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

speaks for itself.”
    “An exemplary record, indeed,” I said, credit due. “But you’ve had failures, Mr Kazankis. It goes with the territory.”
    “True. I’ll be the first to admit cases of recidivism. Not, thankfully, very many. But given that the possibility exists … what may I do for you, Detective?”
    “First, sir, what can you tell me about this sample?” I opened my briefcase and handed over a bone-free chunk of concrete. Kazankis flicked a thumbnail over its surface.
    “Low aggregate. Mainly sand and cement with a dye, one of the umbers. Is this part of the crime you’re investigating?”
    I nodded. “Have you ever had a loaded truck stolen?”
    “A truckload is mixed, then goes directly to the site. A person might steal a truck at night, but it would be empty.”
    “Maybe I’m looking for concrete diverted to another usage. This would have been around a year ago.”
    Kazankis frowned. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I can’t recall details that far back.”
    “Would it be possible to get a printout of all employees from that period?” I asked. “It would save us a trip to the Parole Board.”
    “Certainly.” Mr Kazankis sat by a computer, made some taps on the keyboard, and a printer behind the desk began humming. Our next move would be cross-checking employee names against violent crimes. Records in hand, we turned to the door.
    Gershwin halted. “One more question, Mr Kazankis. Do your employees ever take concrete home or anything like that? For use later?”
    “Like for next-day delivery? It would harden in the truck.”
    “I guess I mean their own projects. Like fixing a sidewalk or whatnot.”
    Kazankis thought a moment, brow furrowed beneath the silvered blowback. “Sure, lots of times an employee will lay a patio or a driveway. We give them the materials at cost. It happens too often to keep track of.”
    “I understand,” I said, again turning to go. “Guess we’ll have to keep digging into employees with records. Sorry if we …”
    When I turned to nod farewell to Kazankis his head was canted and his eyes were turned inward, as if doing calculations in his head. He snapped his fingers.
    “Paul Carosso, by gosh! Now I remember.”
    “Pardon me?” I said.
    “It was almost quitting time, Detective. Paul came in, said he’d been working on a new driveway. He’d hired a couple concrete workers for the following week and was gonna get the pour scheduled then. But Paul said if he could get the concrete, they could lay the drive that evening. I said sure, grab a load and return the truck in the morning. But make double-damn-sure that barrel gets washed out.”
    “I thought you didn’t remember such things,” I said. “Was something different?”
    “It was kind of unusual. Paul’s not a detail guy. He could do better at keeping his uniforms clean. He leaves candy and food wrappers in the cab. I have to get on him about washing the barrel completely clean. If the mix hardens you need to break it out, a real pain. When I got there in the morning I asked Burle Smith, the yard foreman, if Paul brought the truck back in decent condition, dreading the answer.”
    “And your yard guy said?”
    “Burle said Paul musta climbed into the drum with a toothbrush, it was that clean.”
    I looked at Gershwin. Would it be this easy? Kazankis caught the glance. “Are you going to want to talk to Paul?” he asked, an edge of nervousness in his voice.
    “Dunno yet,” I said. “And I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention this conversation to him.”
    Kazankis promised to keep our confidence. Gershwin and I were angling for the door when he called us back. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
    “Yes, sir?”
    He started to speak but couldn’t. He cleared his throat and tried again. “The color in the sample of concrete you showed me, the rusty brown. It’s not dye, is it?”
    “No, sir.”
    His eyes fell. “I pray no one here was involved.”
    I nodded, not mentioning that I was hoping in