Obscure Intentions

by Anthony J Harrison

  “I don’t know how much was said,” Gregory said. “But I learned Hakim said enough for the police to learn about the warehouse,” he explained, alluding to the building where they transferred the drugs. “It would explain the rumors Julien heard from members of a black gang in the northern part of the city. He was told the police raided an abandoned warehouse; it could have been the one we were using to process the drugs.”

  Louis shrugged his shoulders. “Who cares? We’re no longer in that business. But if Hakim talked and the police used the information to raid the warehouse, we can turn it against Nazim.”

  “You must be a mind reader then, since I was considering the same thing.”

  “Do you hate him that much?”

  “I wouldn’t call it hate,” Gregory said. “It’s more like a need to demonstrate one’s importance. He put his own greed above the partnership, so he needs to learn a lesson.” He stretched his arms over his head. “If he gets arrested, so much the better. Now, let’s get things ready for a first order, shall we?” he began, removing his ledger from the desk drawer.

  ***

  The ringing of a cell phone interrupted the silence of the police car as Claude and Geneviève made their way back downtown and to the police station. “Hello? This is Detective Benoit. Yes, he’s with me. Yes, we’ll be there in ten minutes,” she spoke, ending the call.

  “And where do we need to be now?” Claude asked, stopping for a traffic light.

  “Gare Maritime office,” she said. “A foot patrolman came across another dealer passing hashish to tourists. And he had a torn picture of our arrest from two months ago.”

  “We’re becoming popular, aren’t we?”

  “Is it possible we’ve been looking in the wrong direction?” Geneviève asked her partner.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve focused on the shipping company, but there are still drug dealers,” she said. “We’re still missing the middleman, so to speak. It’s either the ones on the street or the smugglers. We keep missing the ones collecting the money.”

  “If we keep picking off the pushers, we’ll ultimately get to them,” Claude said. “We’ve a city of over 850 thousand living here. We can’t expect the bad ones going around wearing sandwich boards advertising their wares now,” he explained, pulling the car to the curb.

  Seeing the patrol officers and the suspect along the seawall, Detective Benoit made her way towards them, pulling out her ID. “Good morning, officer.”

  “Seems you’re becoming popular, Detective Benoit,” the officer said. “This young man has taken a liking to you and your partner.” He handed over the remains of a CCTV printout.

  “Can I see that?” Claude asked, extending his hand. “This looks like the arrest from the promenade near the flea market,” he guessed, noting the background. “How did you come across this?”

  “It was in the bag. I didn’t ask for it,” the young man said.

  “So, your supplier just happened to include this with your stash for no apparent reason?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  A police van was soon pulling up to the curb to transport the suspect. Glancing around the waterfront, Claude couldn’t decide if the picture was meant as a clue to something bigger or a cruel joke to confuse them. After transporting the suspect and booking him for possession and selling drugs, the detectives made sure he was placed into an interrogation room.

  “While we wait for your public defender to arrive, why don’t you and I discuss your dealer,” Claude said. “Right now, you’re looking at 30 months’ time, but if you wish to have it reduced…”

  “You’re joking,” the suspect said. “I’d just assume do the two and half years then turn against the…” he paused, stopping himself from implicating his supplier.

  “You were going to say something?”

  “Not another word until the lawyer arrives,” the suspect said, pushing his chair against the wall.

  After ten awkward minutes of silence where Claude and Geneviève stood staring at the suspect, a harried and disheveled attorney stumbled into the interrogation room. “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” the young man said to the detectives.

  “What about me?” the suspect asked. “Don’t I get the same courtesy? You are representing me remember?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” he said to the suspect. “May I see the arrest report?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  “Detective Benoit, could you see to getting a copy for Monsieur…”

  “I’m sorry, my name is Monsieur Moreau. And you are?”

  “Detective Lemieux,” Claude responded. “While my partner is getting a copy of the report for you, shall we discuss the terms of his arrest?”

  “It seems the arrest was premature, detective,” Moreau said. “He’s not guilty of possession or selling. All I see here,” he started, holding the report up, “is his possession of someone else’s bag.”

  “And you’ve determined this in what manner?” Claude asked as Geneviève re-entered the room. “The bag in question contained drugs, did it not?”

  “There's not even enough for personal consumption,” the lawyer said, reading the report.

  “The bag was used to carry much more,” Claude said. “When it was tested, there were traces of hashish and marijuana inside the pouches. And need I point out your client was also carrying almost two thousand euros in small bills.” His temper was beginning to show.

  “So, my client likes to carry cash with him. Who doesn’t?” Moreau replied, pointing to Geneviève. “How much cash do you carry, miss?”

  “You’ll address me as Detective Benoit first and foremost, Monsieur Moreau,” she said sharply. “Second, it’s none of your business on how much money I carry since it’s not pertinent to your client’s activity.”

  Taken aback by Geneviève’s rebuke, the lawyer was prepared to unleash a torrid lecture on protocol but was cut short by Detective Lemieux.

  “The other issue we have with your client is why he’s in possession of city property,” he continued, holding the evidence bag containing the partial photo.

