Page 10 of Getting Hitched

“Look, they’re expecting us at the shelter. You don’t have any reason to keep us here. There’s no law against moving food, is there?”

“No, sir. There’s not.” He really couldn’t hold them. The police suspected that the warehouse, owned by one of Williams’ companies, was a front, but they had no concrete evidence he was using it for illegal purposes.

“Why were the supplies here?” Sanchez asked.

“The guy who owns the warehouse donated them.”

“But he couldn’t bring them to the shelter?”

“Look, nobody told us the details. They’re paying us to load them; that’s all.”

That was the first thing Gray had heard all night that sounded right. He looked up the number of the shelter and dialed it. He had to work through a phone tree until he got someone on the emergency line.

“This is Detective Sadler with the Durham Police Department.”

“How can I help you, sir?” the man asked.

“Are you expecting any deliveries tonight?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve got a shipment of food, a large donation that should have been here already. Is there a problem, sir?”

“No, it just struck us as unusual when we saw the truck being loaded, so we had a chat with the men who are loading the supplies.”

“We were supposed to collect them earlier, but we had a power failure this afternoon. We had to purchase some fans and coolers to keep the perishables, and we got behind schedule.”

“I see,” Gray said. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“You’re welcome, Detective. Have a good night.”

“You too.” Gray slid his phone back into its holster.

“Carry on, gentlemen.” He waved toward the waiting truck.

“Are we done here?” one of the officers asked.

“Apparently we are.”

“Shit,” Sanchez said. “I don’t like this.”

“Yeah, me either.”

They stood there for several seconds, watching the men load the rest of the crates into the truck.

Gray tried the number he had for his informant, but he got nothing. Sanchez checked in with the officers watching Williams’ house and favorite hotel. Still nothing there.

“Let’s go home,” Sanchez said.

As they turned into the alley, something came at Gray with a screech. He jumped back, going for his gun. His foot hit some muck. He slipped and down he went, landing on his ass in something that smelled like rotten fish and wet dog. He sat up quickly, looking everywhere for his assailant, but he didn’t see a damn thing.

Wait. What was that? A shadow streaked between two buildings across the street and disappeared.

That’s when he realized Sanchez was laughing, not just a chuckle, but a full-on, near-hysterics crack-up.

“What the fuck?”

“A cat,” she said. “A goddamned cat. Not even a big one, just a cute little orange guy.”

As soon as she said it, Gray realized he had two long scratches on his arm. But the shadow he’d seen hadn’t been a cat.

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