by Jackson Neta
I looked down at Corky. “Come on, girl. We’re hot on the trail.”
When I got to the coach car, the girl was talking on a cell phone, while the guy leaned in close, clenching his fist, making hand signals, and mouthing words he apparently wanted her to say. They were so engrossed in their efforts that they didn’t even glance my way. I continued on up the aisle until I got to the midpoint in the car, then asked a passenger what car I was in. When she told me, I turned around as though I’d been lost and made my way slowly back, approaching the couple from behind.
The girl was off the phone, but the guy was still lecturing her in a hushed voice while tears ran down her cheeks. Grace had certainly been right about their relationship. He was more than a bully. He was terrorizing her like a controlling pimp.
Once I passed them and entered the lounge car, I sank into an empty seat and reviewed all I’d seen. The girl might be Hispanic, was rather pretty in spite of looking so frightened. But the guy . . . he was Caucasian with blue eyes, clean shaven with a lantern jaw and spiky blond hair. What was a white dude doing working for the Sinaloa cartel? I hardly needed to ask—money!
Once back in my compartment, I dialed Grace. Cell phone coverage was spottier in the mountains, and at first she sounded like she couldn’t hear me, but after a few moments, her voice stopped breaking up. She said she was sorry she hadn’t said good-bye, but they’d changed their plans at the last minute, getting their tickets changed in Albuquerque.
I assured her it was okay, then casually asked her about the couple she’d mentioned in her note.
“Well, maybe it’s nothing, but the girl was all friendly when we talked in the LA station. But as soon—”
“Wait a minute. You met her before?”
“Yeah, in the station before we got on the train. She asked if she could sit down beside me in the waiting room, and we got talking. She wanted to know where I was from, and it went from there. But when I saw her on the train with her ‘man,’ as she called him, she was completely different. That’s why I asked you to look out for her. Seemed like he was . . . I don’t know, very manipulative. So, if you—”
“Excuse me for interrupting, but back in the station, did you have your luggage with you?”
“Oh, sure. We hadn’t gotten on the train yet; in fact, Ramona—that’s her name—asked if we were going to check it.”
“Really?” I was getting a picture of the girl scouting a likely carrier for the drugs. “She actually asked if you were going to check your bags?”
“Yeah, just making conversation. She was really friendly, but like I said, I didn’t like how that guy treated her, all cozy one minute, then snapping at her, making her sit down when she wanted to get up, stuff like that.”
“Can you describe them a little bit more?”
The description fit, and then Grace said she’d had a big accident spilling some coffee and mustard on the girl’s fancy jacket when they were talking in the café.
“So you talked to her again?”
“Yeah, but I felt so bad about ruining her jacket that I insisted on taking it with me to get it cleaned on my own and return it to her in Chicago.”
“She give you an address?”
“No. She didn’t want to give me an address.”
“Phone number?”
“No. Said she didn’t have a phone, but she would call me. So I gave her my phone number. She just called me a few minutes ago. Guess she saw us get off the train, she sounded upset. I assured her we’d be back just one day later, coming in from Denver, and I’d —”
“She called you?” This might be a break. “Uh, what number did she call from?”
“Oh, I don’t think she wants me to call her back—Sam thinks the phone belongs to the guy, and she doesn’t want him to know about the jacket.”
Hmm. Probably was the guy’s phone. Not allowing the girl to communicate on her own was a way for him to maintain more control over her. Grace had good cause to be concerned. “Grace, is that number still in your phone? Might be useful to have it just in case . . . you know, the concern you raised. Might be nothing we can do, but if something did happen, perhaps we could use it to get in touch with her.”
Grace found the number and gave it to me.
Bingo! A Chicago area code. We said good-bye, then Grace added, “Tell your wife hello for me, will you?”
I held my phone in my hand for a moment after hanging up. The implications of what I’d learned were two-edged. It wasn’t possible to reach down into the handle cavity of most roller luggage bags. My little bag had a shield past which I couldn’t get my hand. So to find their “mark,” the perps needed to not only know who was traveling to Chicago, but that the brand of luggage they carried would suit their purposes. They were not mere opportunists. This job had been well planned.
