Convergence at Two Harbors

by Dennis Herschbach

  Stanford smiled an unforced smile. “I don’t have to write down license plate numbers. For some reason they stick in my memory, sort of like a file index that I can roll and see the vehicle make and the number. It drives me nuts sometimes, because I can’t stop it from happening, but sometimes it’s kind of fun to show off, if you know what I mean.”

  “Stanford, what you’ve told me is a big help. I’ll have to report the car thing to the sheriff here, but I want to thank you for cooperating with me. Thank you.”

  On the way home, Deidre tried to put together the connection between a body in an abandoned car, five Middle Eastern men in a hunting shack, and possibly David Craine.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Deidre slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the Law Enforcement Center. She was weary, and her head ached. Deep in thought, she walked past the front desk, and the receptionist’s presence hardly registered. In her cool, dimly lit office, Deidre stood in front of a tripod holding a pad of poster paper, and using a thick-lined marker she began to draw a chart. It had three columns, and above each she placed a heading: Herminio Valezques, David Craine, and Hunting Shack. These are the three topics that consumed her days—and nights.

  Herminio was a homicide victim found in a gravel pit in her county. David Craine was under protective surveillance, and the occupants of the hunting shack were under watch for some reason. She didn’t know for what, but the FBI was “requesting” her department to report on them.

  As an afterthought, Deidre squeezed in a fourth column on the margin of the right side of the paper and labeled it Stanford. Then she started filling in data under each heading.

  Herminio: Honduran, immigrant advocate, dead, found in junked car.

  David Craine: In danger, possibly wanted by FBI, immigrant advocate, Honduran mission trips, boat

  The Shack: Middle Eastern men, FBI interest

  Stanford Williams: Junked car, Middle Eastern men

  Deidre sorted the chart’s data, dividing it into subsets of information, and she noticed that the only interaction Stanford Williams had with anyone in the group was the sale of the junked car. His name was linked to nothing else. She took her marker and crossed off his name on her pad, and on the large chart, she deleted the column under his name. It was evident to her that Stanford was only interested in making a fast buck. Nothing in her logic connected him to the others in any way.

  Then she considered Herminio and his involvement. Certainly he was connected to the car, his temporary coffin, and that car was possibly connected to two Middle Eastern men.

  “There aren’t too many men of that description in the Northland,” she muttered to herself. She wondered how a naturalized U.S. citizen from Honduras ended up in the trunk of a car purchased by the two men, and why.

  That brought her to David Craine. The men in the hunting shack north of Two Harbors were under surveillance by the FBI, and so was David, although for different reasons she had been told. Then too, David and Herminio shared one commonality, their interest in immigration issues.

  “Could David have been involved with Herminio?” Deidre asked out loud. “Did they know each other?”

  By this time it was late in the day, and the only conclusion Deidre had arrived at was that Stanford Williams was out of the picture as far as she was concerned. Other than that, her mind was spinning like the circles she had drawn around the various groupings. All she knew was that Herminio had been found dead in a car bought illegally by two possibly Middle Eastern men; the FBI was interested in a group of Middle Eastern men hold up in a shack twenty miles north of Two Harbors; the FBI wanted David Craine watched, and she had a headache.

  On the way out of the office, she asked the dispatcher which deputy had the night shift watching the docks.

  “That would be VanGotten,” she answered. The information didn’t do much for Deidre’s headache.

  Deidre couldn’t stop herself from trying to form connections between the three groups of people, the men in the shack, Herminio, and David Craine. Even after two vodka tonics and a microwaved frozen dinner, she had difficulty falling asleep, and she dreamed about lists with threads connecting them, forming a spider web maze. When her alarm buzzed its wakeup call, it seemed to her that she had just fallen to sleep, and she got out of bed, hardly rested.

  After a quick breakfast of some kind of bran cereal soaked in vanilla yogurt, Deidre returned to the office for the morning report from the nightshift crew and to organize the dayshift’s schedule.

