ELEVEN
CLAIRE CLIMBED DOWN OFF THE ladder and readjusted the tool belt around her waist. The weight was comforting, almost reassuring. Things hadn’t gone back to normal after Pete’s death. They never could, but over the past weeks Claire and her crew had managed to find a new rhythm. The framers finished on six and the electrical rough-in was going as well as could be expected considering everything.
The guys had even started to joke around with her a little again although they steered away from making any comment about her relationship with Luke. Still it seemed like they were taking things in stride and she was grateful. She’d worked far too hard to earn their respect to simply lose it over a man.
“Hey Mike, can you finish pulling the wire up here?” She’d stepped up and filled the hole left by Pete’s loss, but she couldn’t do it forever. She was already stretched thin. Mike had been picking up some of the slack and she had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before he was ready to take over as master electrician. Not with all the responsibilities that Pete had, but he was moving in that direction. And she knew with another baby on the way, Mike would appreciate the pay raise which would come with the promotion. “I’m going to the trailer to talk to Sparks. If I’m not back by eleven thirty, you can call lunch.” She paused on her way to the door to the stairwell. “Did your wife make tamales again?”
“Yes, she did, boss,” said Mike, grinning. “A big container full.”
“I’ll be back before lunch.”
She heard Mike’s laughter behind her as she pushed open the heavy stairwell door. She started running through labor costs in her head as she walked down the concrete steps to the ground floor. With her commitment to Maria to keep paying Pete’s salary and the potential increase in Mike’s wages she needed to step things up if she was going to keep making payroll. If she could ever get the cabinets delivered for her flip, she could finish up and hopefully sell it fast. That would free up some of her capital and give her a little breathing room.
She and Luke hadn’t talked about it, but there was no reason for him to be displeased with Matthews. She couldn’t imagine he’d go back to using Samson after what happened in New York. The other contractor was incredibly sleazy and Luke had broken his nose. That didn’t bode well for future working relationships.
If he used Matthews it would mean more work for her company as well. She liked the commercial work as much as she’d thought she would, more maybe. The stress was huge and managing her crew’s priorities around other subs’ work was a challenge, but she liked being part of something big. She loved the challenge of the work and the money was good.
If Matthews settled into a regular schedule of building for Masters Enterprises she could keep her crew moving from job to job without having to spend so much of her time submitting bids for jobs. It would let her take the company to the next level and that excited the hell out of her. And if – no when – she got the profit from the flip she could sink it into another project. She already had her eyes on a couple of houses in the same development. If she could buy them right, either of them would be a good next project.
She shook her head with a smirk. Someday she’d have to settle on one thing. She couldn’t go without sleep forever. She’d like to maybe have a husband and kids, too, and she wouldn’t want to work so hard when she had a family. She shoved aside the image of a dark haired miniature Luke. That was dangerous territory. Wanting hersomedaymade it even more important for her to build what she could now when she was only responsible to her father and her crew.
Pushing open the door to the outside, she blinked in the sunlight. When her eyes adjusted, she noticed the police cruiser parked in front of the construction trailer.It had to be about Pete, she thought closing the distance between her and the trailer. She opened the door without knocking, surprised to find the trailer empty except for Sparks’s overflowing ashtray, piles of papers and rolls of drawings. She scanned the lot, wondering where Sparks and the detectives were. The grind and clang of a shipping container being opened led her to the row of eighteen wheeler sized containers Sparks had delivered to hold materials after some of them walked off the job.
The door to the middle container used to store most of the electrical fixtures and wire hung open. Sparks was standing inside with what she assumed were two detectives. By the time she got to the container, she recognized the men as the officers from the night Pete died.
“What’s going on, Sparks? Have you found out anything else about what happened to Pete?” she asked the detectives.
“They want to look through the containers,” said Sparks, sounding like he thought it was all a huge waste of time. “I order most of the materials myself. There isn’t anything in here except lighting fixtures, wire and boxes of nails, but you’re welcome to look.” He motioned to the contents of the container and one of the detectives pulled a flashlight from his jacket pocket and started to work his way to the back of the container. The other detective faced Claire and Sparks.
“Does anyone else have access to these containers?”
“Most of the subs have been in and out, but I’m the only one with access to the keys,” said Sparks. “You might remember, we were having trouble with some minor theft. I ordered extra containers primarily to keep the materials from walking off when there was no one here.”
“What are you expecting to find, Detective? Is it connected to Pete’s death?” Claire asked. She didn’t know what was going on, but she had a bad feeling about where they were headed. Why would the police care about some construction materials?
“I’m not sure, Ms. English. Have you seen anything unusual around the containers? Anything or anyone that didn’t seem quite right?”
“No.”
“Back here, Detective,” said the other officer before Claire could elaborate.
She and Sparks followed the detective to the back of the container. The officer was crouching over an open box of nails. He’d lifted out handfuls of the stacked paper taped strips used in nail guns, revealing boxes of what looked like ammunition. While they watched he opened one of the boxes, tipping it toward the detective so he could see the rows and rows of round aluminum ends. She’d seen her daddy load his gun often enough to recognize bullets when she saw them.
“What the hell?” asked Sparks, sounding stunned. “I don’t understand.”
Not bothering to answer, the detective kept his attention on the officer as he opened a box of the kind of staples Claire and her crew used. He grabbed handfuls of the six inch long strip of staples held together with double strips of paper. He didn’t have to dig far before he revealed more boxes of ammunition. Claire gasped and the detective turned his focus to her.
“Do you recognize any of this, Ms. English?”
“Not the bullets, obviously,” she said. “But the staples are like the ones we’ve been using.”
“Would Mr. Lester have had a reason to be in this container?” asked the detective.
“Of course,” said Claire her blood going cold even in the stifling air of the container. “Most of our fixtures and fasteners, even the wire, is kept in here.”
“Bishop, call for back up and secure the area. I’ve got to call the captain and get the ATF involved. Mr. Smith, I’d like to ask you a few more questions at the station if you wouldn’t mind.”
It took Claire a moment to realize Mr. Smith was really Sparks.