On the brighter side, it appeared the drugs hadn’t been hidden in Grace’s bag until after she got on the train. I sighed with relief as I mentally moved Rodney and his limo company to the bottom of my suspect list.
Time to call Gilson. At first he was upset that I’d lost contact with the drugs, but when I assured him that I’d identified the mule, and that he was still on the train, the captain calmed down.
“Better yet,” I said, “I think I have the perp’s cell phone number.”
“So you want to call him up for a chat?”
“Ha! Ha! Look, just get a court order for the cell phone company to give us the information on who it’s registered to and any GPS tracking they have on it.”
“A guy like him has probably disabled the tracking.”
“Maybe, but unless it’s a prepaid throwaway, there’ll be a billing and registration address.”
“Okay, I’ll check it out. Meantime, you stick like glue to that mule. Ride him all the way into town. What about telling your neighbor what’s going on? She could be in danger.”
“Don’t like involving civilians in a sting operation. Too many chances for mistakes.”
“She’s already involved.”
“You’re right about that. But she doesn’t know it, and civilians act more natural if they don’t know what’s going on.”
I said it more confidently than I felt. Ignorance wouldn’t keep Grace and Sam safe—not the young girl either, who was obviously the mule’s pawn.
Chapter 39
“You ain’t gonna try and jump the train again, are you, Mr. Bentley?”
“No ma’am. Sorry ’bout that before.” We were slowing for the stop at Trinidad, and Corky and I had come into the vestibule where Sylvia was preparing to open the door. “If you don’t mind, though, Corky and I need to step outside for a minute.”
“This ain’t no smoke stop, Mr. Bentley—just stop and go.”
“I won’t be long.” I’d be able to see whether Ramona and Max got off or not. If they got off, I might have to break cover and run after them. I couldn’t let them get away, especially if the mule was deciding to follow Grace.
Sylvia was eying Corky. “Does she really need to go? She don’t act like it.”
I leaned slyly toward Sylvia. “I think it’s me,” I said in a conspiratorial voice.
She chuckled. “All right. Trinidad’s nothin’ but an Amshak anyway, just a square trailer and a port-a-potty for a station. Make sure she goes on the gravel next to somethin’ where no one’ll step on it.”
No one got off the train at Trinidad, and Sylvia was soon urging me to get back on, coming to hold my elbow and walk me back to the sleeper. “Did she go? I didn’t see her.”
“We’re good, Sylvia. Thank you.”
I returned to my room and looked at the schedule again. La Junta was an hour and a half down the track, but it’d be a ten-minute stop. No need for shenanigans with Sylvia. If Max and Ramona hadn’t detrained by then, I could be pretty sure they’d decided to continue all the way through to Chicago. Was “pretty sure” good enough? The whole operation was at stake, not to mention the potential safety of Grace and Sam. Maybe I s
hould move up to the mule’s coach where I could watch him, though I dreaded the idea of another vigil.
Then it hit me . . . why hadn’t my motion detector worked? I pulled the receiver from the plug and looked at it . . . and moaned. When I’d tested it by asking the woman to retrieve my shaving kit, I’d turned the alarm down to its lowest level. The beep, beep, beep had been barely audible in my compartment above the noise of the train, but I’d been listening for it. But I hadn’t turned it back up before going to sleep! As tired as I’d been, it could’ve beeped all afternoon at that level without waking me up.
Felt like kicking myself, but there wasn’t much I could’ve done had I known Grace was removing her luggage. Man, derailed again.
I breathed a desperate prayer. “Come on, God. You gotta help me catch this guy and make a good collar of it.”
All I could do now was wait. I sat there thinking about all that had happened on this trip. “Thank you, Jesus!” I wanted to say, “Thank you that Rodney doesn’t have anything to do with it.” Of course, I couldn’t scratch him completely off my suspect list. An organization as sophisticated as the Sinaloa cartel might well have a backup plan, and the next most logical person to handle that bag alone would be a limo driver. “But I do thank you, Lord, for protecting me from making any premature, disastrous moves.”
