by J. P. Lane
Waiting at the mouth of the harbor for the pilot to escort her in, sat the first freighter of the day, her cargo contraband originating in Colombia. The cargo listed in the ship’s manifest soon to be checked by the detective was coffee, ostensibly taken on in Nicaragua.
The trumpeting of the pilot’s horn broke through the early morning stillness as Detective Wallace stood on the wharf, eyes searching the expanse of harbor for signs of the incoming ship. He could see her now, her port and starboard lights bright against the wash of blue where sea and sky were still one. Like other Customs officers on duty when the special cargo from Nicaragua arrived, he had been bribed to sign off on the manifest without inspection, or questions. This morning would be different. On orders of his real superior, the head of the Criminal Investigation Department, there would be an inspection. Wallace was apprehensive, and with good reason.
The detective played idly with his wedding ring wondering if this were the day he would nail his evidence. For months, he had been trying to find proof that cocaine was being transshipped through the port. He paced the dock, working out his next strategy. He eyed a group of stevedores waiting for the Nicaraguan ship to dock. It was a long shot, but maybe they might know something. Or they may have seen something. It was worth a try. Wallace could hear their raucous laughter resounding down the dock from where they stood huddled near a freighter. That ship, one of the Indies Shipping fleet, had been in port for two days now. The regularity with which the two vessels met had become a suspicious pattern.
As Wallace sauntered idly over to the men their laughter came to an abrupt halt.
“How’s it going?” Wallace asked casually.
There was prolonged silence before one of the men spoke, “Everything cool, bredda. Everything cool.” The man said nothing more. Neither did anyone else.
Wallace’s eyes swiveled towards a giant of a man hovering near him. “Yuh need something?” the giant asked.
“No,” Wallace replied carefully. “I was just bored waiting for that ship out there to come in.”
The man laughed, the laughter not quite reaching his eyes. “Well, yuh won’t be bored too much longer, bredda. Yuh ship soon come in.”
There was a roar of laughter from the men. Wallace waited for it to settle down before voicing the question foremost on his mind, “Yuh know when this one here going load?”
An exchange of furtive glances followed Wallace’s question. The giant stared at Wallace malevolently. “Why yuh want know dat? Yuh nuh have noting to do wit dat ship. Don’t is di one coming in yuh going inspect?”
Wallace decided it was in his best interest to drop the matter. Things were getting ugly. “I was only wondering, bredda. Is no big thing,” he quickly explained.
“Yuh should know better than ask questions round here,” the giant warned. “Don’t forget loose tongues sink ships, bredda.”
Wallace realized he was up against a wall. It was futile trying to get information from the wharf workers, especially with the giant around. But the giant’s last remark told him a lot. With a cursory remark, he turned on his heels and left the men. As he walked back to the end of the wharf, he glanced in the direction of the parking lot with a worried frown. His backup still hadn’t arrived. Wallace’s eyes wandered along the line of containers. Those containers were all accounted for, awaiting other ships, or transportation by land to various destinations throughout the island. He had checked the documentation for all incoming and outgoing cargo the day before. He was reasonably certain the Nicaraguan cargo was about to be transshipped.
Twenty minutes later the Marianna docked, her rusted hull showing clear signs of too many years at sea and too little maintenance. Wallace glanced at his watch wondering why his backup was delayed, and why they hadn’t called. He could not wait for them much longer. He was running out of time. Again, he scanned the parking lot. There was still no sign of the backup car. He waited a few minutes more before apprehensively boarding the Marianna.
The captain was already standing at the top of the gangplank when Wallace finally boarded. Nauseating filth greeted him as he followed the sloppy master into the ship’s wardroom. Revolted, he eyed an empty soup can sitting on a table; a half eaten drumstick abandoned on a dirty plate for heaven knew how long. The surface of the table was strewn with days-old crumbs. Wordlessly, the captain handed him the manifest and pointed to the table for Wallace to sit.
Wallace sat and swept the crumbs away with disgust. He scrutinized the document with studied disinterest while the captain, eyelids drooping over eyes reddened by lack of sleep, watched. The minutes ticked by. The captain began shifting impatiently on his feet. Wallace ignored him. He needed all the time he could buy. There was still a chance his backup would arrive. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked for any new text messages. There were none. A chilling feeling of anxiety began to wash over him in a light sweat. He was facing having to go through with the inspection on his own. He kept up the pretense of reading the manifest for as long as possible, then praying his backup had arrived, he looked up at the captain and said, “I’ll be inspecting your cargo today, Captain.”
Aghast the captain stared at Wallace, his bleary eyes suddenly awake. “Que diablo esta pasando aqui, what the devil!” he blurted. With trembling hands he pulled a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, the cigarette between his stubby fingers still unlit. His mind was in turmoil.
Wallace gave him a steady look. “I’m following standard procedure, Captain. And by the way, I speak Spanish.”
His business with the captain put on hold for the moment, Wallace descended the Marianna’s gangplank feeling doubly on-edge. The sun was now rising over the horizon throwing a shimmering path of silver across the harbor. In the parking lot in the distance, the absence of the backup car told Wallace something had gone wrong. But it was too late to reverse course. The wheels had already been set in motion. His mind swiftly moving to plan two, Wallace stepped inside the Customs building.
