Derailed

by Jackson Neta

  I stood up. “Yeah. Corky’s my partner. But please don’t interact with her out in the train.” I put my shades back on. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around.” I emphasized the word seeing with a grin. “Just don’t be offended if I don’t speak to you during the rest of the trip.”

  “Of course.”

  “Come on, Corky.” We left, and I slid the heavy door shut behind me.

  Whew! Over one hurdle . . . I hoped.

  As I started to leave the car, I recalled my speculations that the mule might travel first class. Corky hadn’t picked up any scent as we’d passed through the upper levels of all three first-class sleepers, but we hadn’t checked the lower levels except for my car. “Let’s go back, Corky.”

  We returned to the center of Grace’s car and clambered down the circular stairs. The door to the accessible bedroom was open. I stepped in there first. It was clearly unoccupied. We were headed to the other end to check the lower roomettes and the family room when Corky sat down so firmly she nearly jerked her harness handle from my hand. “What is it, girl?”

  She was alerting into the common luggage area, a space nearly as large as a roomette with seven or eight large suitcases lined up on edge on the floor and as many more stacked like bricks on the two sturdy shelves above.

  “Which one, Corky?” I whispered, glancing around. If there was anyone else on the lower level, they were behind closed doors in their roomettes or in the toilets. With a quick glance, I saw that none of the little amber “occupied” lights glowed above the shower and toilet doors, and one door even flapped open and shut a few inches with the sway of the train.

  Corky pointed to a large teal-blue rolling case. I pulled it out—it must have weighed close to fifty pounds—and Corky followed it with her nose. And then I saw the name on the tag: “Grace Meredith, 7333 Beecham St., Chicago, Illinois.”

  I straightened up, dumbfounded. Grace? How could that be?

  There was no question what Corky thought. I tried to redirect her back to the bags remaining in the compartment. She obliged for a moment, sniffing here and there, but gave it up to return to the big blue travel bag.

  A knot formed in my stomach. I had to confirm whether this suitcase was dirty, but no way did I want to find out that Grace Meredith was the mule. O God . . . please no! How could she be?

  Okay, okay. Calm down, Harry. First things first. Check it out all the way.

  I looked again to be sure I was alone and then rolled the heavy bag into the empty shower room. “Come on, Corky. Get in here.” I slid the curtain back and pushed Corky into the still-dry shower stall while I sat on the small changing bench, staring at the case. It was definitely the mate to the smaller case that had been open on Grace’s sofa.

  Hearing someone outside, I slid the lock closed with a click and waited. Whoever it was entered one of the three toilets. I heard water running.

  There was nothing to do but open Grace’s suitcase. I unzipped it and began running my hands through layers of dressy clothes, a coat, three pair of high heels—the obvious attire of a concert performer—and a couple of books, then felt the heat of embarrassment creep up my neck as I checked a bag of underwear, probably headed for the laundry. Nothing there . . . or there . . . nothing in the shoes. I checked all the zippered pockets. Nothing.

  “You gotta help me, Corky. If it’s in here, I can’t find it.”

  Stepping gingerly out of the shower as if she understood my problem exactly, Corky began sniffing at the backside of the suitcase. Then she sat down in the alert position again.

  “Back here? There’s no pouch back here.” I rubbed my hands up and down the flat back of the case and could feel several lumps within. Was that just clothes and shoes pressing through? But the lumps seemed too smooth and even.

  I snapped my fingers and pointed into the shower stall. “Get back in here, girl. There’s not enough room out here.” She obeyed, head drooping as if she thought I was disappointed with her.

  I stood up, took off my hat, and wiped my shaved head. I was sweating. I couldn’t stay forever in this shower. Was I going to have to empty the whole bag? And then it struck me. The telescopic handle retracted into a thin pocket down the back of the case. It had to be protected from the clothes or the handle could snag items and become tangled, unable to extend or retract. The divider protecting the handle created a virtual false bottom in the case.

