Unsafe Harbor (4 page)

Terry glared at him as though he were nuts. “Don’t be ridiculous. Being this tan is all the rage. Besides, I have to do something to combat the winter doldrums. And I’ll have you know that I don’t use a sun lamp, but the latest cutting-edge technique—UV-free airbrush tanning, which doesn’t harm or age the skin. Speaking of which, you could stand a dose of it yourself,” he advised Santou. “Anyway, what else can I do? I’m chained to a phone in a windowless office five nights a week. It’s not like I can get away. My boss keeps promising that we’re going to move, but so far I haven’t envisioned myself in new headquarters any time in the near future.”

“Maybe what you need is a new crystal ball,” Jake commented wryly.

Terri was working as a telephone psychic these days. In fact, he was in such high demand that his company had recently given him a hefty raise. Terri swore that he’d inher
ited the gift of second sight from his mother. True or not, he’d clearly tapped into something astounding. “Mr. T,” as he was professionally known, had become so popular that there was talk of putting him on his own cable TV show.

“On the bright side, I’ll still be in showbiz. And who knows? Maybe it’ll help me to get a decent gig as a female impersonator again. I’d thought San Francisco was tough, but New York is totally ridiculous,” Terri had complained. “Sure, I could work in a schlock club for next to nothing. But Eric and I are planning to get a weekend house, and my boss just agreed to give me a 401k.”

Even I could foresee bright things in his future.

Spam began to whine as we walked out the door without him. The poor pooch couldn’t understand why we didn’t cook dinner on the beach anymore.

As for Terri, he needn’t have attempted to exorcise Ida. The neighborhood had already done that pretty much on its own. We hit the street and were immediately swept up into cool pop heaven.

We passed a café where a muffin and tea cost an easy ten bucks. Unbelievably, teenage kids were its main clientele. I used to wonder how they could afford it until, one day, I saw them glued to their laptops. They sipped tea while buying and selling items on eBay for profit.

Equally strange was that formerly staid Ludlow and Rivington Streets were now the main axis of hip. It’s there that chi chi clubs drew crowds every night of the week. And while one could still haggle for bargains on clothes and leather goods, the old Jewish stores were rapidly being replaced by trendy designer boutiques. Anything to do with Ellis Island was suddenly tres chic.

We strolled by a pickle store where the smell of brine rolled over me in a wave of remembrance. I used to come with my
grandmother when a pickle cost only a nickel. The store owner liked to joke that was still the case today; the only difference was that they now had to charge forty-five cents in tax.

“Let me guess. We’re going to that Dominican dive that you like so much,” Terri predicted as we rounded a corner.

“That’s amazing. You got it on the first try,” I replied with a grin.

This was what I considered to be the Lower East Side at its best: a place where the cost of each dish was under twelve bucks. We feasted on garlic shrimp, fried pork chops, rice with Dominican sausage, and bananas drenched in honey.

“Next time, I get to choose the place,” Terry said, popping a breath mint into his mouth after dinner. “Now I have to head off for the salt mines.”

“Don’t worry. I predict that some day soon, you’ll be rich and famous,” I assured him. “Just wait and see. Word of your psychic ability is going to spread, and all New York society will be clamoring at your door.”

“Brad Pitt, I’ll make time for. The others will just have to wait their turn,” Terri responded and gave me a kiss.

“But we’ll get our fortunes told for free, of course,” Santou joked.

“For Rachel, yes. As for you, I’ll probably charge double,” Terri saucily retorted, and grabbed a cab to work.

Jake and I slowly made our way back home. It didn’t matter that it was cold. Santou pulled me close and my world became warm.

“You haven’t mentioned how work is going lately,” Jake said in passing conversation.

He should have known by now that was enough to open a can of worms.

“Same old, same old,” I replied. “I’m not allowed to take a case unless a perp walks into my office, slaps down a few
dozen dead endangered species on my desk and says, ‘Here. This is just so you’ll know that I’m smuggling.’ And we can both guess the likelihood of that.”

I looked off to my left while crossing Delancey. The Williamsburg Bridge loomed with its cables as taut and strong as the muscular arms of a construction worker. We continued past weathered tenements on narrow streets. Each was draped with vinelike trellises of old fire escapes. It wasn’t necessary to peek around the buildings to know that behind each one lay New York’s version of an urban backyard. I already knew because I had one of my own.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m just treading water and trying to minimize whatever loss I can. The problem is that I’m not making any headway,” I groused.

