“You said kingpin. Who have you got in your sights?” she asked.
“A guy called Dean Woodle. He’s renting the old Sanders place on the outskirts of the Bay. Nice spread. Plenty of room and privacy. Only one road going past the place so it’s difficult to set up surveillance. Since you’re after Maria Garcia it might be worthwhile asking her if she’ll volunteer any details on Woodle.”
Ledger gave him a sharp look. “You think Garcia is dealing drugs?”
Dallenbach shrugged. “I actually thought that might be why you arrested her.”
“Have you brought this Dean Woodle in for questioning?”
“No grounds. I haven’t been able to catch him on so much as a parking ticket. He’s cleaner than Washington air. He doesn’t work. He spends a lot of time driving around the Bay.”
“But you believe he’s an illegal immigrant?”
“He calls himself Dean Woodle but I doubt he was born here. Whether or not he’s in the country illegally, that’s your job to determine, isn’t it? If you can nab him as an illegal alien then you can deport him and my town will go back to usual. I will thank you. The mayor will thank you.”
Ledger nodded. Grabbing a Mr Big in the drug world was the type of deadbeat she wanted to see removed from the country. She caught a flash of silver on the road and blew out an admiring whistle, drowned by the engine roar from a silver-gray Dodge Viper splitting the air. The side windows were down revealing a male driver and his female passenger as the GTS coupé cruised past.
Dallenbach swiveled abruptly, twisting his body away from the road. “Let’s turn back before we walk into a shit storm,” he muttered.
Ledger watched the car swerve to the curb a few yards ahead of them. A petite woman emerged from the car. Her glossy black hair was cut to the chin and fitted her skull like a helmet, offsetting a slender neck. She carried a seriously lethal looking piece of equipment which she hefted to her shoulder. Ledger determined she was snapping photos along the beachfront with a telephoto lens.
“Is the driver your suspect?” she asked.
“Shit, no, that’s Sherman Telsey, Mayor of Oyster Bay, pulling out all the stops to impress the Washington Witness’s star reporter, Valentina Galliano. It’s part of his media campaign, showing her the beauty spots in the town. Let’s walk away while we can.”
Before they could make their escape, three sharp honks from the Viper preceded a shouted request. “Dallenbach! Get your bones over here, I’ve got a lady for you to talk to!”
Dallenbach twisted back towards the car with a friendly wave. “It’s too late for me, but make your getaway while you can. I’ll head them off at the pass,” he gritted out through a smile.
Ledger was happy not to get roped into a meeting with Oyster Bay’s mayor, so she took Dallenbach’s suggestion. With a few long strides she was out of sight of the Viper and heading into town. Her phone buzzed. It was CC.
Where the hell are you? We’re taking Garcia down now. And you never brought me lunch.
4
Bogel trapped Ledger in the lobby of the Portland Field Office on her way to the interview room, where Garcia was being detained for questioning. The area was a beehive of activity with officers and civilians disappearing and reappearing through doorways leading away from the entrance.
“CC tells me you ran off at the crucial moment, just before the bust on Garcia went down. Who gave you permission to leave?” Bogel’s body was a stiffened board, his arms were crossed over his burly chest and he spoke loudly enough to attract stares from passersby.
“I didn’t run off, I was following a lead.” It took an effort to keep her voice even.
“Did I tell you to follow another lead?”
“No, but you’re lucky I’m full of initiative.” She tacked a smile onto her words at the sight of his lips disappearing into a thin snarl. “Now, if you’ll step aside I have to head to the interview room.”
“Guzman and Wyche brought Garcia in, they get to handle her interview,” Bogel said. “I need more officers back in Oyster Bay. Station yourself there until further notice. I want you committed to surveillance at both oyster factories. You will alternate days at each one. You are to watch and notate all comings and goings every day, eight hours a day. I want a report from you daily.”
She could tell by the smugness pervading his voice that he thought this was a punishment for her. But Ledger felt comfortable with the assignment. It would provide an opportunity to investigate Dean Woodle, the man Sheriff Dallenbach suspected as being a drug kingpin. Still, she didn’t want Bogel to think she was acquiescing too easily.
“What exactly am I supposed to be chasing in Oyster Bay?” she demanded.
“Leads,” he sneered. “You’re so big on leads, let’s see what you can scare up. Speak to Wyche before you go. He’ll give you a list of names and license plates to keep track of.”
At ease now he had his rant off his chest, Bogel’s mouth split into a grin, but his eyes remained flat and angry and a vein still throbbed in his forehead. Ledger considered returning some lip, just to see him burst a blood vessel. Since she had what she wanted, access to Oyster Bay for the foreseeable future, she resisted the urge.
“Then you’d better stand aside so I can find Wyche before heading back to the Bay,” she said.
The vein in his forehead pulsed like a nightclub strobe light. He inched to the side and she brushed past him. She found CC and Wyche in the viewing room watching Guzman interrogate Maria Garcia. Wyche’s hip was wedged on a desk. His hands held a notebook and pen and he was busy writing. Ledger approached CC to get a better view. Guzman was hunched on one side of the table, putting pressure on a woman whose liquid brown eyes had glazed over with tears. She kept repeating her mantra, “I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t arrest me, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Bogel catch up with you?” CC asked.
