Unsafe Harbor (2 page)

I
turned the heater on full blast, holding first one hand up to the vent and then the other. Having defrosted my fingers, I threw the SUV into gear and pulled away. Bitsy von Falken’s ghost slipped quietly in beside me.

I couldn’t imagine what she had possibly been doing here. I sincerely doubted that Bitsy secretly shopped at the outlet mall, and she certainly hadn’t come to the port to sample its cuisine. But Bitsy’s ghost merely smiled and sat primly in her seat, not giving anything away.

Okay, if that’s how you’re going to be….
I thought, and continued on to the office.

A passing plane gleamed like a silver jack thrown high in the sky, as the sun pushed through a cloud of industrial haze. The Trailblazer morphed into a vibrating chair as its wheels passed over a set of rumble strips designed to slow down trucks on dangerous curves. Even so, one leaned perilously close, as if threatening to topple onto me.

Port Elizabeth is the largest seaport on the East Coast; a mini-city that boasts streets lined with rows of warehouses and trucking companies. I passed a caravan of autos being driven off a car carrier that was longer than three football fields. A 958-foot floating garage, its interior was akin to a
giant beehive. Port Elizabeth ships tons of scrap metal over to Japan, and in return, they send it back to us in the form of Toyotas.

I drove toward a herd of tall cranes that resembled Tonka toys on steroids. The mechanical giraffes offload product from ships twenty-four hours a day in a synchronized ballet, for entry into the most concentrated and affluent consumer marketplace in the world. About 4.5 million containers pour into the international seaport spanning Newark-Elizabeth and New York Seaport each year, their contents ranging from Indian carpets to Spanish olives, to clothing, shoes, flammable gas, and everything else imaginable.

A train laden with containers squealed past the black-tinted windows of a three-story structure. My vehicle rounded the corner at Fleet and Corbin Streets, also known as Suicide Corner, and approached the Sea Land Building. In addition to housing Fish and Wildlife, the edifice contains U.S. Customs and Immigration, two agencies now under the umbrella of Homeland Security.

As usual, the guard booth was unmanned and the entrance gate was up. It was good to know that the government was on its toes protecting its federal employees.

I parked in the lot, stepped out, and took a deep breath. Ah! The pungent smell of jet fumes early in the morning. A fine spray from overhead planes immediately collected on my windshield. I slogged through snow and slush, using my key to enter the rear of the building.

My new territory didn’t cover the Jersey of my childhood. I wasn’t prowling the shore, canoeing through the silence of the Pine Barrens, or lolling in luscious fields of strawberries. Rather, my beat consisted of Newark air and seaport, the rail yards and the airport mail facility, including FedEx and UPS.

Most ironic of all was that I’d requested the transfer. Well, not really. I’d asked to be assigned back home to New York, but that request had quickly been denied. Instead, I’d put my name on the list for Newark, and
presto!
My wish was instantly granted. It had been easy. No one else had applied.

I slipped between the unpacked cartons and boxes still piled high in my office. They included not just my own, but also those left behind by the last agent who had worked here. He’d returned to Idaho after only ten months in Newark. Rumor had it, he’d astutely observed that Fish and Wildlife was a sinking ship and he’d been smart enough to get off.

I had yet to delve into his boxes, knowing full well their contents. They were stacked with violations that he’d never bothered to write up. Most were fines against air shipping companies that delivered wildlife products into the country without first getting them cleared. Tickets needed to be written and issued before the statute of limitations ran out.

My new boss had ordered me to get to it ASAP. We both knew what that would accomplish—bring much needed money into the agency’s coffers, while keeping me out of any possible trouble and tied to my desk.

“Good morning, Grasshopper. I hear you rustling around in there. Stop whatever it is you’re doing and get your rear end in here,” commanded a voice the texture of sandpaper.

I’d quickly learned that Jack Hogan likened himself to a wise sage and viewed his underlings as know-nothing minions. I went to see what was up with my master.

“You called?” I responded, sticking my head in his office.

Jack Hogan gazed back at me through bloodshot eyes. I swear, the man must never have slept. His clothes were always rumpled and he sported jowls that rivaled those of a bloodhound. But the clincher was long strands of hair care
fully combed forward to cover an otherwise bald pate. When will guys ever learn that comb-overs simply make them look like jackasses?