What I didn’t say was that deep down, I was bone-tired of constantly fighting, and worried that my fire was beginning to die out.

Santou was wise enough to not say a word. Instead, he continued to hold me close, and I knew that he had unspoken worries of his own.

What gnawed at me was being stuck in an office where I was viewed as nothing more than window dressing. How was I supposed to develop cases when I felt so trapped?

My foot struck something hard and I tripped, nearly falling flat on my face. It was Santou’s steadying arm that saved me. I examined the offending item with my toe. It was a tree root that had pushed its way up through the snow and ice from beneath the pavement. The message couldn’t have been clearer. Adapt and thrive. Otherwise, leave or die. There was simply no other choice.

J
ake and I headed out together early the next morning. I made my way toward the parking garage while he took Spam for a walk. I stopped at a nearby newsstand and bought the daily paper. There it was in bold, black letters strewn across the front page. The headline blared,
BITSY VON FALKEN FOUND DEAD IN ABANDONED JERSEY LOT
.

Just terrific,
I thought.

I quickly read the article. Sure enough, Magda was mentioned, though not by name. Instead, the piece revealed there was a possible eyewitness who owned a luncheonette truck at the port. That should make it easy enough for any wily predator to hunt her down.

Idiots,
I fumed while climbing into the Trailblazer.

I was still cursing to myself as I parked in front of Kossar’s Bialys and picked up a bag of fresh bagels. I’d become spoiled since returning to New York. These weren’t the sad lumps I’d gotten used to while away; the out-of-town imposters baked with blueberries and sun-dried tomatoes, among other offenses. Rather, they were honest-to-goodness firm-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside New York bagels topped with sesame, poppy seeds, garlic, and salt, just as
God had intended. I stashed the bag inside my Trailblazer and took off.

I drove as quickly as possible through the Holland Tunnel, all the while watching to make certain that tiles didn’t pop off. I safely emerged into a different world.

Industrial New Jersey lay spread out before me. I sped past abandoned factories, their windows covered with sheet metal like pennies on a dead man’s eyes. It made me think back once more to what Magda had told me. The image was now permanently seared into my brain. What kind of maniac would have sewn Bitsy von Falken’s eyelids and mouth shut? I couldn’t stop shivering, though the heat in the vehicle was turned up full blast.

I tried to occupy my thoughts with the view in front of me. No problem there. I found plenty to look at. New Jersey has the densest railroad and highway system in the country. But that’s not where it stops. The state also contains 108 toxic waste dumps.

A flock of seagulls flew over one now, and I wondered if Jonathon Livingston ever realized that he was hovering above a strip of oil refineries. It’s earned the area an apt nickname: “Oilfield U.S.A.,” boasting the largest petroleum containment system outside of the Middle East.

But this section of New Jersey has gained additional fame. Terrorism experts recently dubbed the stretch between Newark Airport and the Seaport to be the most dangerous two miles in America. The strip is a chemical juggernaut possessing more than a hundred potential targets. Among them are chlorine gas processing plants. An attack on one could be lethal to twelve million people within a fourteen-mile radius.

I approached Newark. Its disjointed skyline resembled a
mouthful of jagged teeth. My own choppers were tightly on edge as I continued to think about Bitsy von Falken. The lot where she’d been found was one hell of a bleak, unmemorable place to be dumped in.

I wondered if her death had been a tragic act of passion; perhaps, a love affair gone awry. Or had it been a deliberate crime, as cold and heinous as the black thread that pierced her eyelids? There were always clues left behind. It was just a matter of connecting the dots. In which case, I couldn’t help but wonder what the Port Authority police might have discovered.

I parked, still stewing over this morning’s article as I made my way into the office and sat down. The red light on my answering machine repeatedly blinked in frustration, as if worried it might be overlooked. I hit the play button, leaned back, and listened to the message.

“I see that Bitsy von Falken was found at the seaport yesterday. That’s funny, considering I’d never have dreamt she’d be caught dead in such a place. In any case, she might have been wearing a shawl. If so, you’ll want to check it out. The thing is
shahtoosh,
which I understand is illegal. It’s also worth a fortune. Oh yes—by the way, she wasn’t the only Park Avenue bitch that’s wearing them around town. Those shawls could be the unofficial flag of the Upper East Side. Ta, ta, and happy hunting!” the woman’s voice cheerfully signed off.