  “He was apprehended with a torn page from a magazine, so what?”

  “This is not a page from a magazine,” Claude said. “It’s a printed image from a city CCTV camera. Moreover, it happens to be one capturing police activity during an arrest. So, we’d like to hear his version of why he has it”

  “I told you, it was in the bag,” the suspect stammered.

  “There, he’s told you the truth,” the lawyer said. “As I see it, he’s looking at a minor offence, which carries a thirty-day sentence at most,” Moreau said, trying to get Claude to admit to a lesser charge.

  “I’m sure the judge will have other ideas on his sentence,” Claude said. “Unless your client wishes to offer us with some useful information. Then I’d be willing to add a statement of cooperation for the judge to consider. I’ll give you time to think about it,” he finished, getting up from the table.

  Stepping outside the room, he turned to Geneviève. “We need to find out how he got his hands on a picture of you and Guy arresting the woman from this drug bust. The only way he could have gotten his hands on it was either a city worker or someone in the department.”

  “The easiest answer is a city worker,” she said.

  “Yes, but, if it’s someone in the police department, who could it be?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Before they could speculate further, the door opened and Monsieur Moreau motioned them inside. “My client wishes to make a statement. However, he wants to know what his sentence will be before he speaks,” the lawyer added, sitting down.

  “I have no control over the judge,” Claude said. “But, as I mentioned earlier, I’m willing to annotate your cooperation; it’s all we can do.” He looked back at the attorney. “And you know this.”

  Putting his hand on the shoulder of his client, Moreau whispered something to him while the suspect nodding in a
greement.

  “This is all I’m able to tell you,” the suspect began. “The picture was a copy of one got by a city worker. There're copies being handed out to all the street dealers, basically a warning to look out for her,” he explained, pointing to Geneviève. “Word’s gotten out to everyone on the street not to confront her for a sale of any kind.”

  “What’s the name of the city worker?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is the picture was passed to me by another dealer.”

  “Where did you and the dealer make contact?” Claude pressed the suspect.

  “I’d say we’re done,” the lawyer said, sensing Claude’s approach.

  “Was the other dealer French or another nationality?” Geneviève asked.

  The suspect looked at her. “How’d you know he wasn’t French?”

  “He was Italian, wasn’t he?” following a hunch.

  Glancing at the lawyer, the suspect continued the dialogue with the detective. “Yeah. The guy, he said he was from Milan and was looking for you. Now, how about the recommendation?” he asked looking at Claude.

  “What you just said makes you part of a larger issue, I’m afraid,” Claude said. “Monsieur Moreau, I’d like to discuss something with you in private.”

  “What’s he talking about?” the young suspect asked spinning around in his chair.

  “It’s better for your health if you didn’t find out,” Geneviève said. “As a dealer, you should be well-versed in all the potential trouble walking the streets these days” She leaned against the wall. “Sometimes it’s better to turn and walk away when someone offers you a deal that’s too good to be true.”

  “I’m on the street. I can’t turn my back on a thousand euros just for pointing a person out,” the suspect said. “Having that much money in my hand gives me a week in the hostel. A clean bed to sleep in, a shower, some food…”

  Claude and the lawyer looked on through the glass. “For the record, your client just confirmed the solicitation for information regarding a police officer.”

  “This can’t be used in court, you know, detective,” the lawyer said.

  “He wasn’t coerced into making a statement, was he?”

  “It’s not admissible in a trial, though,” Moreau stated. “The judge will throw it out.”

  “You’re right,” Claude said. “But if the prosecutor never mentions it, it won’t matter, will it? The department is investigating a kidnapping plot, and your client just confirmed a possible suspect’s nationality,” he continued. “I’d say it’s worth a six-month reduction in his sentence.”

  “You’d agree to recommend it?”

  “Sure. Once the parties your client is involved with find out what was discussed,” Claude said, forcing a smile in the direction of the lawyer. “Six months off his sentence won’t matter much, will it?”

  “You can’t let prisoners know what he said or didn’t say. It’s like committing him to a death sentence,” Moreau said. “You have to protect him.”

  “He’s a pusher. He’s lucky to survive on his own,” Claude said. “If he’s as smart as he seems, he’ll come out of his time in prison with just a few scratches and a maybe new look on life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve an arrest report to file,” he said, leaving the lawyer with the patrolman and technician who recorded everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  With the sun shining down the undercover agent basked in its warmth. Luck was still on his side being able to catch the cruise ship before sailing. Thank god for mechanical malfunctions, he thought. Sitting on the sundeck of the M/V Concerto, he noticed that the cocktail tasted sweeter than usual. Relaxing in the warmth of the sunshine, Guillermo Ochoa reflected on his latest excursion with the police. Damn Germans, he thought. They should have listened in the first place when I told them I was DEA.

  Trying to flee the French freighter in Hamburg when one of the engine crew suspected him of being a police officer, he had grabbed the wrong passport from his cabin. Devoting the last three years chasing the chemist from Venezuela was taking its toll on his psyche.

  “Senor Gomez, would you like another drink?” the attendant asked.

  “Si, uno mas, por favor,” he replied, holding up his empty glass.