  “Ben, anything to report?” Deidre sipped a cup of hot coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in fast.

  “Not much. It was a slow night … except for one person of interest. I drove down to the breakwater a little before nine o’clock last evening and noticed a man get out of a black SUV. He headed onto the breakwater, and I could see him standing by the restraining cable about halfway to the end. He had binoculars and was watching an ore boat being loaded. I thought he was spending more time than usual at that spot, because it was so close to dark. In fact, the lights were on at the docks, and it was quite a sight with the docks and the boat all lit up. I decided to check him out.”

  Deidre immediately became more alert and not from the coffee. “You didn’t approach him did you?” she asked.

  “No. There was a group of young people out at the end of the pier, and they were having a little too much fun for being just boat watchers. I walked out to them and checked their IDs. They were all over twenty-one, so I just reminded them not to litter with their beer cans and chip bags—asked them to be careful. Told them we didn’t want to have to go fishing for anyone in the morning. Then I walked back to my truck, and as I passed the guy at the cable, I nodded and smiled. He nodded back, and then went back to studying the loading process at the docks.”

  “Do you have a description of him,” Deidre wanted to know. “Or, was it too dark to see?”

  “There was still enough light that I could make out his features quite well. He was of average build, about five-ten, I’d say, skin color olive with black hair. I assume he had dark eyes, but the light was too dim to get a very good look.

  “When I got back to the parking lot, I jotted down the license number of his SUV.” Ben shuffled through his pockets, trying to find his note pad. He found it in his left breast pocket. “It was a Ford Explorer, Minnesota license 765 BGY.”

  A jolt like an electric shock surged through Deidre’s body, and she hoped the deputies didn’t notice.

  “Good work, Ben,” Deidre said, and Ben actually smiled back at her.

  “Not much has changed since our meeting yesterday,” Deidre said, trying to sound matter of fact. “Jeff, you take the Brimson area today. Don’t drive by the shack too often, but take a couple or three spins by to see if anything changes. Report back immediately if things seem different around there in any way. The rest of you are on your regular areas. Oh, and Ben, get some sleep. You deserve it.”

  The group filtered out of the office, and Deidre moved into the peace and quiet of her own private space. She closed the door behind her and knew the pieces were beginning to fall … into place she wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Deidre plopped into her swivel chair and turned to her computer. With three clicks of the mouse, she was into the Minnesota auto license data base. She entered 765 BGY and hit search. In less than two seconds, the information she sought was displayed on the monitor’s screen.

  License number: 765 BGY

  Make: Ford

  Model: Explorer

  Color: Black

  VIN: 3AWPAF8MN056073

  Registration: Arrowhead Auto Rental

  Deidre spun to retrieve her phone, and then turned back to her computer, returning to its home page with one click of the mouse. She typed in Arrowhead Auto Rental, Duluth, Minnesota, and clicked on “search.” Arrowhead Auto Rental listed its phone number on its webpage. Deidre could hardly dial the number rapidly enough.

  “Good
morning. Arrowhead Auto Rental. This is Jo Anne. How may I help you?”

  “This is Deidre Johnson, sheriff of Lake County speaking.” Deidre heared an audible inhalation of air on the other end of the call, and she smiled to herself at this common reaction.

  After a moment’s silence, Jo Anne responded. “Yes, how may we help you?”

  “I need information concerning a SUV you may have recently rented out. It is a black Ford explorer, license number 765 BGY. Do you need the VIN?”

  “No, the license is all I need. Has this vehicle been in an accident, and if so can you provide me with more information?”

  Deidre checked herself so as not to give out information she might want to hold back. “No. No, not that at all. The driver of this vehicle was stopped for a minor traffic violation is all. We’re just touching base to make sure the driver’s papers are in order,” Deidre lied.

  “Here it is. All of our data can be accessed in our computer base with the touch of a button. What would you like to know?”

  “First,” Deidre inquired, “What is the name of the person who rented the vehicle?”

