Betrayed: A Rosato & DiNunzio Novel (Rosato & Associates Book 13) (33 page)

She realized that the bins were where raw manure got dumped, but they could save her life. Carlos wouldn’t suspect she would go in that direction. The fifth bin had enough manure to bury herself in. She could hide behind the structure or run back in the woods.

Police sirens screamed louder. Carlos would be back any minute. If Roberto had driven their white pick-up truck to the plant, it would be parked in front of the office. Carlos would have to run back this way to get the truck and escape the police.

Judy had to do something fast. She sprinted behind the bin structure. The woods were on her left but too far away. She would be exposed for too long if she ran that way. Carlos would cut her down and take off in the truck. On her right was the back of the concrete structure, and it was her only hope. The back of each bin had a heavy mechanized door that closed across the middle. She ran past the first five bins because their doors were chained and padlocked. She ran to the sixth bin on the end, roped off. A handwritten sign read
GEARS BROKEN DO NOT USE
. The doors of the roped-off bin were open a crack but there was no chain or padlock.

Judy looked around wildly. She had no other choice. She ducked under the caution tape, wedged her hands between the top and bottom doors, and yanked with all her might, trying to open the door. She moved them six inches apart, then a foot, then a little more until they jammed, immovable. Her heart pounded with fear and exertion. The space between the doors looked almost big enough for her body. She heard Carlos running in the concrete yard, cursing in Spanish, his rage boiling over. She was out of time.

She launched herself into the opening, scrambling inside the bin, scraping the outside of the door with her legs and knees. She squeezed inside, wrenching her arm at the socket. She slid down along the filth of the door, keeping a hard grasp of the lid so she wouldn’t make a noise when she hit the bottom. She eased herself onto the floor. Raw manure covered the bin bottom.

Carlos ranted, fifty feet away. She made herself as flat as possible against the back of the bin. Her body was hidden by the foot-high rim at the front of the bin. She squeezed her eyes and lips shut. She stuck her face into the crack between the door and the floor, burrowing down into the manure and the darkness. The stench filled her nose. Her gorge rose with disgust. She had to stay calm.

Carlos was only twenty feet away, cursing in frantic Spanish. The police sirens blared louder and louder. The cruisers were coming down the road to the treatment plant. They must have gotten her 911 call. They were on the way. They were going to rescue her just in time.

Judy had to stay alive for just a few more seconds. Carlos must be looking for her, turning this way and that. She could hear his footsteps on the gritty concrete and hear the scrape of his boots. He would have to leave any second. He was cutting it so close. The police were almost here.

Judy willed herself to keep her wits about her. If she wanted to live, she had to stay still and silent.

Suddenly, in her blazer pocket, her phone started ringing.

Chapter Forty-one

Judy reacted instantly, desperate. She grabbed the phone from her pocket and sent it slipping along the mucky floor, so the ringing came from the far side of the bin. Carlos started firing, but aimed a deafening volley at the bin next to her. Scattered bullets punched holes in the front rim of her bin. She bit her lips not to scream.

Abruptly the gunfire stopped. Smoke drifted into the bin. Her phone rang and rang.

“Freeze right there!” an officer shouted. “Police! Put your weapon on the ground! Put your weapon on the ground!”

Judy could only imagine the standoff outside. The police would train their guns on Carlos, thinking he would give up. She knew better. Carlos wanted her dead even if he was captured alive. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain from her murder. He wanted her silenced for good. Her phone finally went quiet.

“Keep lowering your weapon!” another officer yelled. “Lower it and put it on the ground! Put your weapon on the ground!”

Judy’s heart pounded like it was trying to get out of her chest. She knew what Carlos would do next. He would shoot the policemen. It sounded like only two cops. Carlos was waiting for just the right moment, tricking the police by lowering his weapon. She couldn’t let that happen.

She squeezed both hands around some manure, closed her fists, and jumped up. Carlos was standing five feet from the bin, facing her direction, his gun slightly lowered. She hurled the manure at Carlos’s eyes, then sprang out of the way.

Carlos shouted in surprise. His hands flew up reflexively, firing shots wildly into the air. Judy dove toward the floor for safety, just in time to see Carlos lose his balance, whirl away from her, and recover fast enough to aim his weapon at the police.

