Then, just before eleven, the gate opens and a very large truck exits through the north gate. It’s dark, but I don’t think there is any identification on the truck, no company name emblazoned on the side. It turns right and heads east, and we pull out to follow it, staying a comfortable distance behind. There is no way we can lose a target this big and slow.
We follow it for a couple of miles, until it turns onto Route 21 North. I certainly have no idea where it’s going; for all I know we could wind up following it to Canada. But I know where I hope it’s going.
“Do you think we could be this lucky?” Jessie asks.
“It would be a pleasant change.”
Sure enough, the investigation god is taking care of us, as the truck gets off at the Garfield exit. I’m so sure I know where it’s going that I could pull ahead of it and let it follow us, but I avoid the temptation.
Within five minutes, it is pulling up to the used car dealership that I visited. “This is the place you mentioned, right?” Jessie asks.
“It sure is.”
“The pieces may finally be falling into place.”
“Now the question is, what do we do about it?”
As we watch, the truck pulls around to a loading area in the back. We have a partially obscured view of it, and I don’t want to call attention to ourselves by repositioning the car. “Wait here,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
“Just trying to get a better look.”
I get out of the car and start to walk to my left, so that I can work my way around to where I can see. I hear light footsteps behind me, and I turn and see that Jessie has followed me. “I thought you were going to wait in the car,” I whisper.
“That’s what you thought, but it didn’t work out that way.”
We get a much better vantage point, but I can’t say it gives us much better insight. At least three large containers are being off-loaded by the driver and at least two other men and taken into the building on forklifts. We have absolutely no way of knowing what is inside them.
Jessie tries to take pictures of what they are doing with her cell phone, but it’s too dark to make anything out. I didn’t even know cell phones took pictures; I wonder if cameras can make long-distance calls.
The entire operation only takes about twenty minutes, after which the driver gets back in the truck and pulls away. There’s no sense in our following him; it’s the cargo that has meaning to us.
We wait another twenty minutes, but don’t see any sign of activity in the building. “Maybe they’re sleeping there,” I say.
“Want to go down and take a look?”
“I don’t think so. There’s no way to get down there without possibly being seen, and I don’t want them to have any idea that we’re on to them. And it’s not like we have any legal basis to break into the place. This one I think we can do by the book.”
We leave the area and I drop Jessie off at her house. When we get there, I ask, “Any chance that ‘coming in to have coffee’ line will work again this time?”
“Zero,” she says.
“You sure? It was pretty charming.”
“Positive.”
I nod. “Then I’ll hold it in reserve.”
“Good idea.”
When I get back to my apartment, I don’t feel like sneaking in through the furnace room; it’s really dark in there. So I just park in the front and walk over to the car in which my protectors are sitting, still under the impression that I’m inside. “Sorry, guys, I did it again,” I say.
The driver nods and says, “Just don’t get yourself shot. This is too easy a gig to give up.”
The reason I am so willing to let them know I snuck out is because there is no way I am keeping the secret for more than a couple minutes more. I go inside and call the barracks, identify myself, and tell them I need to speak to Captain Bradley.
“Now?” the sergeant asks. “You think he works the night shift?”
“Please reach him at home.”
“You know what time it is? This better be important.”
“It’s an emergency and can’t wait. I’ll take full responsibility.”
He promises to contact him and within three minutes Bradley calls me. “Have a bad dream?” he asks.
“No, I finally had a good one,” I say, and I take him through the events of the night.
When I’m finished, he doesn’t even bother to reprimand me for breaking our deal by sneaking out. He immediately grasps the seriousness of this, as well as the opportunity it presents.
“Eight A.M. in my office.”
“Good,” I say. “We need to move quickly on this.”
“No shit.”
I have to admit I am impressed.
To this point it’s seemed like everybody was tolerating me, and barely, at that. They’ve reacted to my efforts with something between indifference and amusement; at least that’s how it’s felt.
This time is very different.
Bradley clearly didn’t get off the phone last night and fall back to sleep. When I arrive there at eight o’clock, he’s waiting for me with Jerry Bettis, Dan Congers, and even Agent Metcalf from the FBI. To get them here, and at this hour, he would have had to convince them that this was important by telling them some of the facts.
As soon as we sit down, Bradley says, “I conveyed the basics last night, but you should tell them everything you told me.”
I nod. “Okay. First of all, one of the managers down at the pier, Tony Gibbons, is dirty. I don’t know who reported otherwise, but I’m telling you what I know to be true. He’s driving around in a Mercedes, and he’s got a thirty-five-foot boat, neither of which he paid for. I can’t say for sure, but I’d bet if you check his bank accounts or under his mattress, you’ll find he’s got a lot of money tucked away. Unless I’m very mistaken, it’s all courtesy of Nicholas Bennett.”
I don’t claim to have certain knowledge of Gibbons’s bank balances, because I’m afraid Bradley will make the obvious jump to Jessie’s involvement. It’s why I didn’t bring her to this meeting. This could still blow up in my face, and I don’t want her to be collateral damage. If all goes well, there will be plenty of time to cut her in for the credit.