“How’s it going with those tickets?” he asked, his eyes swimming in two scarlet pools.

“They’re coming along,” I lied, having not yet started the process. “By the way, there’s a lot of activity going on at the south end of the port this morning. It seems there’s been a murder.”

“Oh yeah?” he responded, perking right up.

Hogan was a former cop who admittedly cared little for wildlife. That being the case, Port Elizabeth suited him just fine. The only critters to be seen, other than rats and seagulls, arrived in the form of snakeskin boots, alligator skirts, mink handbags, and the occasional box of python crotchless panties. As far as I was concerned, those were reasons why no animal should ever have to die.

“So, who got knocked off? Anyone I know?” he inquired.

“I guess that depends on the crowd you hang out with,” I replied. “The victim was a woman by the name of Bitsy von Falken. Her husband is the CFO of Hyde Barrow, an investment firm on Wall Street.”

“Sounds pretty hoity-toity to me. Way too rich for my blood,” Hogan commented. Taking a sip of coffee, he smacked his lips.

“I’m just curious what she was doing at the port,” I continued, unable to erase the image of her blond hair, defiled by snow and grime, from my mind.

“A rich broad like that? Who knows? Maybe slumming for the fun of it. Could be she was trying to score some recreational drugs,” Hogan ventured, lacing his hands behind his head. “After all, that
is
Newark’s main industry.”

Then he went back to doing what he loved best—staring out at the rail yard and passing time until his retirement.

“So, Boss. You got anything for me to work on yet?” I ventured, figuring I had little to lose.

Hogan turned and viewed me dispassionately. “Yeah. Those damn violations that are piled up in your office.”

I didn’t budge, but decided to stare him down.

“If you’re planning a coup, you’d better first think of a way to kill the king,” he advised, in a tone that was clearly a warning.

We locked eyes and I realized that the man was much shrewder than I had thought.

“I’m not plotting anything,” I countered. “I just think it’s time I was given a real case.”

Hogan shook his head and smiled.

“You know what I don’t like about you, Porter? You’re a zealot, and I don’t trust them,” he reflected. “I gave you the lowdown when you first arrived. The Service only wants bodies here in Newark. That’s the beauty of this place. It’s a hidden gem. We’re second banana to the New York office and in no way a priority. They’re the star. That’s why the best agents are sent over there rather than here.”

I felt my face begin to burn. Hogan knew how badly I’d wanted that station and had no qualms about rubbing it in.

“Now, how about you go and write up those tickets?” he suggested.

I didn’t say a word but left as I came, damned if I’d play the well-behaved pupil.

I glanced in at the other special agent on my way back to my office. Bill Saunders had transferred over from the Treasury Department about two years ago.

He had a criminal investigator’s background and was a
computer geek, capable of ferreting out a company’s business records and bills of lading. The downside was that he was another with little emotion when it came to the plight of wildlife. Saunders was one more suit pulling in a paycheck whose philosophy seemed to be Do the bare minimum, punch the clock, and collect your pension.

I was beginning to feel like a dinosaur within my own agency. I was definitely the odd woman out, as far as Hogan and Saunders were concerned.

I busied myself unpacking files until the two men headed off to lunch together. Only then did I stroll over to the Supervisory Wildlife Inspector’s office.

“Hey, Connie. Got a minute?” I asked, leaning against her doorjamb.

Connie Fuca sat hunched over a stack of papers on a desk that was nearly as cluttered as my own. Though she was petitely built, there was something imposing about the woman, which gave her the presence of a tornado—one ready to pick up speed.

“Not really. Why?” she brusquely responded, barely bothering to look up.

In her early forties, she had strands of white woven throughout a mane of black hair, and dark eyebrows that were furrowed in frustration. “Harried” was a word I would have used had it been anyone else. But when it came to Connie, the most appropriate term was “pissed off.”

“I was just wondering if you might have run across any illegal shipments lately.” I gingerly broached the topic, taking a step into her room. “I’ve talked to Hogan, but there don’t seem to be many cases coming out of this office. From what I’ve heard, special agents at ports depend on inspectors to trip across things during the course of their examinations.”