  Watching the couples stroll the deck, he wondered if he’d ever get to living a normal life again. As soon as I can hand over all my files and reports, I’m done, he told himself. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he glanced to his left making sure his target was still in sight. He’s enjoying himself, noting the bikini-clad Dane lounging against him with her oily skin. Once I can confirm his association in North Africa, I’ll contact Chuck and he can send in the cavalry.

  “Señor, your drink,” the attendant said, holding his Mai Tai.

  “Muchas gracias, señorita.”

  ***

  Detectives Berger and Masson sat and listened to their captain explain the situation he and Geneviève encountered with the drug dealer from earlier in the day. “So there seems to be someone offering cash to people on the street for information on our activities.”

  “And this guy said it was the Italian we’ve got locked up for being a voyeur?” Nicolas asked.

  “He pointed straight to him during the line up,” Geneviève said.

  “But what has the Italian said since being fingered?” Guy asked. “I can’t believe he’d willingly agree to what a street dealer says.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Claude said. “We already have the Italian for stalking a police officer. Now we can add attempted bribery to the charges. The best-case scenario is to arrest another dealer with the same photo, then we’ve got the collaboration to make our case airtight against him.”

  “So, we can keep the one Italian locked up. What about the one who’s still on the street?” Nicolas asked. “He’s still out there somewhere, and we don’t know if he’s got any help.”

  Claude glanced at his three detectives before speaking. “I know, and it’s why we need to stay sharp. And why Geneviève will continue to live at the training facility until we catch this person.” He left the room with his empty coffee cup.

  “There’s a rumor you subdued a cadet last night?” Guy asked as the door closed.

  “It’s not a rumor. It’s true,” Geneviève said with pride. “I heard a woman screaming and found him accosting a fellow cadet in the bushes near the villa.”

  “And you subdued him in your sports bra and gym shorts,” Nicolas pointed out.

  “I was more concerned about the victim’s safety than my own comfort. But yes, I should have put something else on,” she said, turning red at the statement. “I’m sure you would run after someone in your briefs if you had to, Nic.”

  “I don’t wear briefs,” he said, laughing while he saw the woman blushing at her desk.

  “That’s something I didn’t need to hear,” Masson said flipping another page of the shipping log print-out.

  “I just said I don’t wear briefs,” Berger answered as the door swung open.

  “Enough, this isn’t a locker room,” Claude said, returning with a fresh cup. “Your fellow officers’ choice of loungewear is not up for discussion. What is up for discussion is our current effort to track down Papillion Transport and its location. Where are we?”

  Guy grabbed his notepad from his jacket. “I reached out to a former partner in Toulon who said he’s never heard of the company. He’s looked into the utilities being set up near the waterfront but came up dry.”

  “I’ve scoured the business license bureau, and they have no listing,” Nicolas chimed in. “Unless this business has several means of being identified, we’ve hit a wall,” he sighed, folding his notebook closed.

  “What about the banks?”

  “Well, the commercial account manager wasn’t in the other day, so I’ll need to go back today,” Geneviève said. “But it was strange walking with the executive, besides the fact he was trying to hit on me,” she said. “All his staff seemed submissive
around him. Almost like they were afraid to make a mistake or they’d get fired on the spot.”

  “And this has a bearing on our investigation?” Claude asked, slurping at his coffee.

  “No, it just gave me the creeps,” Geneviève admitted.

  Before she could continue, the phone rang. Picking it up, Claude answered, “Yes, this is Captain Lemieux.” The three detectives looked as Claude’s face twisted as he listened to the caller on the other end. “Thank you,” he said. hanging up the phone.

  “Time to earn our pay,” he said, standing up. “Grab you stuff; we’ve another lead to follow on the Italian.”

  “Where was he seen at?” Geneviève asked.

  “A citizen in the Sainte-Antoine district reported seeing someone matching the description,” Claude said. “The suspect was spotted stopping at a local bistro with another man,” he continued, striding down the steps toward the parking lot.

  “So, it seems he does have someone helping him then.”

  “Possibly, but we’ll know more when we get there,” Claude said, putting his coffee into the cup holder.

  Meanwhile, Detectives Berger and Masson were following their partners in another car.

  “How’d your date with Francine go last night?” Guy asked.

  “Ok, I guess,” Nicolas answered

  “Just ok?”

  “Yeah, I mean, we had a nice dinner down at the waterfront. We chatted, nothing much more to say,” Nicolas said. “I can attest though: she does clean up well. She was wearing a nice skirt and blouse. Nothing fancy, but it was fashionable.”

  “And the librarian glasses?”

  “Oh, no, she was wearing contacts,” Nicolas said. “She said she wears the glasses so she doesn’t have to adjust the microscopes. Turns out she has hazel eyes, bordering on grey-green.”

  “What restaurant did you end up going to?” Guy asked, pulling in behind the other patrol car on the expressway.

  “It was the seafood restaurant off of Quai du Port,” Nicolas said. “You know, the one they always mention on the radio with the Sunday evening jazz sessions.”

  “I’ll take your word for it since I’m not one to listen to the radio much unless it’s for a soccer match.”