A two-way radio crackled to life on the dock. The giant pressed the receive button. “Dock here,” he answered.
“Amigo, you know about a cargo inspection this morning?”
The giant’s eyes narrowed as they moved from the Nicaraguan freighter to the Customs building. “Who told you that, man?”
“The inspector who was just on board.”
Frowning, the giant looked towards the Customs building again. He spoke into the two-way radio, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it at this end.” Then he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made a call.
On the upper floor of the Indies Shipping building, an elegantly suited man with thinning hair opened the morning paper his personal assistant had just placed on his desk. He hadn’t read further than the front page when his private line rang. He glanced at the caller ID. From the number displayed, he knew the call spelled trouble. He gestured for his assistant to give him privacy and picked up the phone as she left closing the door behind her.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Code Red, boss.”
Irritation flashed in the man’s eyes. Code Red meant one thing only – an obstruction to the operation by law enforcement. He checked his watch. The freighter from Nicaragua was scheduled to be unloaded any minute.
“What is the problem?”
“Customs, sir.”
“What in the name of God are you talking about? That’s impossible!”
There was no response from other end.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Then take care of it. That’s what you get paid for.”
Angered, the man swiveled his chair around to face the port. The Criminal Investigation Department was obviously behind this. There could be no other explanation. Everyone in Customs was in The Board’s pocket. The others needed to be appraised of this new development immediately. If despite being warned, Palmer continued acting like some kind of maverick,
then so be it. Obviously the warning had been too gentle.
SEVEN
Lauren swung open the door to her editor’s office to find him on the phone with the habitual cigarette hanging from his mouth. Fanning the smoke away from her face, she sat and impatiently waited for him to end his call. Noticing his ashtray was spilling over, she dumped the mountain of butts into the trashcan under his desk.
“What’s up?” Peter Landsdale asked hanging up.
“The detective who gave me the big lead on the port was killed.”
Peter frowned. “He was killed? When?”
“I don’t know yet. They just found his body.”
Peter’s frown deepened. “This is the third murder of a law enforcement officer since the year began. It’s a bad situation.”
“Even more so when you consider who may have been behind Wallace’s murder.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed on Lauren. “Oh? You have some idea who was behind it?”
“Yes and no. Look, Peter, I planned to wait until I had more information before telling you what I learned from Detective Wallace. But I think I should tell you everything now. This could have more serious ramifications than I suspected.”
Lauren took a deep breath and began. “I think Detective Wallace was onto something big. He was pretty sure cocaine was being transshipped through the port. He suspected Indies Shipping was involved.”
“Indies Shipping? But that’s the Matthews’ company.”
“That was exactly my reaction. You could have blown me over with a feather when he dropped that one on me.”
“Was this an allegation on the detective’s part, or did he have concrete evidence?”
“It was an allegation for all practical purposes, but let me go on.”
Lauren began playing idly with a paperclip as she continued, “A couple months ago, I received a call from someone who claimed he had important information for me. He was calling from a pay phone, he said, and didn’t have much time to talk. Naturally I became suspicious. I asked what kind of information he had for me, but he refused to say on the phone. He asked if I could meet him somewhere so we could talk. I wavered a bit at first. After all, he could have been some sicko. On the other hand, it might have been a big story. I finally decided I would meet him somewhere safe. I suggested the old pier and he agreed. That he allowed me to choose the meeting place made me a bit less suspicious. Besides, my instincts told me the guy was genuine. When I got to the pier at the arranged time, there wasn’t another soul in sight. He was standing at the end of the pier by himself watching as I got out of my car. I immediately became nervous. Anything could have happened to me and no one would ever have known. I was debating whether to call it a day and leave, but then I had a gun in my jacket pocket, so I decided it was worth the risk.”
“I never knew you carried a gun,” Peter interjected with surprise.
“Well, as it turned out, I really didn’t need it on that particular occasion,” Lauren smiled crookedly. “While I’m walking over to him with my hand placed discreetly in my pocket he gives me an amused look and says, ‘There’s no need for that precaution, Miss Anderson, I’m with the Criminal Investigation Department.’ Then he flashes his badge. I felt like a fool I have to confess. I had no idea I was so obvious.”
“So the mystery man was your Detective Wallace.”
“He was. And here’s where the plot thickens. When I asked why he wished to see me, he said Chief Inspector Palmer asked him to.”
“Why wouldn’t Robert Palmer get in touch with you himself?” Peter asked with piqued interest.
“That was my question. I mean, it’s not as if I’m a stranger to Robert Palmer. However, the detective’s explanation was Robert Palmer doesn’t think it’s a good idea to be directly in contact with the media at this time.”
Peter’s cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth. “Why on earth?”
“There’s been a threat on the Chief’s life it would appear.”
“Good Lord,” Peter exclaimed letting out a low whistle. “Did you learn who threatened him?”
“No, but he must have taken that threat seriously if he wanted the media to know about this, even if not directly from him.”