Connie now took the time to peer at me. “That’s right. In
spectors are great, aren’t they? Every agent should have one. We hand over the information that we gather from all our hard work, and you happily take the evidence, along with the credit for it. Isn’t that what usually happens in such cases?” she responded, verbally biting my head off.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I feebly replied, attempting to defend myself.

“No? Well it doesn’t really matter, since I don’t have time to do inspections, anyway,” she snapped. “I’m too busy logging in entries, or haven’t you noticed? The word ‘inspector’ is a loosely used term around here these days. My
real
job is collecting brokers’ fees and clearing shipments as fast as I can, based only on paperwork. That’s what D.C. wants, so that’s what they get. Unlike special agents, we’re actually expected to bring in money and pay our own way.”

I was prepared for her to hurl a lightning bolt with the glare she gave me. She then returned to her work. I quietly turned around and hightailed it out the door.

What in the hell was that all about?
I wondered, heading for the safety of my office.

I’d heard that relations between agents and inspectors at ports could sometimes be tense. However, I hadn’t expected all-out war.

I pulled a hand full of violations from a box and began to write up tickets, wondering if Connie’s fate might not soon be my own. At times like this, I questioned why I’d ever become an agent in the first place. Then I remembered something my old boss, Charlie Hickok, had once told me.

“We’re all social misfits, Bronx. What kind of individual not only goes into law enforcement, but joins an agency where we work by ourselves? I’ll tell you what kind. The ones that don’t play well with others.”

I was beginning to think he’d been right. At the moment, I
was tempted to pick up my toys and go home. Instead, I waited for Hogan and Saunders to return and then announced that I was taking a late lunch.

I escaped the confines of the office to the invigorating cold, jumped in my vehicle, and took off, free to roam. Even being stuck among a covey of trucks suddenly felt liberating. I hummed to myself as we traveled in a line down pock-marked roads.

Large oil storage tanks, softened by the snow, were magically transformed into igloos, their steel staircases meandering silver vines. Mountains of rock salt were no longer simply waiting to be scattered on hazardous roadways, but had morphed into miniature versions of the Rockies, the Himalayas, and the Swiss Alps. As for Tripoli, Calcutta, and Neptune, each formerly dingy street suddenly seemed exotic and foreign. I soon spotted the same lunch truck that I’d seen earlier that morning.

The Kielbasa House sat parked in its usual spot, where Magda was serving a few late-afternoon customers. It was easy to see why her luncheonette was the busiest one at the port. She offered homemade kielbasa and pierogi rather than the usual tasteless fare. I could easily scarf down a plateful of the doughy pockets filled with potato, cabbage, or my favorite: sweet farmers cheese. But right now, the aroma of Polish sausage was calling to me.

I waited until the last trucker was gone before walking to the outdoor counter. Magda had her back turned, and was already hard at work closing up shop for the day.

“Hi, Magda. Have anything left for a hungry customer?” I asked.

She jumped in surprise, as though a ghost had snuck up behind her. Whirling around, her hand flew to her heart and her complexion turned pale.

“My goodness, Rachel! You startled me,” she scolded, nervously glancing about. “The pierogis are all gone. But there’s still some kielbasa left. Wait a minute and I’ll make you one.”

I watched as Magda placed a thick sausage on the grill, along with onions and sweet peppers. She looked so gaunt and frail, I could almost see her vertebrae sticking through her thin winter coat. Only something new had been added.

A large shawl lay draped about her shoulders and neck, its color that of rich, red claret. It must have been warm, because for once she wasn’t shivering. Rather, Magda appeared to be perfectly comfortable working in the frigid cold. The shawl was probably about six feet in length, for it wound several times around her. Ragged fringe hung from its edge, and a set of initials were crudely embroidered in one corner. That seemed to imply that the stole was handmade.

I tried to read the letters, but wasn’t quick enough, as Magda turned back to face me. In any case, the wool seemed to be either pashmina or cashmere. The shawl was finely crafted, quite exquisite, and had obviously cost a good deal of money.