“I have no way of knowing. The car has tinted glass—But it only seats two, so at least one person is left here.”
“And there were no other cars on the road?”
“No.”
“He could have gone in the other direction,” Morelli said.
“He wouldn't have gone far. It dead-ends in a quarter mile.”
The moon was low in the sky, spilling silver dollars of light onto the water. We looked back at the white refrigerator truck. The cooler motor hummed quietly in the darkness.
“Maybe we should take another look at the truck,” Morelli said.
His tone gave me an uneasy feeling, and I didn't want to voice the question that had popped into my head. We'd already determined Louis wasn't in the cab. What was left?
We returned to the truck, and Morelli scanned the outside thermostat controls for the refrigeration unit.
“What's it set at?” I asked.
“Twenty.”
“Why so cold?”
Morelli stepped down and moved to the back door. “Why do you think?”
“Somebody's trying to freeze something?”
“That would be my guess, too.” The back door to the truck was held closed by a heavy-duty bolt and padlock. Morelli weighed the padlock in the palm of his hand. “Could be worse,” he said. He jogged to the van and returned with a small hacksaw.
I nervously looked around the lot. I didn't especially want to get caught hijacking a meat truck. “Isn't there a better way to do this?” I stage whispered over the rasp of the saw. “Can't you just pick the lock?”
“This is faster,” Morelli said. “Just keep your eyes peeled for a night watchman.”
The saw blade lunged through the metal, and the lock swung open. Morelli threw the bolt back and pulled on the thick, insulated door. The interior of the truck was stygian black. Morelli hauled himself up onto the single-step bumper, and I scrambled after him, wrestling my flashlight out of my shoulder bag. The frigid air pressed against me and took my breath away. We both trained our lights on the frost-shrouded walls. Huge, empty meathooks hung from the ceiling. Nearest the door was the large trim barrel I'd seen them roll out earlier in the afternoon. The empty barrel stood nearby, its lid slanted between the barrel and the truck wall.
I slid my spot of light farther to the rear and dropped it lower. My eyes focused, and I sucked in cold air when I realized what I was seeing. Louis was sprawled spread-eagle on his back, his eyes impossibly wide and unblinking, his feet splayed. Snot had run out of his nose and frozen to his cheek. A large urine stain had crystallized on the front of his work pants. He had a large, dark dot in the middle of his forehead. Sal lay next to him with an identical dot and the same dumbstruck expression on his frozen face.
“Shit,” Morelli said. “I'm not having any luck at all.”
The only dead people I'd ever seen had been embalmed and dressed up for church. Their hair had been styled, their cheeks had been rouged, and their eyes had been closed to suggest eternal slumber. None of them had been shot in the forehead. I felt bile rise in my throat and clapped a hand over my mouth.
Morelli yanked me out the door and onto the gravel. “Don't throw up in the truck,” he said. “You'll screw up the crime scene.”
I did some deep breathing and willed my stomach to settle.
Morelli had his hand at the back of my neck. “You going to be okay?”
I nodded violently. “I'm fine. Just t-t-took me b-b-by surprise.”
“I need some stuff from the van. Stay here. Don't go back in the truck and don't touch anything.”
He didn't have to worry about me going back into the truck. Wild horses couldn't drag me back into the truck.
He returned with a crowbar and two pairs of disposable gloves. He gave one pair to me. We snapped the gloves on, and Morelli climbed up the step bumper. “Shine the light on Louis,” he ordered, bending over the body.
“What are you doing?”
“I'm looking for the missing gun.”