North Harbor

by Kennedy Hudner

  Yancey was touched; her boss really did care.

  Paul Abbott held up another analyzer unit in one hand and a double-shot espresso latte in the other.

  Yancey had to smile. “Paul, you are the best!” she told him.

  Paul Abbott snorted. “And you’re a royal pain in the butt, but better safe than sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do this. God, I hope you’re wrong.”

  Yancey hoped she was wrong, too, but had a sinking feeling she wasn’t.

  The two Maine DEA agents, followed by the jumbo-sized State Troopers, walked back into the police station and down the corridor to the Evidence Room. No one tried to stop them. Yancey ran the tests for the third time, but this time using the new machine. She held up the unit for Abbott to read the finding.

  He peered at it owlishly. “Shit,” he muttered, then pulled out his cell phone. After it rang for a moment, a voice said hello. Abbott identified himself as the District 3 Supervisor for the Maine DEA. “I need to speak with Howard Honeycutt right away.” He paused, listening, then said, “I’m sorry, but unless Mr. Honeycutt is meeting with the President of the United States, you’ll have to get him out of that meeting.” He listened again. “Yes, I’ll hold.”

  Then he turned to the two State Troopers. “As of this moment, this room is a crime scene. No one comes in without my personal OK.”

  If the two State Troopers were nonplussed, they managed to hide it well. One simply turned around and walked to the hallway, where he stood, arms folded. The other simply stood in the doorway. They both managed to look intimidating and unmovable.

  “Thank you, Paul,” Yancey said.

  “Don’t thank me,” he retorted. “You get to write up the report.”

  Then he held the phone up to his ear. “Mr. Honeycutt? I am Paul Abbott at the Maine DEA. I am at the North Harbor Police Station. We’ve taken a sample from that drug shipment seized last night.” He took a deep breath, anticipating the shit storm that was coming.

  “Mr. Honeycutt, there’s a problem. You’d better get down here.”

  Chapter 31

  Sunday Lunch Among Friends

  Sunday afternoon Bruno Banderas got a visit from Chief of Police Corcoran.

  And two of Corcoran’s dirty cops.

  Banderas was sitting at his favorite Mexican restaurant again – the only Mexican restaurant for thirty miles – when Corcoran slid into the booth across from him and one of his henchmen squeezed into the booth beside him. The other henchman stood beside the booth, effectively shielding them from other diners. All the cops were dressed in civilian clothes, but Banderas could tell in a glance they were all carrying guns under loose shirts.

  “We need to talk,” Corcoran said tersely. “Outside.”

  Banderas was pretty good at reading men and their intentions; he didn’t think going outside with Corcoran and his thugs would contribute to a long and happy life. He had a gun, of course, but with three-to-one odds shooting his way out did not seem a constructive approach, either, so he held up his hands placatingly. “I can tell you are troubled by something, but I don’t know what. Tell me,” he said softly.

  Corcoran leaned in, his voice pitched low. “They came and tested the dope we took off the go-fast boat Friday night,” he said harshly. “And you know what, Bruno?”

  Banderas pursed his lips. “Actually, Mike, I don’t know what, but like I said, whatever it is that’s bothering you, why don’t you just tell me?”

  “Imagine my surprise, Bruno, when the State Police and some guy from the MDEA show up and tells me that the dope isn’t dope at all, it’s baking powder.”

  Banderas sat back as if he had been struck. “What?” he asked, his voice rising.

  “Baking powder,” Corcoran repeated, but he was taken aback at the clear shock on Banderas’ face.

  Banderas felt like he’d been kicked by a mule. He glanced at the tables near them, then blew out a breath. “Okay, let’s go outside.”

  The four men walked to the far corner of the parking lot. When they were out of earshot of anyone, Banderas wheeled on Corcoran. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he demanded.

