Free The Death Box by J. A. Kerley Page A

someone gets caught the state can take away—”
    “I know how it works, bud,” I said, not mentioning my house was in the same condition. “Anything available over there?”
    “All are, I suppose. They get taken out for surveillance because they don’t look like police vehicles.”
    We followed Gershwin to the line-up, a dozen cars and trucks, some looking new, most in obviously used condition. I was immediately drawn to a beige Land Rover Defender, fully outfitted with heavy black grille guard, full roof racking, and a high-sprung body with more right angles than curves.
    “Tell me about the Rover, Julio.”
    “That?” Gershwin wrinkled his nose. “It’s left over from an Indiana Jones movie.”
    “You don’t want the Rover, Detective,” Julio argued. “It’s sprung like a tank.”
    “And built like one, too,” I said, admiringly. “Where’d it come from?”
    “A Lauderdale dope dealer who had it custom-outfitted in South Africa for a month-long safari, but cut the trek short after three days. When he had the monster shipped over here, he liked how it looked a lot better than how it rode, probably why it’s only got two thousand miles on it. I also don’t think he much liked a manual transmission after the novelty wore off.”
    “The Tahoe,” Gershwin pleaded.
    “How long would it take to outfit the Rover with a siren, flashers, and an on-board computer hookup, Julio?” I asked. “Given that y’all don’t look too busy around here.”
    Gershwin moaned.
    Thirty minutes later, feeling better than I had all day, I aimed the revamped Rover for Redi-flow. It was southwest of Miami, down toward Homestead. Once off the highway we wove through streets that turned from storefront businesses to small and brightly painted houses clustered on miniscule lots festooned with tropical foliage. The houses soon grew sparse, the land as much sand as dirt, errant terns pecking at prickly pears for insects. I smelled swampland nearby but never saw water.
    Within minutes we banged past a lot holding smaller dozers and graders, cranes, trucks, and machinery of indecipherable usage, and a small abandoned building beneath a faded sign showing a crane and proclaiming O LYMPIA E QUIPMENT R ENTAL – SINCE 1975.
    Gershwin pointed. “Think they’d rent us a crane, sahib? You could shoot at lions from above.”
    “The Rover is fine. And it’s Detective Ryder.”
    We passed over rail tracks into a complex dominated by piles of gravel and sand, metal towers hovering in the air, one large silo emblazoned with a tall cross, below it the words REDI-FLOW CONCRETE, INC … A M IX FOR E VERY N EED . A half-dozen mixing trucks sat on the lot and two were pulled to one of the towers, workers standing beside them. In a far corner of the lot was a jumble of metal boxes and round tanks. I’d seen them at construction sites: portable mixing units conveyed on semis and set up where needed.
    We pulled beside a squat building marked ‘Office’ as a helicopter blew by overhead, low enough to read the word EVERGLADES AIR TOURS on the fuselage.
    Kazankis was in his early fifties, tall and square-built and in a blue uniform dusted with cement. He was ruggedly good looking, wavy silver hair pomaded and combed back from his high and sun-brown forehead. His voice was deep and resonant and had Kazankis stood with a Bible in his hand and started preaching about salvation it wouldn’t have been much of a shock.
    I showed my new ID. “Why we’re here, Mr Kazankis, is we’re investigating a crime involving an amount of poured concrete that probably took a mixer.”
    “You came to us because of who we hire?” he said quietly, meaning ex-cons. “I feel it’s my calling to help the fallen back to their feet.”
    “I’m not questioning your calling, sir. I may wish to question some of your employees.”
    “Our employees are no longer criminals. When first from prison, I employ them here. Some stay, others move to new careers. The record