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Sergeant Quarrels pulled out some bolt cutters, nudged them into the padlock on unit 1663, and snapped the lock off smartly. Her partner slid back the bolt and pulled up the door. Gazing into the gloom inside the storage unit, I could plainly see the dusty hood of a blue Nissan Sentra.
“That’s it,” I said.
“Call the crime lab. And run that tag,” I could hear Kimbrough telling his partner.
We walked in, two on the driver’s side, Kimbrough and I on the passenger side, flashlights cutting through the dimness. It smelled of dust and hot concrete and mold.
“Locked this side,” said Ford, the male Glendale detective. We shined our lights into the windows and looked through several weeks’ worth of dust. “Don’t touch anything,” Kimbrough told me.
“When did you graduate from the Academy, Kimbrough?” I asked.
“In 1986,” he said.
“I graduated in 1979,” I said, and walked to the back of the storage unit. Only the car was here. The place was otherwise totally empty, not even trash on the floor. Our steps echoed faintly.
“Why don’t we have keys?” Quarrels asked.
I lapsed into cop talk: “Subject stated that victim Riding, who was her employee, left behind only an address for the car, not the keys. Let’s pry open that trunk.”
“No way,” Krugell, the other sheriff’s dick, said behind me. “We’re waiting for the evidence techs. Tag comes back to the victim, Phaedra Riding.”
I glanced at Kimbrough and shrugged.
Kimbrough looked at me for a moment and then pulled two pairs of latex gloves from his pocket, handing me one pair. “Go get a crowbar,” he said to his partner.
In a moment, Krugell came back with a crowbar.
We were all really sweating now. My hands felt especially strange inside the latex in such heat. I grasped the crowbar under the trunk latch and jammed it in deep. Then I leaned down. At first, the lock held, fought me. Then there was a pop sound and the trunk lid came up. Flashlight beams converged on black athletic bags laid neatly side by side. I pulled out an Uzi and handed it to Kimbrough.
“Always be prepared,” he said, checking the action. “Loaded, full magazine.”
“I’m opening one of the bags,” I said, finding a zipper and pulling it toward me. Even before I opened the bag all the way, I could see the bundled stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Peralta’s black Ford swept into the narrow passageway nearly an hour later, a red light rotating lazily on the dash, reflecting off the orange doors all around us. The sun was all the way down, and the Crime Scene Unit guys had set up floodlights around the storage unit, which only made things hotter, if that was possible. The big man shook hands with the Glendale officers and then walked over to us, losing his smile.
“This is not one of the Harquahala ones, Chief,” Krugell said. “Phaedra Riding is not one of our serial victims.”
“What, Krugell, do I look like a moron?” Peralta said. “I’ve known that for days.” That was news to me. He looked over me and Kimbrough. “Well? Any new gunfights involving 1950s homicide investigations tonight?” It was asked without humor.
“No, but we have three bags full of money,” I said. “I always knew I’d get rich off the SO.”
Peralta snorted. “How much?”
“Rough guesstimate, a million, million two,” Kimbrough said. “We haven’t had time to count it.”
“I should have known our ‘Phaedra like Phoenix’ was running dope if she wasn’t turning tricks,” Peralta said.
“We don’t know that, Mike.”
“I really think you have a thing for this girl, Mapstone,” he said. “Too bad the department shrinks don’t work with part-time deputies.” He looked over the car.
“Prints,” he shouted. “I want prints.” The evidence technicians put their heads down and dusted.
“So it’s drug money?” he asked.
“Lindsey found the DEA file on Greg Townsend. He was Phaedra’s boyfriend. Rich boy, part-time pilot. And, according to confidential informants, he was a mule for Bobby Hamid, flying in cocaine from Mexico.”