My thoughts drifted to all the things over the last couple months that had felt so confusing but now seemed to be working out. Such a labyrinth! But I was beginning to feel back on track even though there were still some loose ends. “O God,” I prayed. “There’re still so many things about tomorrow I don’t understand . . .” That phrase rang a bell. Where had I heard it before? I said it over and over until its rhythm triggered the memory of an old Barrett Sisters record my mom used to play . . . “But I know who holds tomorrow, And . . . I know who holds my hand.”
Maybe that was the key to walking through the mazes of life. I’d been angry at God over all the turns and switchbacks when I shoulda been sayin’, Give me Jesus. Shoulda been trusting that he was holding my hand and would work it all out.
I needed to trust God with Rodney and to work it out renting the apartment too. At least we weren’t in as desperate a situation as poor Mattie Krakowski.
Wait. Mattie Krakowski. What was it Estelle had said? Maybe it doesn’t have to be a fantasy. Hadn’t made any sense to me then, not with her finances, but . . . we hadn’t checked it out. We didn’t really know why the bank had foreclosed on her.
Something else that Estelle said . . . Just seemed like it might be a God thing. Like He might bring her back to her home place to spend her final days. Exactly what we’d wanted to do with Mom.
I checked my watch. Still had an hour till we got to La Junta. I dialed Estelle. “Hey, babe. How you doin’?”
“Harry! Is everything okay?”
“Sure, it’s all copacetic here.”
“Oh, Harry, when you gonna quit usin’ that five-dollar word?”
“Ha, ha. Only when it ain’t so. Hey, Estelle, been thinking about the first-floor apartment. Have we gotten any more calls on the ad?”
“A couple. But nobody’s come by to actually see the place. Sorry, Harry.”
“Well, maybe that’s okay. Remember when we were comin’ back from Elgin after visitin’ Mattie? You said maybe it didn’t have to be a fantasy about her movin’ back into her old place. Well, I been thinkin’ . . .”
By the time I finished, Estelle was chuckling. “Can’t believe I’m hearin’ this. Been thinkin’ the same thing myself. But you seemed so sure she couldn’t afford it, I didn’t want to be buggin’ you. But God kept droppin’ the idea into my spirit.”
“Well, maybe she can’t. But we don’t really know, do we? Why don’t you call her son, Don, see what he thinks?”
Couldn’t believe how happy Estelle sounded. “Okay. I’ll call this evening. You still gettin’ in tomorrow afternoon?”
“Far as I know, but then . . .” None of this was going to be over until Grace arrived two days from now with the drugs in her suitcase.
“What, Harry? But then, what?”
“Nothin’, babe. Lord willin’, I’ll be there on time.” Lord willing—it was a qualifier my mom used to attach to all kinds of plans, never understood why. Now I was getting the idea.
“Well, you better get back here on time, ’cause I been missin’ you too much.”
“Me too, babe. Love ya.”
“Love ya more.”
I hung up with the tune of that old gospel song still going through my head. There were plenty of things about tomorrow that I still didn’t understand, but I know who holds my hand.
“Sir, are these your seats?” It was the attendant in the coach car where I’d moved on my own so I could still watch my mule.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you sitting here?”
“No. I’m William, the attendant for this car.”
“Well, hello, William. Thanks so much for checking on me. No, these aren’t my seats. I have an accessible compartment in first class, but it’s on the lower level, you know, and I just wanted to be up here a while. Gets kind of lonely down there by myself.”
“Well, there’s always the lounge car. You’re welcome there.”
“I know, but . . . is there a problem sitting here? The seats seemed vacant.”
“They are, but—”
“Great. I won’t be any trouble at all, and the little boy across the aisle seems to be very interested in my dog. Isn’t that right, son?”
“She’s a nice doggy,” said the boy, standing backward and playing with Legos on his seat.
