Page 68 of Nicoletta
When I pull back she grabs my arm. “Be careful.”
“Always.” I give her a cocky grin. “Nothing to worry about. especially since your father’s still a guest of the LAPD.”
Out in the back lot we all pile into the SUV. No shit-talk, no bullshit. We’re not even wearing our cuts tonight. We’re all quiet and focused on the job to be done.
Two hours later, Ricky lets us off on the north side of the Williams’ property where the hedges are the highest, then he goes around the block, out of sight, to wait.
“Just past the hedges bordering the property,” Nicoletta says through my earpiece, “is a gravel path and then a low stone wall.”
“Copy.” I lead, with Diesel, Smoke, and Blood behind me.
“At the end of the stone wall, you’ll see an iron gate,” she adds. “The latch is unlocked.”
“Got it, we’re heading inside,” I relay.
We easily enter the gardener's shed, and the musty scent of fertilizer, old wood, and money surrounds us.
Smoke and I click on our penlights. The intense beams sweep the space —shovels, rakes on tool hooks, stacked terracotta pots, bags of mulch, fertilizer, a riding mower with a cracked seat pushed against the wall. At the far end of the shed, is the potting bench. But no duffel bags.
I sweep the light again. Slower.
Still nothing.
In my ear, Nicoletta's voice: “Bolt?”
“Still looking,” I reply.
“She said under the potting bench.”
I crouch under the bench, running the light over the floor. A plastic tarp. No bags.
Blood, Smoke and Diesel are searching the other side of the shed. I lift the tarp. Nothing.
“Don’t see them,” I say. “Still searching.”
The others give me a blank look, then Smoke leans in. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
Silence on the line, then Nicoletta says, “Pull the tarp away from the floor.”
I crouch down again and tug at the tarp. It’s heavy with dirt and discarded tools. I yank most of it away.
“Now I’m looking at a dirt floor,” I say into the void.
“Brush the dirt away,” Nicoletta instructs. “You should find a door in the floor.
"Say that again."
"There's a trap door. I remember Edith telling me the original construction had a root cellar under the shed.”
I brush the dirt away enough to see a metal hoop protruding out of the dirt floor.
“I found it.” I motion to the others, and we lift the long wooden bench out of the way.
Smoke runs his penlight over the area, and the large hoop shines up at us.
"There," I whisper.
“She probably hid the bags,” Nicoletta says in my ear.
