Page 90 of The Cinderella Secret
“Four,” said the kid.
“OK, that’s great,” said Jackson, handing over another fifty. “Can you take us back to the warehouse?”
The kid took the money but gulped nervously, and there was an extra round of nose-wiping. “I already went,” he whispered.
“What’d you see?” asked Jackson.
The boy shifted nervously and looked around. “Dingus said you weren’t cops. He said you were cool.”
“We are definitely not cops,” said Jackson. “You’re not going to be in any trouble. We don’t rat.”
More head scratching. “I went back. They didn’t look like they were going to be long term residents, you know? And it’s fucking cold out. I thought I’d just go take a peek. I saw them. I didn’t know what to do. I got warrants out on me, you know? And then Dingus said you was lookin’ for four guys.” T.J. looked freaked and like he was thinking about running or crying or both.
“What’d you see, T.J.?” asked Garcia, leaning in, as if sensing that the kid was about a half-step from running.
Jackson held up another fifty. T.J.’s fingers crawled out of his sleeves and reached for the money.
“They’re dead,” he said, and the bill disappeared. “All four of them. They’re still in the warehouse. I can’t call the cops. I got warrants. I can’t be involved in this shit.”
“And meanwhile, you can’t squat there,” said Jackson sympathetically, and T.J. nodded. “Show us where the warehouse is, and I’ll give you an extra hundred. Then you can disappear, and we’ll take care of calling the cops.”
T.J. nodded eagerly. “Yeah, OK.”
T.J.’s route to the warehouse avoided traffic cams, but it was a lot more walking through needle-infested scrub grass and along train tracks than Jackson wanted to do. Finally, they got to a dilapidated warehouse that had fadedno trespassingsigns across a chain link fence and a padlock on the gate.
“There’s a split in the fence along there,” said T.J. pointing. “I don’t wanna go in again.”
Jackson took the cash out of his pocket. “You could take this down to the shelter. You could sleep there and get fed.”
“Yeah, that’s totally what I’m going to do,” said T.J. and Jackson gave him a look. “The shelter sucks. Someone’s always trying to fuck you. If it’s not the staff, it’s the other residents.”
“I know one of the social workers,” said Jackson. “I can vouch for her. She can get you into a program.”
“I’m fine,” said T.J. reaching for the cash, and Jackson sighed.
“Ration your shit,” he said, handing over the cash.
T.J. looked annoyed. “I’m not going to O.D. I know what I’m doing.”
“Everyone always says that,” said Jackson. “Everyone always lies.”
T.J. hesitated, but took the cash and backed away, then turn and ran without another word.
“I don’t know why you try,” said Garcia.
Jackson shrugged. “You never know, and it doesn’t cost anything.”
“It will if someone ever says yes,” said Garcia, heading along the fence.
“I’m fine with that,” said Jackson.
“What do you think we’ll find in here,” asked Garcia, looking up at the crumbling cinderblocks and grayed wooden-slat siding. He fingered the gun on his hip. “It could be a trap or something.”
“I think we’re going to find dead bodies,” said Jackson. “I think I’m going to have to call Nowitsky, and I think it’s going to suck.”
“Yeah,” said Garcia, touching his gun again.
They crept in through the back door that had every appearance of being padlocked, but just had the chain looped deceptively. The warehouse was full of hulking machinery of indeterminate use covered in dust and cobwebs. The spaces were tall and echoed at the quietest of their movements, which only served to underscore that there was no other movement.