I copied down my “anonymous” informant’s name, along with her phone number. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t volunteered the information. It was conveniently stored on my caller ID. You’d think by now everyone would have known not to make an anonymous call from their home, thanks to shows like
Law and Order
and
CSI
. Evidently, Tiffany Stewart didn’t watch a lot of TV.

Hmm. Although Ms. Stewart had a Manhattan area code, her accent had sounded Southern. I gave it no more than a passing thought. All I cared about right now was that I might finally have a case on my hot little hands. With that in mind, I picked up the phone and dialed Officer Nunzio, my friendly Port Authority cop.

“This is Special Agent Rachel Porter,” I announced, once he was on the line. I only hoped the title, Special Agent, made me sound kick-ass official. “We met at the crime scene yesterday.”

“Yeah, I remember you,” he said, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m kinda busy right now. What’s up?”

So much for the exchange of any pleasantries.

“I was just wondering if you could possibly answer a question,” I replied.

But Nunzio obviously wasn’t one to waste time.

“Probably not,” he responded.

“Well, let’s give it a try, anyway,” I suggested, and proceeded to launch into my inquiry. “I just received a tip that Bitsy von Falken might have been wearing an unusual shawl. The wool for it is from endangered Tibetan antelopes that are protected under international law in more than a hundred and forty-seven countries,” I said, purposely piling on the facts. “What do you think? Can you help me out here?”

I knew he was still on the line because I could hear him breathing.

“Did she have one on?” I pressed.

“A woman’s been killed and this is what you’re calling me about? Some goddamn shawl?” he replied. “Where in the hell are your priorities?”

“You have your job and I have mine,” I replied, feeling
slightly guilty—until I remembered the excitement in his voice at having found a dead body yesterday. “So, did you find one or not?”

Nunzio cleared his throat of morning phlegm, as if giving himself time to think.

“Come on. It’s not like I’m asking about the murder weapon or vital evidence from the crime scene,” I continued to plead.

“Yeah, but you know the rules. This is an active investigation. I’m not supposed to talk about anything,” Nunzio said, as if reciting an official police handbook.

“And I’m not the press. I’m a federal agent. I swear not to interfere or step on your toes as far as the case is concerned. So, how about it?” I would have promised the moon to get what I wanted.

“Aw, what the hell,” Nunzio finally relented. “The press already knows just about everything on this case, anyway. I don’t see how giving you this information will make any difference.”

Yes!
I silently rejoiced. Then I held my breath, waiting to hear that Bitsy von Falken had indeed gone to meet her maker draped in a
shahtoosh
shawl.

“Nope, we didn’t find anything like that,” he responded.

Damn!

I thanked him and hung up. But I wasn’t yet ready to call it quits. Instead, I hightailed it into Jack Hogan’s office.

“What’s up, Grasshopper?” he asked, without raising his head from his newspaper.

It gave me quite the view. The few wispy strands of hair that clung to his scalp for dear life were still damp from their morning shower.

“I just had an interesting message on my answering machine,” I informed him. “A tip was left that Bitsy von Falken
might have been wearing a shahtoosh shawl when she died. Do you know if any shipments of shahtoosh have ever been smuggled into this port?”

“Sure. We found one a couple of years ago,” Hogan matter-of-factly retorted. “Some company here in Jersey was bringing them in.”

Bingo! If
that
wasn’t hardcore proof of smuggling, then I didn’t know what was. There was no way that Hogan could stop me from opening a case now.

“Great. I take it that the owner was convicted,” I said, my pulse beginning to stir.

“Nah. We couldn’t prove that the company knowingly violated the law. The owner claimed they thought the stuff was cashmere. He swore he’d never even heard of shahtoosh. So we slapped them with a three-hundred-and-fifty dollar fine and told them not to make that same mistake again. That was it. Case closed,” Hogan replied.

Terrific. A 350-dollar fine amounted to no more than a speeding ticket. But then Fish and Wildlife’s penalty system was routinely viewed by companies as a cost of doing business. Get caught, pay a fine, and continue on with trade as usual. It was cynically referred to, by agents and inspectors alike, as “Monty Hall Justice,” or “Let’s Make A Deal.” The message that it sent was loud and clear: This is American commerce, where everything can be negotiated away.