Dan Congers is taking notes as I talk; I would not like to be the Homeland Security employee who did the half-assed report on Gibbons. “He’s covered his tracks down there pretty well,” he mutters, to no one in particular. No one feels obligated to respond.
“An informant tipped me off that a Bennett shipment was coming in last night, and would be loaded on a truck and shipped out without being examined or scanned. This was arranged by Mr. Gibbons. I was there, and the information turned out to be accurate.
“I followed the truck to a used car dealership and body shop in Garfield. I believe that if you dig deep enough, you will find that it is owned by Bennett. I’ve learned that I had gone to that dealership after hours, before my injury, though I don’t yet know why. It wasn’t to buy a car; that much I’m certain of.”
Nobody is asking questions; I’ve got their attention.
“I saw three containers off-loaded and taken into the building. It’s possible there were four; it was dark there and I was watching from a distance. In addition to the driver, at least two people were already in the building, and they did the unloading. Then the truck pulled away, with only the driver. I stayed for another half hour, but the other two men did not leave.”
I see Metcalf make eye contact with Congers. He must have conveyed some kind of message, because Congers nods, stands, and leaves the room. “Do you have any idea what was in those containers?” Metcalf asks.
“I do not. They certainly appeared to be heavy, but that doesn’t tell us much. I do know that whatever they contained was brought into the country illegally, by avoiding customs. That in and of itself should be enough to get us a warrant to go in there.”
As I’m saying that, Congers comes walking back into the room. He speaks to Metca
lf, but loud enough for all of us to hear. “We’ll have the warrant in twenty minutes.”
“Just like that?” I ask. Apparently the process of finding and convincing a judge is easier in Homeland Security-land than it is in state police-land.
“Just like that,” Metcalf says.
We spend the next fifteen minutes discussing the mechanics of what is to happen. It will be a joint Homeland Security/New Jersey State Police operation, with most of the manpower coming from our department. However, as Metcalf states very clearly, he is in charge, and will be making the decisions. Bradley seems fine with that.
Metcalf’s first decision is one that I approve of: no one outside of this room is to know the target of the operation until we arrive on the scene. Bradley sends Jerry Bettis out to secure the necessary personnel; there will be a total of twelve of our officers, and Metcalf says that he will be employing six agents. Added to Bradley, Bettis, Congers, and me, that means a total of twenty-two law enforcement officers will be present.
I describe the layout in detail, and Metcalf issues instructions on how the officers will be positioned. He also sends an agent out to the scene, to keep an eye on the place from a distance. That will effectively remove any chance that the contraband will be moved out this morning, before we arrive.
Metcalf is an impressive guy; decisive and smart. As far as I can tell he covers every eventuality, leaving nothing to chance.
It’s fair to say that for at least today, Garfield will be the home of the busiest used car dealership in New Jersey.
At exactly ten after eleven, Metcalf, Congers, Bradley, and I enter the showroom.
Metcalf walks to the receptionist, flashes his identification, and says, “FBI. Is the manager on the premises?”
The young woman seems very nervous; Metcalf’s identification could show him to be president of the Mickey Mouse Club, and she wouldn’t know the difference. She nods and says, “Yes. I’ll call him.” She picks up the phone, and a few moments later talks into it. “Pete, you need to come out here … now … please.” Pete must question her as to why, because she adds, “The FBI wants to talk to the manager.”
Pete comes out; he’s probably in his early thirties, but looking worried enough that he’s probably aged a year on the way here from his office. He’d be even more nervous if he knew that the place was completely surrounded by state police and FBI. Whatever and whoever is currently in this building is not leaving until we’re done.
“I’m the manager,” he says in a tone that indicates he’d be quite happy to relinquish the title.
“What’s your name?” asks Metcalf.
“Peter Denorfia.”
“Mr. Denorfia, this is a court-ordered warrant allowing us to search these premises. Please bring all your employees into this room, and instruct them to stay here until we authorize you to allow them to leave.”
“Sure,” he says. “Can you tell me what is happening?”
“I just told you what is happening,” Metcalf says. “You are bringing your people in here, and we are searching the premises.”
He nods. “I understand.” He turns to the receptionist, who has heard all of this. “Becky, help me get everyone in here.”
Including service people, salespeople, and whoever else, in a matter of moments they have fourteen employees in the showroom. Metcalf then nods to Congers, who goes outside and instructs all of our personnel to enter, and to begin searching the place.
I’m not part of the search team, which is fine, since I have no experience in it. Or maybe I do. Either way, I’m free to watch them in action, and once again I am impressed. They take the place apart; it would be impossible to do the job more thoroughly.
Every compartment is opened, every car is examined, both inside and out on the lot, and every possible secret room is searched for. It takes four hours to completely turn the place inside out.
And they find nothing.
