Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [58]
Finally at a little past five, the back door opened and a middle-aged woman stepped out. She turned and locked the door before walking to the SUV.
“That’s the owner according to Tony’s description.” Sam sat up.
The woman paused, studying the Mustang. As she stood in the glare from one of the overhead lights, I could see her frown. The woman shook her head, turned sharply and hurried back to the building.
“Uh-oh. I don’t like the feel of this.” Sam was on his two-way. “Tony, I’ve got a situation back here. I’m leaving the car to check it out.”
“10-4.”
He opened the passenger door and pointed a finger at me. “You. Stay.”
I unlocked the driver door and scrambled out. “I’m coming with you.”
“God you’re stubborn—”
“No time to argue. I’m safer with you, and you know it.”
He muttered an oath, took out his gun and then grabbed my hand. I had changed into black jeans, sweater and running shoes. Even my heavy jacket and knit cap were black. Sam had cracked about my looking like a cat burglar, but with my hair covered, I didn’t feel so exposed as we dashed across the pavement.
Sam released his grip and gestured me to the side as we reached the partially opened door. With his back to the door, he glided around the edge, gun raised. Then he motioned me to follow. I’d barely crossed the threshold when he pulled me down behind a stack of boxes. Despite the layers I wore, I shivered.
Living in an igloo had to be warmer than working inside this place. I peeked around the corner of the boxes and saw the warehouse was compact. What looked to be walk-in freezers lined each wall. In the center were more stacks of tubs and coolers and several tables where the drivers put together the stock for their trucks. Only the hum of machinery filled the space.
At the far end the owner stood in front of a solid steel door. She glanced around and I shrunk behind the box. When I next leaned sideways, the woman was wresting the door open. Light flashed on and she stepped inside.
A terrified scream split the air.
Even as he was calling for Tony into his radio, Sam leaped out and raced down the corridor formed by the tables. I kept close on his heels. When we reached the room, he halted so abruptly on the threshold that I bumped into him. He held out a steadying arm. The owner stood swaying in the refrigeration unit. The overhead light reflected off the metal siding like dazzling diamonds and rubies. Not rubies, I realized. Blood.
Joe Poellinger lay crumpled on the floor, the better part of his head splattered across the unit. Gross as the scene was, it was the contents on the shelves that grabbed my attention. “Sam, look.” Ice cream containers lined the wall. “It’s not cold enough in here to keep ice cream frozen.”
Sam nodded and with care stepped across to the shelves. The owner suddenly snapped to attention. “Hey, what are you doing? You have no right—”
Sam flashed his badge. “Police, ma’am.”
A different kind of fear pinched the woman’s face. She threw up her hands. “No!” She turned, too quickly, and skidded on one of the congealing streams of blood. She righted herself and lurched toward the door. I stuck out my foot, catching her leg, and she fell forward, crying out when her knees struck the door sill. She sprawled like a rag doll on the floor. Whimpering, she curled up but made no more attempts to escape.
Breathing heavily, Tony appeared by the door. “Cuff her,” Sam said. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on. He opened one of the tubs. His expression hardened as he looked inside. “Then call the medical examiner and roust everyone available in the crime lab.”
He looked at me. “What we have here is an ice cream shop of horrors.”
Gladys Black, the owner of Tropical Paradise Ice Cream, didn’t look like a trafficker in body parts. Except for the bloodstains on her slacks, she could have been anyone’s mother or the good neighbor who handed out treats every Halloween.
She wore her graying dark brown hair in a simple