  Forcing my hand down through the opening designed for the handle, I found there was room for my whole arm to go in. I reached deeper and felt several smooth tubes, like flattened sausages. I pulled one out through the hole. Fifteen inches long and weighing perhaps two pounds, it certainly wasn’t sausage encased in that black, shrink-wrap plastic. I made a tiny hole in one end with my pocketknife. A lab would have to confirm it, but from all my years of experience, I’d bet my career it was pure cocaine.

  I blew out a long breath. “We got ’em, Corky. Good dog.”

  Feeling inside the back of Grace’s suitcase again, I counted five more tubes. At a kilo each, the haul could have a street value over a million and a half. Those DEA guys were right. This bust was worth all the trouble we’d gone to, especially if the cartel was just opening up this pipeline.

  But Grace . . . ? I carefully slid the tube I’d examined back into her suitcase and adjusted its position so it wouldn’t be noticeable to any casual viewer. Surely she wasn’t involved in a scheme like this!

  Chapter 36

  I sat in my compartment, head in my hands, unwilling—unable—to believe Grace Meredith was a drug runner for the Sinaloa cartel. Corky hadn’t detected anything suspicious about her or in her compartment, not even that piece of matching luggage. But the scent had been strong coming from the big suitcase, and Grace had been handling her luggage less than two hours ago. Surely it would’ve contaminated her enough for Corky to detect something. No, she couldn’t be the mule.

  Despite my attempts at profiling, I had calculated that a mule might be sophisticated, professional—someone who appeared above suspicion. Well, who would attract less attention moving drugs around the country than an upstanding, white, contemporary Christian singer? No one would suspect her, and she traveled regularly. I coughed a laugh at myself. She had a better cover than I did! I considered myself good at detecting guilt in a person’s eyes, their body language, and evasive comments, but she hadn’t exhibited any of those signs.

  No, it didn’t make sense! She couldn’t be the mule. But . . . how had the drugs gotten into her luggage?

  I needed to cast the net wider. Maybe it was her assistant. I pulled a pen and small notebook out of my jacket pocket and made a list of everyone who might’ve had a chance to hide drugs in her luggage. Grace was at the top of my list, but I added her assistant—Sam, I think her name was. Who else? Uh . . . the limo driver in LA would’ve handled the bags. Could he have slipped something into Grace’s bag? Maybe if he’d moved fast while they were getting seated and he was loading the luggage in the back. But he’d have to know where she was going before picking her up. And if they could arrange for another driver to pick her up on the other end, the mule wouldn’t even have to be on the train. Let an innocent citizen do their dirty work.

  Another possibility was an Amtrak employee. They handled people’s luggage all the time without question.

  But I kept coming back to the obvious. A wily drug runner had hidden the drugs in Grace’s luggage for the duration of the trip to be retrieved at the other end. He’d gambled—probably accurately—that her cosmetics, overnight items, travel clothes, and everything she’d need for the trip would all be in the smaller suitcase so she’d have little reason to get into her big case down there on the lower level. But how and when would he retrieve the drugs? And how could I catch him?

  My mind churned. Perhaps just before she detrained. The train attendant would be distracted helping people, collecting pillows, emptying trash, cleaning and straightening up the train for the next run. The mule could come down to the luggage comp
artment and retrieve his packets without suspicion. No harder than a pickpocket lifting a wallet.

  The more I reviewed my theory, the more certain I became that I’d figured out the method. But the biggest question still eluded me: Who was the mule? I had to catch him with the drugs or I’d do no more than confiscate a delivery. I had bigger plans.

  I looked down at Corky. “We gotta move, girl.” She jumped up, ready for anything. “We need to be where I can watch that luggage, night and day. We gotta switch to the handicapped compartment in car four thirty-three.”

  There was a knock at my door. I sat down and put my shades back on. “Yes?”

  Carl poked his head in. “Mr. Bentley, I was wondering if you wanted me to make up your bed now.”

  I almost looked at my watch. Only at the last moment did I feel the top as if it were a Braille watch—I’d have to get a real one before someone caught me and blew my cover.

  “No thanks, Carl. But I have a different favor to ask of you. I need to move to another car.”