William sighed. “Well, okay. But if I need these seats, I’m gonna have to ask you to move. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say.”
Between stops, I had a nice dinner, confident that the mule would remain on the train. At one point I went down to my compartment and called Estelle. Told her I’d identified my perp, but that I was going to wait until we got to Chicago where I’d have plenty of backup before attempting an arrest. That seemed like good news to her.
Once the lights were dimmed in the coach, William stopped by again. “Don’t you want to go to your compartment?”
Playing the sleeping passenger, I said, “No, no, no. Don’t bother me. This is just fine.” In Kansas City, where we had an extended stop, I detrained to give Corky a walk while I kept an eye on Max, who smoked two or more cigarettes in the twenty minutes we were there.
Sylvia called to me as Corky and I passed her on the platform. “Where you been, Mr. Bentley? I was afraid you might’ve succeeded in jumpin’ the train and was about to put out a search call for you.”
“Ha, ha. Don’t worry ’bout me, ma’am. I found some folks up in coach who are real interesting. But here”—I thrust a twenty-dollar bill toward her—“If I should happen to miss you in Chicago, you’ve been very kind, and I appreciate it.”
Corky and I stood in the vestibule as our train rocked and swayed, weaving its way slowly through the Chicago train yard toward Union Station the next afternoon. Other passengers of car 431 were coming down the stairs, picking up their luggage and crowding into the tight space, eager to detrain. I’d intentionally left my bag in my compartment to be picked up later. Dragging it along might hinder my efforts to tail Max-the-mule and his girl, Ramona.
When we’d last spoken by phone, Captain Gilson had told me the cell phone company was balking on coughing up Max’s address. If a judge didn’t move quickly to issue a warrant, the information might come in too late for us to make any use of it, so I needed to follow him, find out where he lived, maybe even identify the cartel’s Chicago headquarters.
“I’ll have your vehicle waiting in the taxi lane,” Gilson had said. “That’s my best guess of how he’s gonna get outta here. But I can’t spare much backup. Mayor Daley’s scheduled to make a speech in the Great Hall for an awards ceremony just shortly after your arrival. I can give you two men, but everyone else is needed on secur
ity for the mayor.”
“That should be CPD’s job.”
“Well, it is, but this is our house. We know every nook and cranny of the place, so they want all of us on duty. Sorry, Harry. You’ll just have to make do. Besides, show time is tomorrow when your girl comes in, right? We can’t do anything today if this guy isn’t carrying.”
He was right, but we still didn’t have a fix on the mule, and I wanted to find out where he was headed. I gave Gilson a full description of the suspects, and he promised to pass along the information to my backups and have them waiting when we arrived. Communication, however, might be difficult. We’d have to rely on cell phones.
The train wheezed to a stop. The door opened. As I stepped onto the platform, Sylvia steadied my elbow. “There ya go, Mr. Bentley. Hope you had a real good trip, and you be sure to choose Amtrak again, now, won’cha?”
“Yes, ma’am. And thank ya, Sylvia. You’ve been great. We’ll be back. Come along now, Corky. Gotta go.” But the day might come when Sylvia and other Amtrak personnel began to recognize me. Then what would I do?
I briefly merged into the stream of people surging toward doors into the station, then ducked behind one of the large concrete pillars that supported the roof above the platform.
My cell phone sounded.
“Yeah, Bentley.”
“I’m in position, just inside the doors.” It was a female Amtrak officer.
“Good. They haven’t passed me yet, but keep this line open. Is your partner patched in?”
“I’m alone. Captain needed Johnson at the last minute for the mayor’s thing.”
I swore under my breath. What was Gilson doing to me? He’d been so excited about this operation, and now it felt like he was pulling the rug out from under me. I intended to give him a piece of my mind . . . but that would have to wait.
“Subjects in sight,” I said. “He’s tall, maybe six feet, wearing all black, looks like an open-necked hoodie or something. You heard that he’s got blond, spiky hair, right?”
“Roger that.”