  “Zaim Hassad Zayad,” Jo Anne responded, stumbling a little over the pronunciation.

  Now it was Deidre’s turn to take pause. “Is this person a U.S. citizen?”

  “Let me see. No, he’s Honduran. All of his papers were in order. He presented a valid passport and visa. It says here it’s a B-1 visa for business travel. He listed his business as AHI, Afghan Home Industries. I remember he said that he specialized in carpet sales. Does this correspond to what you have?” she asked of Deidre.

  “Yes. Everything seems to be in order and jives with what we have here,” Deidre lied again, but her thoughts were flying. “Thank you for your cooperation, Jo Ann.”

  Deidre hung up the phone and stared at the chart she made last night. Then she began to scribble on the note pad on her desk.

  Zaim Hassad Zayad—Honduran—Abandoned car—Herminio’s body

  Herminio—Honduran—Immigrant advocate—Found dead in car

  David Craine—Honduran missions—Immigrant advocate

  She scrawled another series: Zaim—Hunting Shack?—FBI—Herminio—David—FBI.

  “Is this why we’re watching David?” Deidre whispered out loud.

  Her next move was to reach for the phone again and dial a number. “Hello, John? This is Deidre Johnson calling from Lake County.”

  “Well, Deidre, what a pleasant surprise to hear your voice again. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Special Agent Erickson schmoozed into the phone.

  “Okay, John. You can cut the B.S. now. I thought that the picnic we had the other day was so relaxing that we should get together again for lunch. I know a nice quiet spot at the mouth of the Sucker River. If you have time we could meet there. I’ll stop in Knife River and pick up a smoked fish and some cheese, and I’m sure the deli in Two Harbors has something to go with it. This lunch is on me. What do you say?”

  Deidre recognized a definite pause as if John was wondering what the catch was, but he recovered quickly and without more hesitation answered, “Why, Deidre, that’s a great idea. I’ll bring some soft drinks, and we’ll have a real picnic. I can’t be long though. I have a meeting with my supervisor at 1:30 this afternoon. Still, I know the place you’re talking about, and it is only ten or twelve minutes out of Duluth. I’ll be there at noon.”

  This time Deidre was the first to arrive, and she had everything set out when John came tripping down the bank.

  “You certainly surprised me with your call this morning,” John said as he settled himself onto the blanket Deidre had spread on the ground. He took a piece of fish and layered it with a slice of cheese on one of the crackers Deidre had brought. He took a bite.

  “I never dreamed we would have a social get together like this,” and he took another cracker and more smoked fish.

  “What do you know about a man named Zaim Hassad Zayad, John?” Deidre asked, forcing her voice to remain as smooth as warm honey.

  John inhaled so abruptly at her words that he choked on a good-sized cracker crumb and tried to get his breath.

  “John,” Deidre said as sweetly as she could, “are you all right?”

  After wheezing a few more times and coughing until his air passage was cleared, John looked at Deidre through tear-filled eyes.

  “How do you know that name?” he managed to croak out. “So Zaim is what this picnic is all about.”

  “Now, John,” Deidre continued with mock sweetness. “Evidently you know about this Zaim already, but let me fill you in on what I know. Zaim bought the car in which we found Herminio Velasquez’s body. He also was seen spending more than the usual amount of time watching a boat being loaded at the ore docks in Two Harbors. I would assume the black Ford Explorer he drives is the same one spotted up in Brimson at the hunting shack. You know, the one you’ve had us watching for the past month. Oh, and I know that Zaim, although his name doesn’t sound like it, is Honduran, as was Herminio. Bear with me, John, while I connect a couple of other dots. David Craine, remember him? He’s the retired teacher you’ve had us watching. He spent a lot of time in Honduras, and both he and Herminio have been active advocates for Latinos who are in this country illegally.”

