Authors: Mary Mead
While I waited for the water to boil I hung on the refrigerator door and gazed inside. Grocery day was Saturday so the contents were bleak. Closing the door I went to the cupboards and understood how Old Mother Hubbard felt.
Pulling out a can of chicken soup, the standard make do meal for singles, I set it on the counter. I had just got down the tea bags when someone knocked on the door.
It is sadly common for a customer to arrive after the office has closed and assume, incorrectly, that I exist only to meet their needs. A sign at the bottom of the stairs clearly reads ‘Private – Do No Bother Tenants’. I am always tempted to kick those who knock back down the stairs.
I snapped the door open, a hot rebuke already forming, to find Burke on the stairs, holding a huge brown paper bag.
“Hey, boss,” he said. “How do you feel about Chinese food?”
Stuck on my own petard, my hunger overriding the company. I stepped back and held the door for him.
He came in and turned into the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter. “Didn’t know what you like, so I got a variety,” he said. “You want to get some plates?”
I moved next to him and pulled down a couple of plates. He was busy taking little white pasteboard containers out of the bag and setting them along the counter. The smells coming from them had me drooling.
I got down two glasses and filled them with ice while he finished spreading his feast. He rummaged in a drawer and found silverware while I poured tea into our glasses.
“A little bit of everything,” he said, with a grin. “Chicken chow mein, fried rice, egg foo yung, sweet and sour pork, egg rolls and shrimp. If I missed anything we don’t need it.” He dumped out little packets of soy sauce and hot mustard before folding the bag and putting in beside the refrigerator. “Dig in,” he said, still with that grin.
When it comes to food, I eat like a truck driver and have no modesty. I grabbed a spoon and began to fill my plate. Burke moved in right beside me and we bumped elbows getting a little of everything. Once the plates were loaded we each picked up a glass of iced tea and made our way to the couch.
Settled in, I handed him the remote. “You brought dinner, you get the controls,” I said. “And thank you. This is perfect.”
He turned on the television. “Glad you like Chinese. What channel is the movie channel?”
I couldn’t help it, I chuckled. “Make yourself at home, Burke. They start at 225. The oldies are on 237.”
“Why are you laughing? I brought food.”
“Yes, you did. And I thanked you.”
“How about W.C. Fields?”
“Love him,” I said around a mouth full of egg roll.
With that we sat back side by side, eating Chinese food and laughing at the old black and white film. Seventy years later it was still funny.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time the movie ended. I boxed up leftovers for him to take but he refused.
“I’m staying in my motor home right now,” he explained. “Not much room in my fridge. You keep them. If I get hungry I can always come up here.”
“Hardly. You can however go into the break room downstairs. I’ll take them down in the morning and leave them in the fridge.”
“Spoilsport,” he grinned, leaning back against the counter.
“Thanks for dinner, Burke,” I said, leading the way to the front door. “Have a good night.”
I opened the front door for him, stepping back so he could leave. He caught me by the shoulders, dropped his head and planted a quick kiss on my lips. “Thanks, babe. I hate to eat alone.”
He was three stairs down and moving by the time I blinked. At the bottom of the stairs he turned to look up at me. His eyes glinted in the light of the porch lamp. “I haven’t forgotten that kiss,” he said softly. “I’m working my way up to it.”
“Gonna take more than Chinese food,” I called back and shut the door. With my own smile I twisted the lock and shot the dead bolt.
Over the next two weeks we settled into a pattern.
Burke checked in two or three days a week, picking up a list of things to do and a cup of coffee before going to work in the lot. Those days he usually stayed for dinner – whether we ordered out or I cooked.
We usually followed dinner with a movie, the evening stretching to ten or so before Burke headed home, wherever that was.
Several times I noticed that fresh, outdoor smell on his clothes when he came to the office in the morning, that same smell that was on my sweatshirt when it was returned.
He laughed when I asked about it, and explained that he was currently living out of his motor home. He had a small washing machine but relied on a clothes line to dry his laundry. He did give me points for picking up on the scent.
We were comfortable together, sharing many of the same tastes – food and movies. When it came to sports, specifically the NFL, we went our separate ways. I am, and have been, a fan of the Dallas Cowboys while he roots for the San Francisco Forty-Niners. Mortal enemies.
The nine cartons of drugs remained untouched.
In Burke’s case, someone could have lit up a pipe in his truck and he wouldn’t even blink. He was still undercover, had been for close to two years, gathering info, following leads. While he never shared inside information he did teach me a little about the drug pipeline.
We have hundreds of miles of coastline in California, most of it accessible from the sea. Our local news often reports an empty Panga boat floating in the surf or run up on the beach or rocks.
I asked Burke about that and he explained they are a common fishing boat, with a high bow and a wide center, light enough to be powered by a couple of good outboard motors.
Loaded with drugs they can run at night, follow along the coast and layup when necessary with a common GPS system. Hard to see close to shore, easy to handle, and fast.
A pre-arranged meeting point, a rental truck, a quick off load and it’s off again, innocent fisherman if stopped. Easy to abandon when necessary. Pull the motors off and load them in the truck with the cargo and off you go, leaving the boat behind. In some cases even the outboard motors were abandoned.
Considering the amount of drugs they can carry in a shipment, the cost of the boat never enters the equation.
