Free Farnsworth Score by Rex Burns Page A

of the gray building had only two windows, both closed and high off the ground. He placed himself at the corner nearest the front door in case the inspector and Petersen needed a quick backup; the D.E.A. vehicle returned and the two cars swung quickly into the shallow parking area at the building’s front. “Check in” came over his radio, and he waited his turn: “Two-one-two, set.”
    “Going in.”
    The slam of the car doors was followed by quick steps in the gravel, making Wager aware of just how quiet the buildings and yards were. He rested his hand on the familiar .45 Star tucked out of sight under the tail of his sport coat and waited.
    The inspector’s voice popped on the radio. “The front door’s locked and barred. Ed, do you or Gabe have access?”
    “There’s a door over here,” said Johnston. “It’s got a window I can knock out.”
    “Let me get around to cover you.”
    “Ten-four.”
    The shatter of glass, followed by more long minutes of silence. Finally, Sonnenberg radioed, “It’s empty. We’ll see you at the front door.”
    Johnston let them in; a sharp chemical smell stung deep into Wager’s sinuses, and his shoes crackled loudly on the almost vacant concrete floor.
    “I think we’ve got something!” The inspector’s voice bounced around a fiberboard partition along one wall. “Ed, get the technician in here.”
    The sergeant brought her in; the embarrassment was gone and she walked quickly, leaning against the heavy pull of the toolbox. “This way, ma’am; I think we really scored.”
    The working part of the laboratory was set on a long bench blocked from any accidental view through the windows. Spaced along the shelf were five glass beakers the size of basketballs; scattered here and there and stoppered with corks or covered with aluminum foil were smaller jars and beakers, all of which held liquids or powders. Among the scattered work gloves, paper towels, glass tubes, and stirring rods, hoses and clips led from one container to another.
    “Sweet Jesus,” said Petersen. “I’ve never seen a lab this big!”
    The technician studied the setup and then busily drew a sample from the last beaker filled with thick white powder; the liquid reagent slid into the test tube and she swirled it slightly, lifting the glass against the overhead light. “It colors, Inspector.”
    “Ex-cel-lent! Is it MDA?”
    “It’s of that family. I’ll have to run laboratory tests to determine the exact composition. But it’s enough for presumptive positive.”
    “I’d like to send some down to our Dallas lab, too,” said Petersen.
    “We got plenty,” said Johnston.
    “Do you know what this stuff sells for?” The other D.E.A. man scratched in the clipped hair of his head and stared at the beaker. “On the street, it’s three dollars a dose; and you figure maybe ten thousand doses to an ounce of pure powder. And there must be thirty pounds of shit—pardon me, ma’am—stuff in that one jug!”
    Wager stared. Even wholesale, this shelf of goodies ran almost $200,000. And this was just one shipment. Of how many? “How long does it take to turn out a jar of the stuff?”
    Mrs. Nelson glanced up from the evidence label she was filling in. “The way the process is set up, they can turn out thirty pounds every twelve hours.” She pointed her pencil at two other beakers filled with opaque liquid. “That’s going through the final stage now. After desiccation, each flask should produce about ten pounds of powder.”
    Two hundred thousand dollars every twelve hours! “Wow,” said Wager, and he meant it. “That’s almost a day’s pay for an honest cop. And all tax-free.”
    “There’s a tax,” said Sonnenberg. “I aim to tax these people ten or fifteen years. Agent Petersen, can you have your local man get out a John Doe warrant for the owners and/or operators of this establishment?”
    “You bet I can.” He strode quickly to his car and its radio.
    “By gosh, Gabe.” The