Still astonished, Peter asked, “But who would have the unmitigated gumption to threaten the head of the Criminal Investigation Department?”
“I suppose that’s where we come back full circle, Peter.”
Peter stared at Lauren. “Are you saying you think the Matthews brothers are involved?”
“I wouldn’t count it out. Detective Wallace was working undercover as a Customs inspector for a few months. He noticed every time a certain ship from Nicaragua arrived there would be an Indies Shipping vessel waiting for cargo at the same dock. It may have been a coincidence, or not. If it wasn’t a coincidence, it has to be taken into account that the Matthews brothers own and run Indies Shipping. Personally, I think it’s worth looking into.”
The room hummed in silence for a minute before Lauren surmised, “The bottom line is the C.I.D had to have had a strong suspicion something illegal was going on if they went as far as to place an undercover man at the port.”
“But narcotics smuggling is the domain of Customs. Why would the C.I.D. be involved?”
“From what I understand, when it comes to narcotics investigations, there’s often a blurry line between the two. And that leads to another worrying thing. Wallace had proof Customs is on the payroll of whoever the culprits are. He was actually bribed to sign off on those shipments coming out of Nicaragua without inspection. That’s what made him single out that Nicaraguan ship in the first place.”
Peter took a long drag as he lit another cigarette. “What you’re talking about is murder and narcotics trading on a grand scale, Lauren. That’s heavy stuff, especially if Customs is involved. That could mean there’s involvement at the government level. How high a level is the question.”
“That’s exactly my thinking,” Lauren agreed, “And I’ll tell you why, Customs doesn’t appear to be where this ends. Detective Wallace said there’s reason to believe the C.I.D. has also been infiltrated.”
Lauren shifted in her chair as Peter stared thoughtfully into space. “Unfortunately, there’s no concrete evidence,” he said at last. “Whoever is behind Wallace’s murder took care of that. Our hands are tied, I’m afraid. We can hardly print a story claiming a dead detective suspected cocaine is being transshipped out of the port. That would stir up a hornets’ nest, not to mention open Island News up to a libel suit.”
Lauren did not respond at once. She regarded Peter with a resolute expression before she said calmly, “Please don’t expect me to drop this one, Peter. That would call for an extreme personality makeover. Detective Wallace’s evidence may be buried with him, but I intend to get to the bottom of this. I don’t know how I’m going to do that, but do it I will.” Before Peter had a chance to respond, she announced, “I’m going to a party at Gordon Matthews’ house, incidentally – on the pretext of covering the party.”
“I strongly advise you not to do that,” Peter cautioned her. “If the Matthews are involved in any way, attending a party at Gordon Matthews’ house is bound to arouse suspicion. They would find an investigative reporter of your standing so close to home suspicious.”
“I think it’s worth taking the chance,” Lauren persisted. “There’s a huge possibility some of the involved parties will be there.”
“How is that going to help? What are you going to do? Ask everyone you run into at that party if they’re involved in drug smuggling? I think it’s a waste of time. In any case, I don’t want you putting yourself, or this newspaper, at risk.”
Lauren’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t do anything rash,” Peter warned on seeing the show of stubbornness he was only too familiar with. “I’m not going to make it an order, but I would strongly advise you to stay clear of that Matthews party. It appears there are some ruthless people out there – and they’ll stop
at nothing.” Not wishing to continue the debate, he changed the subject. “How is the McGuire investigation coming along, by the way?”
“Ironically, you’re not the only person who has asked that in the past twenty-four hours. Logan Armstrong seemed very interested in the progress of the investigation when I interviewed him.”
“Any particular reason why?” Peter asked curiously.
“I’m afraid I never got a chance to get to the bottom of that one,” Lauren said with a mysterious look.
EIGHT
The Matthews’ party out in the country was a huge affair. At Virginia’s suggestion, Lauren arrived early so she would have a chance to meet Gordon and Virginia before their two hundred guests descended on them. Lauren perused the magnificent gardens with interest as she went in search of Virginia. She found her giving last minute orders to the caterers under a two-hundred-year-old Silk Cotton tree, its stately old branches shading two huge buffet tables laden with party fare.
This was the party of the year and at a casual glance, Lauren could see why Virginia’s annual gala would have earned such a distinction. Her eyes swept the garden taking in the candlelit tables placed in cozy nooks; the lavish floral arrangements on every table; the most lavish of all standing more than three feet high on the buffet tables. Under another enormous Silk Cotton tree, sat the hors d’oeuvres table. Still awaiting the arrival of the guests, the covered hot selections were yet to be revealed as Lauren walked over to Virginia and introduced herself.
Virginia, swathed in floral silk for the occasion, pulled herself away from the caterers to give Lauren the grand tour of her home. Through the ever-flowing generosity of her husband, she had updated the old plantation great house with every modern convenience. It was no secret Gordon Matthews was extremely wealthy, but as Lauren surveyed the living room, she couldn’t help wondering if Matthews’ business concerns could sustain such extravagance. She pulled her camera from her purse and took a few obligatory shots while digesting the visual feast.