He pointed to the other two killers. “You two are on the family.” He gave them the address. “They usually eat supper together, so that’s a good time.” He pushed more photographs across the table. “That’s the wife. She’s a looker. Have fun with her if you want, but do not jeopardize the hit.”
Another photo. “That’s the younger son. He’s in high school, some sort of jock, so take him out first if you can.”
A third photo. “This is the older son, Jacob. If he’s home with his mother, kill him, too. But if he’s not there, that’s okay, he gets a pass.”
They talked at length on how the killers were to exit Maine and safely return to Lowell. Banderas took out a map and showed them the roads they’d have to deal with, then they all exchanged cell phone numbers and put them on speed dial.
“Be sure to be in position early for Frank Finley. You’ll only get one shot at him. Remember, he’s a cop. If you miss, he’s going to call for help and fight back.” He gave them a hard stare. “Don’t miss.”
______________
Jacob had hung around the docks for the morning, but when it was clear that the weather was not going to break and his boat was not leaving the dock, he called Katie. He arrived at her house in the early afternoon, but when he went to knock on her door, he hesitated. Something had changed. He couldn’t say what, exactly, but something.
But then the door opened and there was Katie, wearing only a skimpy bath towel and a taunting smile, her hair cascading over her bare shoulders. His uncertainty vanished under an avalanche of lust.
An hour later, he collapsed back onto the bed, spent, covered in sweat, with a half-assed grin on his face. “Oh my God,” he muttered.
Beside him, Katie reached under the bed and emerged with the glass pipe and a lump of heroin paste. He rolled over and caressed her cheek with the tip of his finger, tracing a line from her ear to her lips. She glanced at him quickly, then went back to tamping the pipe.
“Katie,” he said softly. “I’m falling in love with you.” She hesitated for a moment, but said nothing, then busied herself with the pipe again.
He put his hand on hers. “Katie, you don’t have to do this,” he pleaded.
She turned to him then, her eyes haunted and sad. “Yes, I do,” she told him, then pulled her hand away and lit the pipe.
Chapter 40
Wednesday Afternoon – The Professor
The storm was pissing all over everything when Finley drove to the police station to report in for the afternoon shift, but he barely noticed. Something was going to happen, and happen soon. But he didn’t know what or when or where. The Dominican distributors had come out of the shadows when they killed Honeycutt’s informant. They knew it would bring heat, lots of heat, but they didn’t care, which meant that either the informant was on to something and represented a huge danger to them, or they were creating a distraction to cover up something else entirely.
Finley was betting on a distraction. If the informant had suddenly become a serious danger, he would have just disappeared. The body would have been weighted down properly and dropped into the ocean. Instead, they left the body where it would be found. And tried to implicate Finley.
Stirring the pot. Waving a flag. Calling attention.
A distraction, something to keep them occupied while something else happened. But what?
He sighed. Back to basics, Finley, my man.
What do the Dominican drug gangs do? What is their primary reason for living?
Answer: they smuggle drugs for the Sinaloa Cartel. Whatever else was happening, it involved getting drugs into Maine and selling them.
Fact: Honeycutt has largely pinched off the I-95 access.
Fact: the Dominicans have been looking for another way to smuggle drugs into Maine.
Fact: they tried, and failed, to smuggle drugs into Maine by transferring them from freighters into go-fast boats. Only it wasn’t really drugs, it was baking powder. In other words, a test run to see if that method was viable.
So if that didn’t work, what would they try next? How do you safely get the drugs ashore when the customs agents in the US and Canada were on high alert and the Coast Guard was flying drones over passing freighters? How could another boat get out to the freighters and make it back to Maine unnoticed? It would be damn risky. Not impossible, but very, very risky. And the Cartel were businessmen. They liked profits, not risk. They might be able to buy off a random Customs agent, but they couldn’t bribe the Coast Guard. So…if you can’t get a boat out to the freighters to pick up the drugs, how do you get the drugs ashore?
Then Finley slapped his forehead. “You moron,” he chided himself.
He needed an oceanographer. He pulled into the parking lot of the town’s only Dunkin’ Donuts and fired up his cell phone. First, he combed through colleges in Maine. Bowdoin College, the closest, was the obvious choice. There, after some poking around, he finally found Dr. Ron Klattenberg at Bowdoin’s Department of Earth and Oceanographic Science. A few minutes later he had him on the line. He identified himself and plunged in.
“I’m with the North Harbor police, Professor. We have reason to believe that a fifty-pound bag of illegal drugs was dumped into the ocean just outside of the Bay of Fundy, right at the US-Canadian border. We think the drug smugglers hope that the drugs will be carried by ocean currents into Maine coastal waters, where another ship will pick it up. We need to know where and when those drugs might reach this area.”
There was a long silence, followed by a sigh. “Well, I’m glad to help if I can Officer Finley, but some more details would help a lot.”
Finley could almost see Klattenberg grimacing on the other end of the line. “What do you need, Professor?” he asked.
Another sigh. “Well, for starters, can you give me a better sense of where the drugs were dumped into the water? And when? And how they were packaged?”
