Chapter 36
Cy’s Place was buzzing with live jazz and happy customers on Saturday night. It was standing room only at the bar, and Theo
was in mixologist mode. But Jack felt alone. His date night with Andie had turned into a therapy session on a bar stool. At
the end of the musicians’ first set, Theo poured Jack a shot of tequila to give his beer something to chase.
“On the house,” he said.
“No way I’m doing shots tonight,” said Jack.
“Suit yourself.” Theo belted back his own pour and slammed down the empty shot glass. Then he leaned onto the bar and looked
Jack in the eye.
“So, when you say, ‘Andie jumped all over me’—that’s a good thing, right?”
“No, wise-ass. I’m saying she picked a fight and called off our date night for no reason.”
“No reason?” he asked skeptically.
Jack had no idea how to explain to Theo that Andie’s problem was Theo. “None whatsoever,” he said.
Jack’s cell phone vibrated. He hoped it was Andie calling to tell him that he was right, the red dress was the better choice,
and their date was back on. He didn’t recognize the incoming number, but he was glad he took the call. It was Sheila, Elliott’s
girlfriend from work.
“There’s something you should know,” she said. “The gun that was found at the Pollard house today has no serial number.”
Jack pressed the phone harder against one ear and covered the other with his hand to shut out the bar noise. Then he realized the background noise was coming from her end of the line.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
“I’m at a party at CJ’s house right now. I heard him and Helena talking.”
Jack was even more confused. “Helena is partying with CJ?”
“No, no. I can explain everything, but there’s something I need to show you if any of this is going to make sense to you.
Can you meet me at the gun destruction plant where we met the last time?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. The weekend guard is cool. He’ll let me in, no questions asked.”
It wasn’t the Saturday night he’d planned, but it sounded like Sheila was primed to reveal something critical, and experience
had taught Jack to strike when the iron was hot.
“I can be there in thirty minutes.”
She agreed, and the call ended. Jack trusted Sheila, but for a trip after dark to the industrial part of town, it couldn’t
hurt to be in the company of a bruiser like Theo. It was time for Jack’s marriage counselor to change hats.
“No more tequila shots,” said Jack. “I need you to come with me to meet Sheila at CJ’s plant.”
Theo halted behind the bar, then made a face. “Sorry, dude. Can’t do it. It’s Saturday night, and I got no one to cover the
bar.”
Perhaps that was true, but “sorry” was not Theo’s typical response. It was especially weird after Andie’s suggestion that
he replace Theo. Something strange was going on, but Jack didn’t have time to play Dr. Phil to everyone’s feelings.
“No problem,” said Jack, and he went to his car.
The drive to the north side of the city took less than his thirty-minute estimate, even without Theo’s lead foot.
Sheila met him outside the employee entrance, the same place Elliott had met them on the first visit, and she let Jack inside.
They continued down the corridor and through the warehouse filled with padlocked boxes of inventory earmarked for destruction, which Jack remembered from before.
This time, however, they walked past the locked entrance to the firearms-destruction area, where, the last time, Sheila had demonstrated that the only part of the firearm their machines actually destroyed was the frame.
Jack had an inkling as to where Sheila was leading them this time.
“Are we about to see what happens to the gun parts that aren’t destroyed?”
“Decent guess,” said Sheila, “but not exactly right.”
She entered a key code and opened the door, and the lights switched on as Jack entered. It was another warehouse, smaller
than the other one, and the shelves were filled with cardboard boxes instead of padlocked crates. Sheila pulled one of the
boxes from the shelf and cut it open. There were no guns inside, but to Jack, the contents looked decidedly “gun-shaped.”
“Are those handgun frames?” asked Jack.
“Yup,” said Sheila. “With no serial numbers.”
It didn’t take long for Jack to piece things together. “You destroy the frames on the incoming guns in compliance with federal
regulations. Then you ship out the salvaged parts with new frames that have no serial number.”
“Frame sold separately,” said Sheila.
“Hold on,” said Jack. “You can’t possibly have a replacement frame in this warehouse for every conceivable firearm that comes
into this plant for destruction.”
“Follow me,” said Sheila. She led them down the aisle.
The box-filled shelves to their left and right made it feel like a walk through a tunnel, and as they emerged at the end, Sheila switched on the light.
A line of machines of some sort came into view.
An assortment of cables connected the machines to a bank of computers.
Coils and hoses led to large metal tanks.
Jack would have needed a PhD in chemistry to decipher the labels on the tanks, but based on the remnants on the concrete floor, he guessed that the chemicals, when mixed, created a kind of resin or plastic.
“Three-D printer,” said Sheila. “Ghost gun customers don’t typically have access to one, so it’s a service we provide. Dial
up the make and model, print it, ship it.”
“So,” said Jack, thinking aloud, “for every gun with a serial number that comes in the front door for destruction, there’s—”
“There’s a kit to build a gun with no serial number going out the back door,” said Sheila, finishing his thought.
“That can’t be legal. I’m no firearms expert, but it was pretty big news when the Supreme Court approved federal regulations
requiring serial numbers on gun kits.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” said Sheila. “I’m not a corporate whistleblower. I wanted Elliott’s lawyer to see this because
the gun that Rover dug up in the Pollards’ yard has no serial number. My guess is that it came from this building.”
Jack was on Sheila’s wavelength. “The gun was planted,” he said.
“That was my thought,” said Sheila. “Isn’t it convenient that the gun no one could find suddenly turns up, and—voilà!—it came
from the plant where Elliott worked?”
“Not only that,” said Jack. “The prosecutor told me to meet her at the Pollard house at nine a.m., which happened to be the
exact moment at which the dog dug up a gun in the yard.”
“You think the prosecutor planted it?” asked Sheila.
Jack looked away, thinking. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it sure feels like somebody did.”
“What are you going to do about that?” she asked.
“That depends on two things,” said Jack. “One, whether I can get Elliott to talk to me.”
“Maybe I can help with that,” said Sheila. “What’s the second thing?”
“Whether Elliott’s fingerprints turn up on the gun.”