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  “Well . . .” The train whistle accommodated by blowing at just that moment, something it did three times before every crossing. “You hear that?”

  “Hear what, sir?”

  “The whistle. You’re probably so used to it that you don’t even notice. But with my . . .” I raised my hands to my shades. “I’ve become very sensitive to sounds. I’m just sayin’ . . . I don’t think I could possibly go to sleep this close to the engine with the whistle blaring like that all night. Would it be possible to transfer me to the last sleeper car?”

  “The last?”

  “Yeah, car four thirty-three’s the last sleeper, right?”

  “That’s right, but I don’t know, Mr. Bentley. I don’t have any authority to do that.” I knew he didn’t, but I just waited for him to figure out something. “Even if there’s an open room, it might be reserved for someone getting on later. It’s all computerized.” Again, I waited, leaning forward expectantly. “But . . . well, I guess I could check with the conductor. He’s the only one who could make such a switch.”

  “That’d be great.” I reached for my wallet and pulled out a ten for his trouble.

  “Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Bentley,” he said as I handed him the bill. “I’ll get right on it.” He started to leave and then turned back. “Say, if you don’t mind me askin’, how’d you know what to give me?”

  I laughed. “I don’t mind, Carl. I know in what order I put the bills in my wallet. I gave you a ten . . . right?”

  “Ah, yes, a ten. You’re right, it’s a ten, and thank you again, sir.”

  That ten must have greased the wheels, because forty-five minutes later I was settled in my new handicapped-accessible compartment waiting for my mule to come to his bait, almost giddy with my progress on the case.

  When Sylvia, the African American attendant in my new car, came in to make up my berth, I said, “The top one, please.”

  “Are you sure? We usually only make up the top berth for a passenger’s assistant. It’s safer if you’re not trying to climb up there.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I don’t have an assistant, and I’m not gonna fall. Thing is, I’m not ready to go to bed yet, so I’d like my seat down here to remain functional.”

  “Okay. But don’t blame me if you have trouble getting up there.”

  “I won’t.”

  As soon as she left, I fed Corky and got her settled on the floor. After turning out my lights, I jammed a magazine in the track of the door to keep it open about four inches and went to my seat to see if I had a clear line of sight to the common luggage area. Perfect. No one would be able to mess with Grace Meredith’s suitcase without me seeing them.

  A few people came down the stairs to use the toilets or shower, but no one bothered Grace’s luggage as the train ventured into the Mojave Desert. Lights from the Marine Corps supply depot flicked past my window as we got going again after a brief stop in Barstow. It’d be two and a half hours before the next stop in Needles, and I was getting sleepy.

  This was not going to work. I couldn’t stay on watch for the next forty hours. I needed help.

  I called Gilson’s cell phone, and when he answered, I tried to explain my predicament. All he heard was the good news that I’d found the drugs. “That’s absolutely phenomenal, Bentley! I’m gonna put you in for a commendation.”

  “Thanks, Captain.” Maybe this time I’d get some credit. “But we gotta catch this guy with the drugs or we got no case.”

  “You’re losing perspective here, Bentley. You’ve got the drugs, you know who the luggage belongs to. Let’s set up an arrest in Albuquerque. We got a cracker-jack detective there. I think I told you about Brian Conway, covers the whole Southwest. He’s as good as they get . . . like you. Look, you won’t get there until noon tomorrow. That’ll give him plenty of time to coordinate with the DEA. We can arrange a targeted interdiction that won’t scare any of the passengers. It’ll be—”

  “Captain, it’s not her!”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  It took me thirty minutes to convince him that I couldn’t arrest Grace Meredith without more evidence. He still thought she was my mule, but he finally agreed to continue surveillance.

  “And that’s what I need your help with. You keep telling me about the guy in Albuquerque. You think he could get me some high-tech hardware by the time we get there tomorrow? I need to set up some kind of an alarm system. Can’t stay awake for the next forty hours like an owl watching a gopher hole.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who wants to drag this out.”

  “Come on, Captain, work with me here.”

