Cold Dark Heart by Julie Kriss

Twenty-Six

Damon

I gotto the Wild a few minutes after a police cruiser did, because the security system was set up to automatically notify the police of a break-in. The cruiser was parked in front of the bar in the dark, its lights flashing. I saw two flashlight beams moving as the cops from the Salt Springs PD circled the building.

I parked and approached. When one of the flashlight beams swung my way, I put my hands out from my sides. “I work for the owner,” I said, loudly and clearly. “My name is Damon Blake and I’m the head of security. The system alerted my phone. I’m also former DEA.”

In the pulsing lights from the cruiser, I could see that the uniform was a guy of about thirty with a trim beard. “Okay, let us check it out,” he said.

“I’m trained.”

“I don’t think—”

“Peyton! Back here!” a voice called from the back of the building.

The cop, Peyton, turned and hurried toward his partner. I followed.

The back door of the Wild was hanging open, the door itself damaged. From the looks of the marks on the door and the frame, someone—or multiple someones—had used a crowbar. “Fuck,” I said aloud. “I knew we should have replaced that door. It was on my list. I just hadn’t gotten to it yet.”

Both cops looked at me. “This door is alarmed?”

“Yep.” I nodded toward the keypad that had recently been installed on the wall. “Our brand new system. There’s a camera up there, too.” I pointed above the door. “It will have recorded footage. It’s got a motion detector.”

The two uniforms exchanged a look. “Okay,” Peyton said. “They could be in there. We’re going in to check. Wait here.”

They went cautiously through the door, announcing themselves as police. I itched to follow them, but I had no desire to get shot—again—when I startled one of them. So I waited.

After about fifteen minutes, both cops came back out into the alley. “What did you say your name was?” Peyton asked.

“Damon Blake.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Just over a month. Did you find anything in there?” There wasn’t much cash left after the bank deposit, but I’d it locked up properly, at least. Unless this was somehow an inside job by someone with a code to the cash register.

“Can you come to our cruiser so we can see some ID?”

“What did you find?” I insisted. “Was anything stolen?”

“Mr. Blake—”

“Fuck it,” I said. I pushed past them and walked into the bar. They could arrest me if they wanted.

I walked into the back hall, past the bathrooms and the door to the basement where the furnace was. It was dark in here, so I pulled out my phone and turned the flashlight on.

Ignoring the protests of the two uniforms behind me, I walked further into the bar. Nothing broken, no blood, no dead bodies. All good so far. The door to the office had marks on it where someone had started with the crowbar, but the door had held fast. That’s my new lock, assholes. Nice try and go fuck yourselves.

Still, everything about this was odd. Both the keypad and the bubble of the camera lens were visible at the back door, an obvious indication that there was an alarm system that would alert the cops. But the thieves had broken in anyway. They would have to know that they’d get caught on camera and that they’d have a few minutes, tops, to get in and out before the police showed up.

That made it a smash-and-grab, which was the most common form of robbery. Most thieves aren’t doing an Ocean’s Eleven-type heist; they’re just looking for even a few hundred bucks to buy their next gram. People wonder why someone would break into their car just to lift a few dollar bills and some old CD’s. It’s because to an addict, even a few bucks gets them closer to the only goal they care about.

But if this was a smash-and-grab, the obvious target would be the cash register or some of the expensive bottles of booze on the top shelves behind the bar. Sure, there was a chance that cash was kept in the office, but given only a few minutes before being caught, getting into the office would be slow, while using the crowbar on the cash register would be fast. Which was why I could see they’d run out of time before they got the office door open.

But a quick look at the cash register showed that no one had even tried to touch it. Which meant these guys were targeting something. Which meant—

I swung my light and saw that the door to the storeroom was open.

They’d used the crowbar here, too. The door was smashed open, much like the back door was. So this was what the thieves were targeting.

The two cops had followed me into the bar, their flashlights moving as they approached. “Mr. Blake, you need to come with us.”

“What did they take?” I asked. Without touching anything, I stepped to the storeroom doorway and looked inside. “Oh, shit.”

The storeroom had been ransacked, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the two extra crates of Sheffer whiskey that I’d noticed weeks ago were gone from the top shelf. One had been taken. And the other had fallen to the floor, presumably fumbled when the cops had arrived.

The crate had broken open.

And spilled all over the storeroom floor was fine, white powder.