  “The Maine DEA sent a tech in this morning to test the dope,” Corcoran told him. “Well, she did, but it wasn’t dope, it was fucking baking powder. Fifty pounds of baking powder. She assumed that one of us had stolen the drugs and replaced them, so she called her boss, who showed up with the State Police. They’ve already looked at the security cameras and didn’t find anything, but they are still suspicious that we swapped the real dope for the baking powder before we checked it into the evidence locker. So, they’re poking around. And the Coast Guard is apeshit. They got one guy killed and two others shot up and it turns out to be baking powder? And we shot a dangerous smuggler who pulled a gun on us, if you remember.”

  Corcoran poked a thick finger in Banderas’ chest. “I want to know what the fuck is going on.”

  Banderas glared at him. The last time someone poked him in the chest, Banderas had cut off the offending finger. Now he stared at Chief of Police Michael Corcoran with such intensity that Corcoran took a step back and put his hand on the butt of his pistol. The moment stretched out. Corcoran’s dirty cops sensed something was wrong and stepped in behind Banderas, fingers twitching near their guns.

  Banderas was pissed off, but not suicidal. He took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know what the fuck is going on.” He paused, considering, then grimaced. “But I know who might.” He paused. “We’ve got another problem we need to take care of. And soon.”

  Now it was Corcoran’s turn to look puzzled. “What are you talking about?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Your man, Finley. He found something he shouldn’t have.” Banderas glanced meaningfully at the two other cops, not wanting to explain things in front of them if he didn’t have to.

  Corcoran jerked his head to them. “Guys, wait in the car. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  Once they had gone, Banderas leaned in. “Your security is shit! You’ve got a fucking mole in your department. Finley found Mitchell’s body washed up on some island, but he didn’t take it to you, did he? No, he gave it to the DEA or the FBI or somebody. I think that’s why the Coast Guard was able to jump us Friday night.”

  Corcoran wheeled around in a small circle, his face beet red. “Finley?” he grated. “Finley?”

  Banderas poked him in the chest with a finger. “He’s your mess. I want you to clean it up. Right away, you understand? I want him gone!”

  Corcoran took several deep breaths, visibly calming himself down. “Won’t be easy, Bruno. Like I said, this isn’t Mexico, I can’t just shoot him. He’s a cop. Hell, he’s probably fucking DEA. If I just kill him, there will be hell to pay. Questions. Investigations. They’ll be watching us for months. If you want to keep using North Harbor for shipments, it would be better if your men handled it.”

  Banderas shook his head in disgust. “You guys kill me. You’re happy to take the money, but you don’t want to get your hands dirty.”

  Corcoran shrugged. “Just the way it is. I’d be lying to you if I told you otherwise. And as far as getting my hands dirty, I took care of your guy down on the beach Friday night. Don’t forget that.” He tried to smile reassuringly, but it fell flat. “Take him out and then plant some dope on him so that it looks like he was dirty.”

  Banderas stared at him. “This guy got three of my men killed. I grew up with them, you understand? I’m not just going to take him out. His entire family, all of them!”

  Corcoran stared back. “Just do what you gotta do, Bruno. But while you’re at it, find out why the fuck we just went to all of this trouble for a bag of baking powder.”

  ______________

  Banderas was driving to Lowell to recruit some men for the work that had to be done when his phone rang. It was the burner phone, not his regular phone. That meant the caller was from Sinaloa, Mexico. He quickly pulled to the side of the road and answered.

 
“I understand they tested the contents of the bag this morning,” the familiar voice said.

  Banderas scowled. “Yes.”

  “So they know about the baking powder?”

  “Yes, it’s causing problems for the locals. The Feds think they switched it for the real drugs.”

  In his office in Sinaloa, Wallace chuckled. “Tell them not to worry, I’ll make it up to them. Right now we’ve got something more important to take care of.”

  “My men all got killed trying to get that baking powder to shore,” Banderas blurted, then stopped, aghast at what he had said, and who he had said it to. There was a long silence on the phone, making Banderas wonder if he had just signed his own death warrant.

  Wallace sighed. “Bruno, you know this is a tough business. There are risks, there are always risks. To test the safety of a new route, I sometimes must expose the men on the ground to more risk than I like. Sometimes it blows up in our faces.” He paused again. “When it goes bad like this, I always take care of the families. Mateo’s wife and children will get money and a new home. Pablo’s mother will be taken care of. Arturo, well, Arturo was alone. From what I know of Arturo, he would have been happy that it ended like this.”