  Deidre fixed herself a cracker with fish and cheese, smiled at him, and said, “Is there anything you’d like to tell me, John? Or do I have to keep finding the pieces to this puzzle by myself, because if I do, the only other person who can help me is Zaim. I have plenty of evidence against him to bring him in on a murder charge. Remember, I know where he lives.”

  Deidre smiled at John as if she really cared for him and took a bite of her fish-cracker sandwich, and she waited.

  John cleared his throat. “Deidre, don’t do something you might regret. Zaim’s not one to mess with. Besides that, the FBI would not look on his arrest with much joy. In fact, his arrest would be the end of your career.”

  He looked at Deidre. The sweet look on her face had disappeared.

  “Look, Deidre, I really commend you on your professionalism and the way you have started to piece things together. Give me twenty-four hours. I’ll take what you’ve said to my supervisor. I might be able to persuade him to let you in on what is going down with this operation, but he’s old school. Still has that us-against-the-world thinking. I’ll call you later today, and we’ll talk.”

  John began to get up, but Deidre said to him, “Why don’t you sit down, John. We’ve got another half hour before we have to get back. It would be a shame to let this fish and cheese go to waste.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  John entered the FBI offices in Duluth at exactly 1:30. His supervisor, an ex-marine special forces and now director of his division, was waiting for him, looking like he expected John to have been there a half hour ago. John offered his hand, and his supervisor, Enos Pratt, gave it an extra firm squeeze.

  “How are things going up north, John?” he immediately began the conversation.

  “Well, Enos, I’ll tell you. That Brimson area is one tough place. There are people living up there who want nothing to do with the world, and they don’t want strangers in their territory. It’s tough sledding.”

  Enos scowled at John from under heavy, black eyebrows that gave his eyes a hawkish appearance. “What do you mean by that? Have you lost contact with our group?”

  John matched the scowl with one of his own. “I didn’t say that. I only said it isn’t easy. I’m sure you remember we have brought in the Lake County sheriff’s squad to do surveillance up there as part of their daily patrols, and that’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “What’s to talk about,” Enos snapped back at John. “Can’t that bunch of hicks handle a simple surveillance?”

  The tone of the conversation was starting to get to John. “Listen, they’re doing as good a job as anyone, maybe better than we expected.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? If you have something to s
ay, say it.”

  With that invitation, John jumped in with his best argument. “We absolutely have to let the sheriff know what’s going on …”

  Before John could utter another word, Enos jumped to his feet, and his face turned crimson. “Impossible! Don’t even suggest that crap. The first thing she’ll want to do is take over. Her kind always does. This is our operation, and don’t you ever forget it. And don’t you ever address me with that tone of voice again.”

  Now it was John who got to his feet. There was no way that he was going to remain seated and looking up at the standing Enos.

  “Deidre is the sheriff of Lake County. It’s her job and her duty to investigate any crime in her jurisdiction, and that is what she is doing.

  “You saw the Lake County coroner’s report on that Honduran guy, Herminio, and so did she. We couldn’t withhold that kind of information from her, because she was called to the crime scene even before we knew about it.”

  “Yeah, well so what? So a guy gets knocked off and stuffed into the trunk of a car? Happens plenty frequently,” Enos fumed.

  Now it was John’s turn to fire back. “Here’s what. Deidre … Sheriff Johnson has traced that car back to Zaim. She strongly suspects he’s one of the five camped out in the hunting shack in Brimson, and she would have every right to go in with some deputies and arrest him for being involved in the murder of Herminio. Now, do you want to listen to what I’d like to say?”

  “She wouldn’t dare do that. She knows it’d be political suicide for her to make that move. She’d never work in law enforcement again. I’d personally see to that. Probably wouldn’t be that bad either, one less woman pushing her weight around.”

  “She would dare, and she will do it. Enos, we’ve kept her in the dark long enough, and it is time to let her in on what we’ve got going on. If she goes up there, not knowing what she would be facing, a lot of her men are going to be taken out, maybe even her. I suppose that won’t bother you. Just one more woman we wouldn’t have to deal with.