.

“Upstairs. 204,” King said, striding across the lobby to a set of concrete and metal steps leading upward.

Hank followed him to the second floor where the top of the steps opened into a short hallway. A musty smell filled the close, warm air, mixed with what could be human waste or something an animal left behind. It filled Hank’s nose, and he could taste it on his tongue.

They walked the tattered and stained carpeting to the end of the hall and stopped in front of 204.

King tapped on the door. There was no answer.

He tapped again, waited a moment, and then rammed the door with his shoulder. It held.

Hank grabbed King’s arm. “You can’t do that. We have no probable cause, and no warrant to search this place.”

King spun to face Hank. “We’re not going to search. Just talk.” He wrested his arm from Hank’s grasp and rammed the door again. Wood splintered and crackled as it burst inward and slammed against the inner wall.

Hank was growing tired of King’s cowboy attitude. He would always have his partner’s back, but Hank was determined to make it clear, he wasn’t going to put up with King’s illegal antics much longer.

“Relax, Hank,” King said, as he stepped into the apartment.

If it were possible, the stench inside the room was worse than the hallway. Human sweat, and something like the smell of rotting fish, greeted Hank as he followed King in.

His eyes roved over the contents of the one-room apartment, not much more than piles of old clothes, fifty-year-old furniture, and cast-offs of all kinds.

Across the room, a man clad only in boxer shorts, a beer belly hanging over his waistline, struggled to a seating position on a caved-in couch. His dark, sleep-filled eyes were wide, and the mouth on his oval face hung open.

“What the—”