  He finally gave me the cell phone number for Detective Brian Conway.

  I called Conway as soon as I got off the phone with Gilson and told him exactly what I needed—a wireless motion detector I could set up in the luggage compartment that would send a radio signal to a receiver in my room if someone reached in. The receiver needed to have an audible alarm to wake me up. Conway promised to see what he could do and meet me in Albuquerque.

  “But if you’re undercover,” he asked, “how’ll I recognize you?”

  “Ha! I’m the blind guy with a guide dog. You got an animal relief area, don’t ya?”

  “Blind detective, huh? That’s a new one. Yeah, we got a relief area, little grassy yard on the north end of the main building. Meet you there.”

  I sighed with relief when I’d hung up. If I could set it up correctly, I could get some sleep. In the meantime, all I had to do was to remain awake for the next twelve or thirteen hours.

  Did I dare call Estelle this late at night? She was two hours ahead, one thirty in the morning her time. I punched her number.

  “Hey, babe. Everything’s okay, just wanted to—”

  “What’s the matter? You safe?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m really sorry to be callin’ in the middle of the night, but you know how sometimes you can’t go to sleep and just need to talk to me?”

  “Sure, sure . . . What’s this about? What’s happening, Harry?”

  “Well, I just need to talk. You mind?”

  I told her about finding the drugs but didn’t tell her they were in Grace Meredith’s suitcase. Just said I had reason to think the owner of the suitcase wasn’t the real mule so I needed to continue surveillance until I caught the perp red-handed. “But I’m fallin’ asleep on the job, so I just needed to talk for a while . . . could use some prayer about this too.”

  After we hung up, I felt much better, but Gilson’s doubts about Grace Meredith’s innocence troubled me.

  Chapter 37

  As my nighttime vigil progressed, I couldn’t help dozing off for a minute or two here and there. Worried that I might miss my mule, the memory of the Naperville bust for which I got no credit stirred in my foggy mind. This fish was much, much bigger, but if I didn’t stay awake, it would be my fault we didn’t catch him. I looked down at Corky. “It�
��s just you and me, girl. And we can’t let ’em get away.

  I went for some low-tech reassurance. All had been quiet out in the hallway for hours, so I told Corky to stay and went out to the luggage compartment. Reaching in across Grace’s suitcase, I set a small paper cup on the back edge, leaning against the wall. If anyone moved her luggage, the cup would fall off. It appeared to be nothing more than a piece of trash; I doubted the mule would even notice it.

  Comforted by my partial trap, I dozed a bit more. When we stopped for a few minutes at Flagstaff, Arizona, at four thirty in the morning, I took Corky out to relieve herself in the dog run. It was a risk leaving my post, but I hoped the cool air would wake me up.

  By morning, the cup was still in place.

  Shortly after six, I heard movement upstairs. Probably Sylvia making fresh coffee. Soon, the passengers would be up and about, and it’d be even less likely for the mule to touch his cargo.

  I cocked my ear. Someone was coming down the stairs. I put on my shades and stood just inside the partially open door as Grace Meredith, dressed in a dark green lounging outfit, stepped off the stairs and turned my way without even glancing at her luggage. She was carrying toiletries and clothes and after she passed through the vestibule, she reached for the handle of the shower-room door.

  Perfect. A good chance to get more background information from her.

  I slid my door open farther. “Hello? Who’s there?”—deciding to stay in character. Her eyes got big, and it took her a few seconds to respond. She blushed, maybe embarrassed at being caught with a bedhead and not yet dressed for the day. I smiled and gave a little wave to assure her everything was okay.

  “It’s Grace Meredith from Room E,” she said, playing along with my cover.

  “Uh, miss, would you mind getting me a cup of coffee? I’d ask the attendant but I don’t know where she is.”

  She smiled, seemingly enjoying her role-playing. “Of course. Give me a minute.”

  She walked back down the little hallway and put her things on the luggage compartment shelf before bustling up the stairs. When she returned a couple minutes later with a cup in each hand, I motioned her into my compartment and closed the door.