Pop pop pop!
The police responded with a barrage of firepower.

Judy landed on the bottom of the filthy bin. She heard Carlos cry out, then he went silent. The gunfire stopped.

Judy lay perfectly still, afraid to move. She kept her eyes closed. She was in no hurry to get up and see Carlos’s bullet-ridden body, even as much as she hated him. She opened her eyes slowly, but didn’t understand what she was seeing, amid the brown manure that lay everywhere.

A bright patch of white-and-green paper stood out in the bottom seam of the bin. She reached for it instinctively and pulled. A twenty-dollar bill came from underneath the floor of the bin, attached to another twenty-dollar bill, like Kleenex out of the box. Astounded, she dug her fingers in the seam and pulled out a five-dollar bill and realized that the manure bin must have had a false bottom.

“Miss, are you okay?” the police officers asked, rushing over.

“Look at this, guys,” Judy answered, digging for more money.

Chapter Forty-two

Judy sat at the conference table in the mayor’s office at the Kennett Square Police Station, having finished giving her statement to a room packed with law enforcement personnel, including Detective Boone and two other detectives, three assistant district attorneys, and a fleet of FBI, DEA, and ICE agents who sat in the back of the room, taking rapid notes. The press thronged outside the building, their newsvans, reporters, and cameramen visible through the old-fashioned venetian blinds.

Before her statement, Judy had asked the police to contact her mother and her office to let them know where she was, then she had been photographed in her filthy clothes for purposes of the investigation, and finally showered in the locker room for female officers and changed into a KSPD sweatshirt and sweatpants one of them had lent her. Given the stink of manure on Judy’s skin, she doubted the female officer would want her sweatclothes back.

Judy’s filthy phone sat on the table between her and the law enforcement authorities, next to the silvery recording devices from the various agencies and Domingo’s scrap of paper that read
BONIDE
and
MURIATIC
. She had explained everything that had happened at the barracks last night, then what Domingo had told her this morning, playing the recording for them from her phone. Her eyes had filmed at the sound of Domingo’s voice, but she’d kept it together. She consoled herself with the notion that Father Vega was in federal custody and charged with an array of crimes, as well as being investigated for the death of Father Keegan. Carlos and Roberto had met their end, but Judy was enough of a lawyer to wish that they’d rot in jail for the rest of their lives. Luckily, they hadn’t succeeded in killing the two young girls from the Mini Cooper, the old man at the sandwich shop, or the Good Samaritans. The one girl had been hospitalized, but was expected to recover.

Judy met Detective Boone’s eye. “So how much money was under the manure bin?”

“I’m not sure it’s been counted yet.” Detective Boone kept his tone official, but not unkind.

“Ballpark it for me, would you?” Judy understood his reluctance, reading the body language of the FBI behind him, a collective stiffening of postures that were already stiff, in suits and ties.

“We are not at liberty to discuss that, Judy.”

“I think I’ve earned the right to know, don’t you? Modesty aside, nobody would’ve found any money but for me, and I almost got killed in the process.”

“Chester County appreciates your efforts, and as we’ve already said, you are to be commended as a private citizen for—”

“Please just answer the question.” Judy felt too raw and exhausted to mince words. “We both know what a pain in the ass I can be.”

Detective Boone almost smiled. “Fine. It will be in the newspapers, so I’ll tell you. Estimates are about $760,000.”

“Wow.” Judy didn’t hide her surprise. “Plus the $50,000 that was in my aunt’s house, that’s a major drug ring, isn’t it? Do you think they were dealing heroin?”

“I cannot give you any further details.”

“Did you find any money under the other bins, or elsewhere at the treatment plant? I’ll keep it confidential, you have my word.”

“Not the point. It’s police business, and given that you almost lost your life today, you should understand completely the dangerousness of the criminals we’re dealing with.”

“Please.” Judy thought of Iris and couldn’t let it go. “I know how they killed Iris, but I still don’t know why. Can’t you fill me in on your investigation or your next steps?”

“It’s no longer our investigation. We’ll keep a hand in, but the federal agencies are asserting primary jurisdiction at this point. They will liaise with us, but they’re running the show now.” Detective Boone gestured to the men behind him, and Judy could see from the tightness around his mouth that he wasn’t any happier than she was about the current state of affairs.