Jade Beach is located about half way between Los Angeles and San Francisco, convenient for shipments going either way. There’s also the great central valley that runs right through the center of the state only three hours east.
Burke referred to our area as a hub – convenient place to load up and move out, in any of three different directions. In past months he had been active in San Diego, before moving up to Los Angeles and now here, traveling in and with different drug dealers, infiltrating and working to find the main source.
There were days in a row that Burke failed to appear, followed by a chain of days where he could be found actively working in the lot.
I did have to caution him about taking off his shirt, which amused him no end. He was, after all, undercover and supposed to be unobtrusive. Fawning females spending hours at a time in small talk brought him a lot of attention.
He insisted I was jealous, and while I hotly disagreed, he wasn’t far off base. The blond hair, dark eyes, and rugged build fit together nicely and I wasn’t dead.
We settled into a comfortable arrangement – dinner two or three nights a week, movies, football games – an easy, laid back relationship with no stress or strain. He was an excellent companion, knowledgeable on many things, well read, and had a great sense of humor. I’ve always been up for a laugh.
If he was there, fine. If not? Also fine.
The last days of the month arrived, the first drew close and things got busy. Customers moving in and out of units, traffic in and out of the office with new rentals and rent payments. While many customers were billed automatically on their credit cards others chose to come in and pay in person.
Somewhere in that three days of the month the nine cartons of drugs disappeared.
Burke was absent, of course.
On a whim during the late night drive through the last day of the month I removed the yellow snap tag and went inside to check the cartons.
They were gone.
I spent hours reviewing tapes, checking each camera back several days, monitoring the activity around the unit. I was up till one or two in the morning, monitoring the hard copies of access sheets the past couple of weeks. I wondered if Burke had moved them.
A lot of lost sleep and too much caffeine left me with a few leads.
There were three different pickup trucks with shells on the back, six rental trucks, and four vans around the unit blocking a clear view of the unit door, not to mention the various cars back and forth in the aisle. That was just the past week.
I found nothing I could pin down.
When Burke returned he took copies of everything and backtracked everything I had done. Burke found nothing.
He explained he had been on another case for three days. The bodies of two men had been dumped near the freeway, both shot in the back of the head. One was a known drug dealer identified by Agent Miller. Burke was called in to work that case.
In his absence, right under my nose, the drugs had been removed.
The fifth of the month Detective John Kincaid wandered into the office again. I spotted the wide shoulders and sun touched hair coming across the parking lot.
He waited politely while I finished up with a customer.
“Miss Montoya,” he said, when the customer left. “How are things going here?”
“Same old thing, different day, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“John, remember?”
“John,” I said. “What can I do for you today?”
Kincaid did a slow look around the office, settling on the camera screens behind me.
“I hear we lost the drugs.”
“Yes, sir. John.”
“Relax, ma’am,” he grinned. “I’m only following up. Trying to stay in the loop. I gather you didn’t see anything?”
“No, sorry. I’ve reviewed all the tapes, all the hard copies. Nada.”
“The undercover didn’t see anything either?”
“Nope. Burke wasn’t on site. His schedule is random and he was called away for a few days.”
Kincaid looked up at me. “Burke?”
“The California CID guy. His name is Burke.”
“Haven’t met him,” the detective admitted. “Maybe I better introduce myself.”
I glanced over at the monitor. “He’s not back there right now. I can ask him to call you.”
“No need. I’ll catch up with him. Couple of questions?”
“Shoot,” I said.
“Is anyone on duty during the night? Someone on the lot?”
“No, sir. The security cameras run twenty-four seven. They have infrared filters for evening hours. I have the same software on my computer upstairs, so I can check randomly. Any camera. Not a regular schedule, although always before I go to bed. Any movement at all I would notice.”
He nodded. “This Burke is only here during the day?”
“Yes, sir.”
“John.”
“John,” I corrected. “There are times he’s here after hours, just not out in the lot.”
Kincaid’s eyebrow rose. “He’s here? In the office? Does he watch the cameras?”
Oh, boy. “No. He has dinner here once in a while.”
“Oh, I see. He brings his dinner and watches the camera’s while he eats. Good idea. Fresh eyes, different perspective.”
I thought about it for a second. “He often has dinner with me. Upstairs.”
The eyebrow rose again. “Personal?”
“Not the way you obviously think. No. We work together quite a bit. We’re friends. We split a pizza, watch a movie, sometimes a couple of beers.”
“Also understandable. I wasn’t trying to pry.” He smiled at me.
“Nothing to hide,” I said, returning his smile. “We work together. Have a lot of things in common. That’s it.”
He straightened up and double patted the counter with his hands.
“Okay, then. Just checking in with you. If you think of anything, or see anything, give me a call. I assume you know not to approach anyone. I’m only a few minutes away.”
“I have enough sense not to confront suspected drug dealers,” I smiled.
“Good to know,” he smiled back. “You have my card.”
“Yes, I do. Right here in the drawer.”
“Okay then. I’ll check back.”
“Anytime,” I said.
He tossed me a little salute and left. I watched him climb in his truck and drive away, feeling somehow I had let him down.
Determined to come up with something, I burned DVD’s of those trucks and vans I had marked and took them upstairs with me when the office closed.