Page 9 of Getting Hitched
Gray contemplated that. They’d gotten information that Williams, a man who dealt in drugs, arms, and easy cash, was meeting a supplier at a downtown warehouse. The exchange was supposed to happen at midnight, but it was two o’clock and there hadn’t been so much as a rat stirring anywhere near them. Either they’d been misinformed, or the parties involved had gotten word about the bust. The chance of anyone showing was getting lower by the minute. Soon it would be time for all good little crime lords to be in bed.
Still, he shouldn’t leave his post, not when, despite the odds, there was a chance something would go down. They had someone watching the dealer’s house, but all indications were that no one was at home, not his wife or kids or his cousin who lived with him. And no one at the hotel where he brought his high-end prostitutes had seen him. While there were plenty of explanations for his absence, something felt off. Gray hadn’t come up with any decent theories yet. Probably Williams had just gotten wind of the surveillance and was lying low.
Or maybe the asshole had skipped town for a while. His disappearance might have nothing to do with the police. Maybe Williams had crossed one of his suppliers or fucked over someone else in his criminal empire.
But usually Gray or another detective in Major Crimes would’ve heard something about a move that big.
He glanced down the street toward the twenty-four-hour convenience store, then back at Sanchez. “You sure you’re good on your own for a few minutes?”
She nodded. “Yes. Just bring me a cup too, the largest they have.”
They’d parked tucked into the shadows in an alley across the street from the warehouse. In case anyone was lurking and hadn’t seen them yet, Gray eased the car door shut, trying not to make a sound. Then he moved toward the street, tense and alert. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
That’s when he saw them, men in black, exiting the far side of the warehouse, carrying crates.
The officers watching that side of the building jumped out of their car. “Stop! Police!”
Gray radioed Sanchez. The four men dropped the crates, and their hands shot into the air. None of them seemed to be going for a weapon.
But Gray kept his gun out, trained on them. “Step away from the crates.”
They did as he said.
“Where’s Williams?”
“Who?” one of the men asked.
“I don’t know any Williams,” another said.
The others didn’t speak at all.
“What’s in the crates?” Sanchez asked.
“Food for the shelter.”
“What shelter?”
“Ark Ministries.”
“You’re telling me you’re sneaking around in the dark, loading up crates of food for a homeless shelter.”
The first man who’d spoken nodded. “That’s right.”
Gray looked at Sanchez. She shrugged.
“Let’s see,” Gray said.
“Do you have a warrant?” the second man asked, stepping forward in challenge.
The first man laid a hand on his arm. “Just let them look. We’ve got nothing to hide.”
The man mumbled something uncomplimentary about cops under his breath, but he stepped back as Gray popped the crate open and lifted the lid. “See?” he said. “Nothing in there but cans of soup.”
Gray picked up several cans and examined them. They were sealed as far as he could tell. No signs of tampering.
The men opened the other crates. All of them appeared to be filled with staples: canned vegetables, boxed dinners, powdered milk. Nothing looked amiss, but he was sure something was wrong. There was no reason they’d be loading up these supplies in the middle of the night.
“Everything looks to be in order, but I’d like you to wait here while I make a phone call,” he said.