Good questions, but it was information Finley didn’t have. He thought frantically for a moment, trying to picture the map of the waters from North harbor to the Bay of Fundy. “Okay, Professor-”
“Officer, just call me Ron, it will be much easier. ‘Professor’ sounds like I have a pointed head, and I am nerdy enough already.”
Finley chuckled. “Okay, Ron. I’m Frank. Let’s assume that the package went into the water late Friday night or very early Saturday morning. Assume that the drop was about thirty miles south or southwest of Grand Manan Island.”
“And how was it packaged?”
“Assume it was wrapped in heavy plastic to keep it waterproof.”
“Hmmm…like a ball shape, or a lozenge?” Klattenberg queried.
“I’m just making guesses here,” Finley confessed. “I doubt if it would be perfectly round.”
A pause on the line. Finley could hear Klattenberg typing on his computer. “Okay, probably won’t matter much anyway, unless… Is this thing going to be floating on the surface, where the wind can get it, or will it be underwater?”
Ah, Christ, more details he didn’t know. “Does it matter?” he asked, buying time.
“Oh, yes,” Professor Klattenberg said. “Definitely. In fact, it may be the most important part of the equation. You see, if it floats, and if part of it sticks up out of the water a little, then you get a sail effect. A wind from the north or northeast would push it along faster than the underlying current. On the other hand, if the wind is from the west or southwest, the wind will slow it down relevant to the current. Also, it could push it further to the east, into open water. If that happens, fat chance of finding it.”
“Crap.” Finley muttered.
Klattenberg chuckled. “Well, perhaps it’s not that bad. Let’s assume that the drug cartel has smart people doing this. Fifty pounds of drugs – I’m assuming either heroin or cocaine – that’s a lot of money. Must be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Actually, Professor, closer to $11 Million, street value,” Finley told him.
There was a stunned
silence on the other end. “Well, Lord love a duck! I am in the wrong line of work! And dare I say, so are you, Officer Finley.”
Finley laughed out loud. He was beginning to like this professor. “Not the first time I’ve wondered about that. But yeah, safe to assume they’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
The professor took a deep breath. “And well they should! Eleven Million dollars in a fifty-pound bag. We can assume they have rigged this package so that it will hover below the surface, away from the wind. In fact, a storm like we’re having today can churn the water for a few feet down, so I think we can safely assume the bag will be at least ten or fifteen feet below the surface, rigged to stay at that depth. With something this expensive, they will want to reduce as many variables as they can. Still, this is very, very risky.”
“Walk me through it, but please use small words. I don’t have my Ph.D. quite yet.”
“Yes, of course,” Klattenberg said. “I, on the other hand, have my Ph. D., but do not know the street value of heroin. Which one of is the less educated, Officer?”
It occurred to Finley that he knew a lot of stuff that he would rather not know, but kept it to himself. “Take me through it. How can we figure out when and where the drugs will turn up?”
There was the sound of a computer keyboard on the other end. “Well, there are several variables. First, if my computer is correct, it is roughly forty-five to fifty miles from the assumed drop point to the North Harbor-Stonington area. Now, the Eastern Maine Coastal Current has a velocity of between .14 to .21 meters per second.”
Finley groaned.
“Not to worry, I’ll translate for you,” Klattenberg said cheerfully. “At .14 meters per second, that works out to approximately 504 meters per hour, or .313 miles per hour. So, at the low end, the current should travel about 7.5 miles in a day. Anything carried by it will travel the same. With me so far?”
“Every step of the way,” Finley said, and although there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice, the fact was he admired that Klattenberg had been able to pull this all together during a short telephone conversation.
“Good! Now, at the high end of the current’s speed, it is moving at .21 meters per second, or 756 meters per hour. That’s .470 miles per hour, or 11.28 miles per day. So –” the sound of more typing, and of Professor Klattenberg humming happily to himself – “that means if the parcel went into the water late Friday and was picked up by the Eastern Maine Coastal Current right away, it should arrive sometime today or tomorrow.” He paused. “Barring mishaps, of course.”
Today or tomorrow! Finley could feel his blood pressure abruptly skyrocket. But maybe there was something that could delay that schedule. “Mishaps?” he repeated hopefully.
“Well, yes,” Klattenberg explained patiently. “You see, to hold fifty pounds of powdery material, you are looking for one parcel that might be twenty-four or thirty inches in diameter. Now just in the immediate area of North Harbor and Stonington, there are sixty or more islands of note and probably hundreds of rocks sticking out of the water, any one of which is big enough to snag the parcel if it washes up on it. You see the problem?”
“You’re saying there is no way of predicting where the parcel will actually run aground.”
“Well yes, but the problem is much worse than that.”
Finley closed his eyes. “Explain it to me, Professor.”
“Well, just look at a map of the area,” Klattenberg said. “The parcel has to travel southwest for days to get to the North Harbor area. North Harbor is on the southwest corner of a fairly large archipelago, with dozens of islands and hundreds of rocks the parcel could snag on. And if it is rigged to hover beneath the surface of the ocean, then it will likely hit the ground and stop moving underneath the water. It won’t just wash up on a beach where we can see it.”