  Banderas said nothing, but gripped the phone very tightly. All this for a bag of baking powder? Just a test to see if a new route was safe?

  “Bruno, I’ve sent some things to the warehouse in Lowell. There are written documents telling you how to use them. You still have access to several lobster boats, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good, very good.” Then Wallace told him what had to be done.

  At first, Banderas was speechless. Banderas was a hard man in a hard business, but he had never seen a plan this audacious, nor a man quite so ruthless. The American had not simply sacrificed the lives of three men simply to determine if a drug smuggling route would work, he had used them as decoys so that he could put another plan entirely into operation. It was brilliant, but it was terrifying. These were experienced, loyal men. But to the American, they were just pawns on his game board.

  Banderas, a loyal and obedient soldier, choked back his doubts. “I will get on this right away, but first, I want permission to kill the cop who is working for the DEA.”

  The American was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “If you kill the police officer, it will create a lot of heat, Bruno. You know that.”

  “He is responsible for the deaths of my three men, jefe. He must be killed, as an example to the others”.

  And there it was, Wallace thought, the cardinal rule of Cartel operations – Every threat must be destroyed. Utterly destroyed., in order to make the next threat hesitate. A man is not just shot, he is tortured and shot. His wife and family are forfeit, the price he pays for his arrogance.

  “I give you permission, Bruno, but on the condition that if your actions cause any interference with our operations, it will be up to you to make things right, at your own cost.”

  “Thank you, jefe.” They hung up and Banderas immediately called Jean-Philippe LeBlanc.

  When the lobsterman answered, Banderas said, “We’ve got to meet. Things have changed.”

  Chapter 32

  Sunday Afternoon

  On Sunday, Calvin took Gabrielle out with him to haul his traps.

  The weather had turned after the storm, as it so often does, and the sun shone warmly in a sky of lazy cumulus clouds. Sea birds flew low over the ocean and the wind was as gentle as a mother’s kiss. All in all, a beautiful day.

  Gabrielle Poulin stood beside him in the boat, dressed in hiking shorts that flattered her long legs, sneakers and a long sleeve shirt she had tied at the waist. Her dark hair flowed to her shoulders and blew out behind her as Calvin accelerated towards Shingle Island, where he had put his twenty-two traps the day before. It was almost three miles offshore, but he took his time, enjoying the sight of Gabrielle and feeling the heat of the sun on his face.

  Maybe if he had been paying more attention, he would have seen it sooner.

  As it was, he rounded the rocky northern tip of the island, then turned due south and began to cruise along Shingle Island’s long axis. It wasn’t until he was halfway down that he realized something was missing: his marker buoys.

  His buoys were colored with three bands of red, green and black. Easy to spot.

  But they weren’t there.

  “Aw, crap,” he muttered. His heart sank as he realized what had happened.

  “What’s is it?” Gabrielle asked.

  “Remember I told you I had a run-in with Little Guy and his two cousins?”

  “Yeah,” she nodded.

  “Well, I think he came out here and cut my trap lines. My buoys have floated away and my traps are down on the bottom.” He shook his head in despair. “Gabs, the traps cost $100 each. I’ve been putting money away for a new boat, but this will put a pretty big dent in it.” He looked up to the sky in frustration. “Those goddamned bastards!”

  “Hang on, Calvin Finley,” she said briskly. “Time to use that brain of yours again. How many traps do you have?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Okay. Do you remember where you laid them down?”

  Calvin though for a minute. He always started near some sort of landmark. He looked around and spotted two tall pine trees on Shingle Island, taller than the rest and close to a wall set back from the water about one hundred feet. He pointed to them. “I started right there. I dropped the first one about fifty yards offshore, then went straight south from there until they were all in the water.”

  Gabrielle pursed her lips in mock disapproval. “And knowing that you have very little imagination and do things in a rigid manner, Mr. Finley, how large was the space between the lobster traps?”

  Calvin snorted in delight. “About thirty seconds apart, moving at low throttle.”