“He certainly did. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get a list of names for ICE suspects in Oyster Bay from you, Hank.”
Wyche spared her a glance from his note-taking. He was in his mid-thirties and ruggedly handsome. Bogel called him “Donny” short for Adonis because Bogel liked nicknames. He had his own special handle for everyone except Ledger.
Wyche sported a platinum wedding ring on his left hand and as far as Ledger knew he took the commitment seriously. She’d never heard any scuttlebutt about him looking elsewhere for his kicks. He had been with the Portland office since joining ICE three years ago. He had ambitions to reach the east coast, but he was happy enough for now on the west coast. Portland was a busy place, and there were plenty of opportunities for him to make a name for himself and eventually be noticed and boosted up the promotional ladder.
“I know the list you mean. I’ll email it to you once I get back to my office,” he said. “Just a word of warning, it’s a long list. You might need to take up residence in Oyster Bay.”
“Uh-oh, Bogel got it in for you, huh?” That was CC. His face reddened and he had the grace to look shame-faced. “I tried to cover for you, Ledger, but once Garcia was sighted there wasn’t anything else I could do.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Ledger brushed off his half-hearted apology.
“And don’t take it too personally. Bogel’s in a snit because we had to arrest Garcia in front of her husband and kids. It was messy and he doesn’t like messy.” Wyche unhitched himself from the desk. “Someone who I hope is sweating it out is Garcia’s husband. He came storming in after his wife and I left him in the waiting area to cool his jets.” He glanced at his watch. “Time to get a statement from him.”
“You want me to sit in?” asked CC.
“No, keep an eye on Cherry’s interview. Maria’s the one we’re after. I’m just hoping to squeeze some juice out of her husband.”
Eddie Guzman carried the nickname “Cherry” because he was a redhead and because Bogel thought it was funny.
Ledger walked out with Wyche. Bogel had forbidden her to participate in the interv
iew process, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t pass on Dallenbach’s warning.
“By the way, I have some intel that Maria Garcia may have been used as a drug mule. Hank, I understand she’s your arrest so you and Eddie might want to ask her about it.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” Wyche acknowledged, pausing to make another notation in his pad.
They were headed along the corridor towards the waiting area and she could hear the high strains of childish voices from behind the closed door. She shot a querying look at Wyche. “Did Garcia bring his kids?”
A stricken look crossed Wyche’s face. Ledger wondered if he had kids of his own. “What the hell was he thinking, dragging them along with him?” he muttered.
“He was probably worried sick about his wife and didn’t get a chance to arrange a babysitter.”
Ledger heard an exasperated sigh whistle out of Wyche’s pursed mouth. His arm scythed down in an angry sweep to press the door handle and shove open the door. Instead of moving on, she followed him into the room.
“Enzo Garcia, I’m Officer Hank Wyche and we need to talk.”
Enzo was more bantam than heavy weight. Still he huffed out his chest and crowded two children behind him as though he thought Wyche was about to launch a physical attack. Or else he was just making a heavy-handed point.
He had a shock of curly dark hair Ledger suspected would normally be slicked back, but right now hung over his forehead in a heavy curtain. His five o’clock shadow had morphed into the beginnings of stubble. He wore denim cut off jeans and a stained tank top that revealed a solid-looking medallion on an impressively thick gold chain. On his left foot he wore an unlaced sneaker and on his right he wore a battered slipper. These were all signs that pointed to a man leaving his home in a rush.
Ledger could see nothing of the children except one anxious eye peering around from either side of his legs. The older child gripped his thigh, the younger’s hands reached around his knees.
Enzo stared at Wyche with a defiant tilt to his head. “I don’t want my kids with me while you’re questioning me. And I’ll only talk to you on condition you let me see Maria. If you don’t agree, then you’ll have to wait for another time when I can get someone I trust to look after them.”
“I’ll stay with them. They’ll be safe here,” Ledger volunteered. She bent down so she was level with two pairs of worried eyes. She guessed the girl was around eight and the boy five. “What do you say, guys? Will you stay with me while your dad goes and talks to Officer Wyche? Maybe we could visit the candy machine?”
Enzo looked torn, Wyche taken aback.
“It’s a solution,” she addressed both men.
“Don’t you go asking them anything about their mother!” Enzo glared at her.
“That would be unethical. Besides, I’ve been taken off this case, so I’m totally impartial.” She offered Enzo a steady, reassuring stare. “Can you tell me their names?”
“Brittany and John.” He gently edged the children from behind him. “They’re Americans,” he declared, again with a glare of defiance in her direction. “You can’t touch them or send them away from their home.”
The choice of the names, the obvious departure from Maria and Enzo’s culture, suggested to Ledger that the parents had had a careful discussion about this topic. They had Anglicized their surname by shortening it to simply Garcia. Still there was no getting away from the link back to their Mexican roots. So the discussion between Maria and Enzo had centered on how to give their children the best chance in their new life. And the hammer had come down on selecting popular American names and forgoing the traditional route. Brittany and John. Easy names for their contemporaries and teachers to pronounce and remember when they started school.