“But, that could mean…” Finley trailed off, feeling a little overwhelmed.
“You’re looking for a pin in a football stadium. The parcel could hang up on a rock or island anywhere from Baker Island in the north, to Vinalhaven in the south, and everything in between,” the professor said cheerfully.
Finley ground his teeth in frustration, but then listened more closely to the professor’s tone. He was enjoying this.
“What aren’t you telling me, Ron?” Finley asked warily.
Professor Klattenberg laughed. “I knew you’d catch on. Everything I’ve said is true, but it leaves out the drug cartel that is hunting for the parcel. If this parcel is worth $11 Million-”
“It is,” Finley assured him.
“Well, then, the smugglers can’t take a chance of losing the parcel, can they? I’ll bet you a lobster dinner that they’ve got an oceanographer of their own. I’m sure of it. He would warn them of all these risks, so they would have to take steps to reduce the risk to something they could live with. I mean, this parcel is going to get snatched up by the Eastern Maine Coastal Current and carried right through the archipelago that starts at Acadia National Park and continues all the way to Stonington and beyond.”
Finley was beginning to understand, but he needed the professor to spell it out in detail. “Keep talking, Professor,” he said.
“Well,” Klattenberg continued, “picture a pinball machine. The parcel of drugs is the pinball. Once it is carried along by the EMCC, it is on the board. As the current takes it to an island, for example, one of three things can happen: first, the current can carry it west around the island; second, the current can carry it east around the island; or third, the current can run the package onto the island, where it snags and just sits there.
“These options will present themselves with every island, rock and outcropping that the Current runs into,” the professor explained, his voice rising with excitement. “Each time the package will move east, west or get snagged on the obstacle in question. The Current will brush past hundreds of obstacles. The variables are enormous, far too many to calculate, but the drug cartel has to have a way to find the $11 Million package no matter how the variables turn out!”
Finley was struggling to keep up. “Professor – Ron – what the hell are you trying to tell me?”
“Frank, there must be some sort of radio beacon attached to the package. Has to be. Because if there isn’t, the chances of the smugglers finding the package are infinitesimally small, approaching zero.”
And there it was, clear as day. But how did that help him? “Is there a way to hunt for the radio beacon frequency?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Klattenberg admitted. “Probably, but you don’t have much time. You’re working with the Coast Guard on this?”
“Yes, they interrupted the first drop on Friday night, then we caught the smugglers in their go-fast boat when they limped to shore.”
“Well, I’ll bet the Coast Guard knows all about the electronics of radio beacons. If I were you, I’d ask them for the best bet way to either locate the parcels, or spot the people who are searching for them,” Klattenberg told him.
“Huh,” Finley said thoughtfully. He hadn’t thought of that. Whoever was helping the Cartel locally, they’d have to be out there, sweeping the area, looking for the parcels. Would they be out in this weather?
“Thank you, Professor,” he said. “I mean that. You’ve really helped a lot.”
“Just remember, Frank, if there is a finder’s fee for that drug parcel, say, ten percent or so, I would accept it with the greatest appreciation and humility. Cash or gold Krugerrands will be fine.”
Finley laughed. “Would you settle for a pizza dinner at Pat’s?”
“An admirable second choice,” Klattenberg said.
After they hung up, Finley thought about radio beacons for a minute, then called Commander Mello at the Coast Guard Station. He found himself once again talking to Ensign Kauders, Mello’s aide. He explained the issue.
“Glad to help you, sir,” Kauders said. “My guess is that they are using a simple radio transponder system. The search boats would ‘pin
g’ for the packages; that is, send out a radio pulse through the water. If the package is nearby and its responder is hit by the ping, it activates a radio beacon that basically says, ‘Here I am, come and get me.’ The beacon might turn on and keep sending a signal until they find the package and turn off the signal, or it might send for just a minute or so, then go quiet unless it is pinged again. Either way works.”
“Is there a way to hunt for the signal the searchers are sending?” Finley asked.
“I don’t think that approach would be helpful, sir, mostly since the ping is being directed into the water. Even if you knew the frequency they’re using, you wouldn’t hear it much in the open air.” Kauders paused, considering. “But there is another way.”
“I’m all ears, Ensign.”
“Well, you’re talking about lobster boats or fishing boats searching the inshore waters. That’s a lot of water to search, and you say the packages will probably arrive today or tomorrow. Chances are they are out there right now, with at least several boats, searching for the package and pinging away like mad. And if they don’t find it today, they’ll be out again tomorrow.”
Finley frowned. “I hear what you’re saying, Ensign, but I don’t know how that helps.”
“Well, sir,” Kauders explained. “If the bad guys have thought this out, they will form a line with their search ships, spaced apart half a mile to a mile, in order to cover the maximum area as efficiently as they can. If they are using lobster boats, they won’t be zig-zagging all over the place like lobster boasts do when they’re hauling traps, they’ll be moving in a straight line, with other lobster boats keeping formation. They’ll stay in formation until they have to squeeze around an island or something. I’m making the assumption that they have enough transponder units to equip several boats, but I don’t think that’s too farfetched. This is a big operation and these guys have lots of money.”
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