Well, that’s not entirely true. They find plenty of cars—twelve in an inside garage and at least fifty outside—many auto parts, a large number of tools to use in repairing cars, and a whole bunch of tires. By the time it’s over, it is a toss-up between who sends more disgusted and angry stares my way, Metcalf, Congers, or Bradley.
No one says a word to Pete or any of the other employees the entire time, other than granting them permission to use the bathroom. Finally, when the end of the operation is at hand, Metcalf calls Pete over.
“You received a shipment last night,” Metcalf says. “Where is the material that made up that shipment?”
“You mean the tires?” Pete asks. “They’re in that room over there.”
“Are you telling me the shipment consisted of tires?”
Pete nods. “Yeah. We’re about to have a sale.”
Metcalf has Pete sign some kind of paper, and then we walk outside. Metcalf says something to Bradley, too low for me to hear, and Bradley just nods. I have a feeling he didn’t say, “Great job, Captain. Your guy Brock is a good man.”
Congers comes over to me and says, “Well, you set the tire smuggling industry back years today.”
“Thanks.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you were right about this,” Congers says, surprising the hell out of me. “I just think that somehow Bennett always stays one step ahead. I butted my head against the son of a bitch for years.”
It was a nice thing for him to say, whether he means it or not, but it doesn’t come close to making me feel better. I know I was right, but the evidence says I was wrong.
Congers heads for his car, and Bradley walks over to me, trailed by Bettis. At this point the only positive thing I can think of is that I took my own car here, and don’t have to drive back with them. “You got any explanation for this?” he asks.
“At the moment, I don’t,” I say, because I don’t.
“You are off this case,” he says. “Write yourself a note, in case you lose your memory again. I’ll dictate it for you. Doug. Brock. Is. Off. This. Case. Then underline it.”
“I don’t believe it,” Jessie says.
“I can understand that,” I say. “But I was there, and it’s absolutely the truth.”
“So a crooked guy is getting paid big money to sneak tires into a used car dealership?” she asks. “And he does this under cover of darkness, to avoid the tires having to clear customs?”
“It’s not possible, I’ll grant you that. But I stood there and watched the whole thing. Those guys are pros; they searched every inch of that place.”
“Then Bennett’s people were tipped off. It’s the only possible explanation.”
I shake my head. “No. The decision to search the place stayed in the room with us. And an agent was sent out there to make sure that nothing happened before we launched the operation. They would have had no opportunity to do anything.”
“Maybe they got rid of the stuff last night,” she says, grasping at straws.
“Why would they receive a shipment, unload it off the truck into the building, only to ship it out the same night? It doesn’t make sense.”
Jessie has run out of possible explanations, so she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m glad you were there with me last night,” I say. “Otherwise I’d think that not only have I lost my memory, but I’ve lost my mind.”
“We know what we saw,” Jessie says. “And more importantly, we know what we know.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are a bunch of things that we know with certainty, and others that are close to certain. For example, we know you were shot because you were on to something important. And we know that Bennett sent those two guys to the park to kill you because he was afraid of what you might remember. And we’re just about positive that Gibbons is dirty, and we know for sure that a shipment was sneaked through the pier last night without being examined by customs.”
“All of that is true,” I say.
“And I’m not finished. We’ve got a damn good idea tha
t Bennett was involved with Gharsi, and that it had to be about more than blowing up the theater. Because what the hell would Bennett get out of blowing up a theater?”
“Money,” I say, because I just realized that money is what this is all about.
“You think Bennett needs the money? I always see people like him as caring more about the power. The money may be a way to keep score, but the power is what they get off on.”
“I agree with that. But money is a necessity for him to keep the power.”
“And he’s hurting for money?” she asks.
“I think he might be. I read the file, going back years to when Congers and Bettis were on the case. And it continued with Nate and me. We could never put him away; the lack of witnesses made that impossible. So we went after his money and we squeezed him. We made it much more difficult and expensive for him to operate.”
“And it worked?”
“Seemed to, at least up to a point. Running an operation like his costs a lot of money. And he has a lot of competitors to fend off. The key to doing that is hanging on to the best people, and the key to doing that is to pay them well. There’s no family loyalty anymore, if there ever was. Everyone is in it to make money.”
“So where’s the money in this for Bennett?”
“It has to be Gharsi, or at least the people behind him. It could be that those people pump their money right out of the ground.”
She thinks for a few moments and then nods. “Okay, let’s say I buy all of it. I still don’t see how it helps us.”
“I’m not sure it does, at least not in the very short term. But I think it will ultimately be helpful to know what Bennett’s position is in all this. I think he’s a hired gun; I think Gharsi purchased him and his organization.”
“So we know, or think we know, why Bennett needs Gharsi,” she says. “Why does Gharsi, or if he’s dead the people behind him, need Bennett? What can Bennett provide them?”
“Contacts, the ability to operate … the pier is a perfect example of that. Bennett is the guy who owned Gibbons. And maybe Gharsi needs the kind of people that Bennett has working for him.”
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