“No one’s going to send them away, Mr Garcia,” Ledger said firmly.
After Enzo followed Wyche out the door John began to cry in gulping, noisy sobs. Brittany pinched her brother on the arm. Ledger stopped her. “It’s alright to be scared,” she said.
“He’s just a baby!” Brittany spat the words out with scornful indifference, secure in her three-year age advantage. “Some of our friends have already lost their dads and moms. We know you come and take them away in the dark. John thinks you’re the bogey man.”
Ledger felt a twist of shame. She had joined ICE to protect American borders from terrorists and criminals desiring to do the country harm. So far she hadn’t been involved in a single investigation of national significance. Not one job she was proud to tell her father about. She had indeed been relegated into a bogey man terrorizing innocent families. How was she going to change John’s mind?
There were vending machines in the lobby that dispensed a variety of chocolate bars, so-called health bars, packets of chips, both corn and potato, and cans of soda. Discounting the health bars, she was sure any one of those items would be guaranteed to make John pause. If she captured his interest he might move on from crying. But she had promised Enzo to keep an eye on his children and she didn’t intend to leave them alone for even a minute, so the vending machine option was off the table. That limited her to what was available in the waiting room.
The room had the neutral air of a medical or dental office. People weren’t expected to wait here overnight.
Two sofas were set at right angles to each other, while three single chairs were spaced along a third wall. The sofas were upholstered in a dark green fabric that did a good job of hiding dirt. The single chairs had dark gray mesh backs and lightly padded black seats. A low-slung table in veneered wood was spaced in the middle of the seating options stacked with out-of-date magazines in neat piles. Underneath the table was a woven basket filled with toys—gender-neutral wooden and plastic building blocks, activity cubes designed to test creative skills, a lone box of crayons and a couple of coloring books. Since they hadn’t been touched, she doubted the toys had rated highly with either John or Brittany.
She needed to use her own inspiration to entertain them.
With that thought she sprang onto her hands and began walking around the carpeted floor, her legs straight up in the air. She bent her knees and wiggled her feet in John’s direction. “Can you do this?” she asked.
“Of course!” Brittany snorted. She threw her hands to the ground and flung her legs up, managing a quick handstand before toppling onto her backside.
Ledger dropped back to her feet. She could hear John still sniffling. She needed to up her game.
“How about this?” she asked.
Ledger cleared the three, free-standing chairs from the wall and stacked them into a corner. Then she backed up to the opposite wall, taking four large steps to count off the space in her head. She mentally ran through the motions she wanted to perform. She kicked off the flats she was wearing. Barefoot, she launched herself at the wall.
She timed it so the first foot hitting the wall was her left. She took her second step up the wall with her right, tucked her left knee into her chest and used her toes to push off the wall at a 45 degree angle. She rotated into a neat backflip, landing with bent knees to absorb the shock.
Her actions brought John to silence. He gave a loud sniff and rubbed his hand under his nose. Brittany looked impressed despite her best intentions to be dismissive.
Ledger swung around and executed a quick, one-handed vault over the arm of the nearest sofa, ending in a cartwheel and a quick jump to the side.
“How did you do that?” Brittany demanded.
“It just takes training and practice.”
“Did you learn that in gym class?”
“And a little parkour. Have you heard of that?”
The girl wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Can you teach me?”
“And me!” John demanded, jumping up onto the sofa cushions. He continued to bounce in front of her.
“Sure. Hop off for now, John.” Ledger pushed the sofa against the wall to give it added stability. “Both of you come here and I’ll show you how.”
&nb
sp; The trio spent the next thirty minutes with Ledger showing both children how to rest their weight on two hands and then lift their legs to leap over the arm of the couch. She coaxed John with a helping hand to lift him over. She showed Brittany how to end the move with a basic palm spring. After a few attempts the girl got the hang of it and proudly showed off the move.
“There, now you’ve both accomplished the first parkour movement!”
Brittany beamed. John clapped his hands.
“Where can I learn how to do this every day?” Brittany asked, her hands clasped in front of her like she was pleading.
“I learned from some experienced friends. It helped that I did gymnastics from when I was just six years old.”
Ledger unpocketed her phone and scouted through her social accounts. Then she showed them the screen.
“Is that you?” Brittany’s eyes bugged out at the figures running flat out to scale walls and leap between buildings, bodies tumbling, spinning and flipping between and over obstacles.
“Me and my friends. We ran a hard core parkour group when I was younger. We used to film each other and post videos online. It’s a good method to train your body and keep fit.” Parkour was a matter of action and reaction. She had learned to rely on her body, to listen to it all while being in the present moment. It was knowing when she needed an explosive burst of energy or when to trust she could simply cruise by in an even rhythm of forward motion.
“You’re still good, especially for your age,” Brittany said with magnanimous spirit.
Ledger grinned in response. She guessed to an eight-year-old, a twenty year age difference was huge. “The trick is keeping your body active every single day.”
She placed her forearms on the ground, swung her body upwards and dropped her legs to touch her feet, first to her head, then lower to plant them on the ground, either side of her head.
John laughed with delight.
One Way Out: Scout Ledger Thriller Page 4