  “How deep is the water?” She looked like the cat that found the cream.

  Calvin considered. “Hmmm…anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five feet.”

  “And do you have a wetsuit and snorkeling gear on board?”

  He nodded appreciatively.

  “And some rope and some sort of hook thingy to hook the traps?” she asked.

  “Yes, I do. I certainly do.” He smiled at her.

  “Well, then,” she said smugly, “while you are diving in this ice-cold water, I am going to eat some lunch and read a delightful book. Perhaps I’ll even pour myself some hot cocoa from the thermos.” She glanced at him. “Do try not to drip cold water on me when you are hoisting those heavy traps.” I am very delicate and subject to a chill.” She smiled at him. “Get me wet and I’ll break your kneecaps”

  Calvin found a 100-foot length of rope and tied a brass swivel snap hook to one end, then tied off the other end to a bracket on the skiff. He pulled on the wetsuit, flippers, mask and snorkel and unceremoniously flopped overboard. It took a while to find the first one – he had put it slightly further out than he remembered – but once they found the first one, the others fell into place. Ironically, most of the traps had lobsters in them, and some had two. As it turned out, Gabrielle had brought her wetsuit and snorkeling gear as well. He dove for the first few traps while she piloted the skiff. After the tenth trap was hoisted aboard and emptied, they switched places and Gabrielle dove for the traps, attaching the snap hook to the trap and swimming up to the surface to give Calvin a thumbs-up. He used the winch to pull the trap up, emptied it and stacked it in the skiff.

  Two hours later, both of them seriously chilled, they were still unable to find the last trap. They spiraled out from the boat to a distance of about seventy yards, but there was no sign of it. At the surface, Gabrielle pulled her mask up and spat out the snorkel mouthpiece. “I’m done, Cal,” she called, lips blue. “I’m freezing and have to get out.”

  “I think Little Guy took it as a souvenir,” Calvin said, swimming along beside her as they made their way to the skiff. He hoisted himself out, then reached d
own a hand to pull her aboard. Gabrielle was so cold she could barely make it over the transom.

  “Wetsuit or no, that water is cold!” she chattered, unzipping her suit and wrapping herself in a thick towel. Calvin opened the thermos of cocoa and poured her another cup. “Still hot,” he warned. “Don’t burn your tongue.” He took a few minutes to tighten all the straps holding the stack of lobster traps to the deck, then ran a line through the uppermost trap to the bow and stern and made it tight.

  “You take me on such interesting dates,” Gabrielle said dryly. “Dead bodies, lost traps…what next? Getting run over by a freighter? Attacked by a vampire albatross?”

  “No, no,” Calvin protested. “The vampire albatross isn’t until the fourth date.”

  Gabrielle looked at him, wrapped up in her towel and sipping hot cocoa, her eyes suddenly shiny with unshed tears. “I’m leaving in three months for Swarthmore,” she whispered. “And it’s already breaking my heart.”

  Calvin was caught flatfooted. “Aw, Gabs, c’mon. We’ve got the entire summer, and I’ll figure out a way to visit you. You know that.”

  She turned away, staring out at the ocean. “I’m sorry, Calvin, that wasn’t fair of me.” But she couldn’t tell him her real fear, that soon she would be immersed in new ideas and studying things she had only dreamed of, and surrounded by people doing the same, while he was going out onto the water every day to lay lobsters traps and collect old ones. Day after day. He would love it, but their worlds would diverge, highways traveling in different directions, never to converge again. It wouldn’t happen at first, but it would happen. He could talk to her about the ocean and sunrises, but it wouldn’t be enough, and after a time her tales about new studies would fall on deaf ears because he just wouldn’t understand; not really. Even though she was young, she understood that love is not everything. She had observed her parents’ marriage and those of parents of her friends. For many, there was a joyful, day-to-day playfulness mingled with constant conversation. They talked and argued about local politics, national politics, religion, books, the proper way to make coffee and whatever, just enjoying stuff with each other. Silly stuff, often. Their love was like a soft glow that infused it all and somehow made it more complete.