“Well, what do you think is going on here, gentlemen?” Judy raised her voice, addressing the room in general.

“Again, we’re not going to discuss that with you,” Detective Boone answered, presumably for all of them.

“I’m no expert, like you gentlemen, but it must be some type of heroin ring, right? We found where they stash their money, or at least one of the places they stash their money.” Judy figured she could think out loud and watch them for reaction, if they weren’t going to tell her anything. She thought of the money stored in her aunt’s house, now safely in the bank, and she remembered what John Foxman had said about banking laws. “So they’re selling heroin and making lots of cash, but they have nowhere to store it. They can’t put it in a bank, so they have to launder it, and I’m betting we found their hamper. Sorry,
I
found their hamper.”

“Judy, I’m not about to speculate with you.” Detective Boone closed his notebook, but Judy continued talking.

“U.S.D.A. inspections take place at the treatment plant, but the government inspects the treated manure, not the raw manure. Hiding the money under the false bottom was pretty smart.” Judy noticed one of the FBI agents frowning, so she knew she was right. “Now, it seems unlikely that so much money was hidden at the treatment plant without some of the higher-ups knowing about it, and maybe they’re in on it with Father Vega, Carlos, Roberto, or other employees at Mike’s Exotics. Maybe even Mike himself.” Judy realized that some East Grove police could be involved, since that was where Mike’s, the barracks, and the plant were located, but she didn’t say so out loud. She did, however, notice that no police personnel from East Grove were present at the meeting. “In any event, it looks like we have a conspiracy to deal heroin and launder money, right here in lovely Chester County. Boys, you have your work cut out for you.”

Detective Boone set his pen down. “I think we’re finished here, unless anyone has any further questions.”

“Wait, hold on,” Judy said, thinking of Aunt Barb. “Can I ask you a question about Iris? I know my aunt will want to know.”

“Go right ahead,” Detective Boone answered, his voice gentler, and Judy sensed he had a soft spot for Aunt Barb.

“Was Domingo right that if you mix Bonide and muriatic acid, they produce a gas that can kill you?”

“Yes.”

“How does that work, exactly?” Judy would Google it later, but she wanted to get the official version.

“Bonide is a brand name of a common pesticide on farms, and muriatic acid is a form of hydrochloric acid. It’s used in lots of applications, around the house or a farm. Masons use it to clean flagstone and the like. These are common chemicals that, when mixed together, produce a poison gas.”

Judy swallowed hard. “Would Iris have suffered a long time?”

“No, death is almost instantaneous.”

“Almost.” Judy’s stomach turned over. “I bet that’s how she broke her nails, trying to get out of the shed. Look on the floor of the shed, I bet you find the nail tips, little rhinestones.”

“Will do.”

“And the car window. Why do you think it was open? Maybe they thought some gas would cling to her? To her clothes or hair?” Judy didn’t pause for an answer, because she could see that she wasn’t getting one. Her heart ached for Iris, Domingo, and the others. “What about Daniella?”

“We’re investigating.”

“Did you look at the barracks? If they killed Iris there, they could have killed Daniella there, too.”

“We’re looking into it.”

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

“We don’t want to speculate.”

Judy felt another pang at so much loss. “You know what I don’t get? Why did the pathologist say Iris had a heart attack in the autopsy report?”

“Because she did. Hydrogen sulfide gas causes the organs to shut down, resulting in a heart attack. Unlike carbon monoxide, it doesn’t turn the skin cherry-red or any other color.”

“So it looks like a natural death, but it isn’t?”

“Yes, the only way the gas would be detectable at autopsy is that it sometimes leaves a faint rotten-egg smell in the organs, but the pathologist had a head cold. We think that’s how he might have missed it, if he did.”

Judy cringed inwardly. “Can they confirm that’s how she died?”

“The coroner can confirm it by ordering a special test of her blood for the gas. That takes a month or so to do, but it’s easily done.” Detective Boone paused, glancing over his shoulder at the FBI, DEA, and ICE types. “I can tell you that it’s becoming more common in rural areas like ours as a way to commit suicide. We’ve had cases where people mix the chemicals in the car, then close themselves inside. We started hearing about it last year and put the word out to first responders. We send in the Hazmat Unit to respond to a suicide like that.”