“Well then, they’re probably at it again,” I surmised. “Bitsy von Falken had to get that shawl from somewhere. And evidently, she wasn’t the only socialite who’s been running around town wearing one.”

“If you’re trying to open an investigation, forget about it, Porter. That company closed up shop two years ago. They’re long gone. Besides, one shawl on a dead socialite does not a
case make,” he shrewdly observed. “Did you bother to even ask the P.A. police if they knew anything about it?”

“Yes,” I reluctantly responded.

“And? What was the upshot?” Hogan inquired. “Do they have the damn thing?”

“No. They said it wasn’t there,” I was forced to admit.

“Then there’s your answer,” Hogan said, and returned to his newspaper.

But I had a good idea where it was.

I went back to my desk, grabbed the bag of bagels, and stuck my head inside Wildlife Inspector Fuca’s office.

“Good morning. How about trying the best bagel in New York?” I offered, and shook the bag as a peace offering.

Connie looked up from over her pile of papers and smiled hesitantly.

“Sure. Why not?”

I plunked the bag down on her desk and we each took a bagel.

“Sorry to have snapped at you yesterday,” she said after the first bite. “It’s just that sometimes this whole thing really hits me. I’ve become nothing more than a paper pusher and it’s frustrating as hell. I begin to forget why I ever took this job.”

“I can relate to that,” I told her. “I’m itching to do a case and instead wind up writing violations all day like some kind of glorified meter maid. Newark isn’t turning out to be my dream station, either.”

“That’s odd. Everyone else here seems content with having their ass planted behind a desk. You got some kind of problem with that?” Connie joked wryly.

“Yeah. It makes me edgy when I’m not digging into things. But then, I’ve never worked at a port before,” I replied.

“Get used to it,” she advised. Her fingers gathered stray poppy seeds into a neat little pile. “You’re one of us now.”

“How do you figure that?” I asked.

“Because we’re both forced to operate under an identical set of rules. We only do inspections when there’s major suspicion of smuggling, the same as agents. Otherwise, we’re totally bogged down with paperwork,” she responded, and waved a hand at her desk. “Do you want to guess how often I’m able to go into the field and examine what comes in?”

I hadn’t realized the situation was equally bad for inspectors. The thought was appalling. Wildlife imports into Newark had increased 332 percent over the past six years. Without a doubt, the U.S. was now every wildlife trafficker’s number-one destination.

Creatures were routinely sliced and diced into jewelry, turned into Chinese medicinals, and transformed into ornamental statues, lamps, shoes, and belts. Then there was the black market for live animals that supplied pet stores, circuses, collectors, and laboratories. Add those together, and illegal trafficking came to a staggering 12 billion dollars a year, all moving through an underground pipeline of flesh, feathers, and fur. Yet almost no inspections were being conducted.

“That’s crazy,” I replied.

“No kidding. Think about it,” Connie continued. “A million containers come into this port every year, of which about seven thousand are specifically reported to contain wildlife. And each of
those
shipments can hold up to fifteen hundred boxes apiece.” She grabbed a second bagel. “If we
do
inspect anything, all we’re likely to find are minor violations. That’s because the real smugglers are smart enough to mark their shipments as containing something other than wildlife. They’re listed instead as clothing, cookware, or pottery. Which means those containers are able to simply
sail right on through. Much as I hate to admit it, not all the blame can be pinned on Hogan. It’s the bigwigs in D.C. that won’t allow us to do our job.”

“But what about Customs inspectors? Won’t they catch those items that we don’t?” I questioned, beginning to feel totally impotent.

“What, are you kidding? Most of them wouldn’t know an elephant if it bit them on the butt,” Connie retorted with a sharp laugh. “Not that it matters. Ocean cargo has always had the lowest rate of inspection in this country. I mean, come on. Ninety-eight percent of all containers are electronically cleared before they even land here. Sure, there used to be a random check of goods at one time. But not anymore. The truth is, Customs’ attention is focused on just one thing these days. Terrorism is their only priority,” she said, setting me straight.

I had to concede it was certainly understandable. Ocean ports are deemed to be the soft underbelly of the nation’s security, with 6 million containers flowing into the U.S. every year. Bin Laden knows this well. He covertly owns a shipping fleet and has used it in the past to transport stockpiles of weapons. It’s why cargo containers are now viewed as potential terror vehicles—the Trojan horses of the twenty-first century. Most experts predict it’s the way in which the next terror attack will be launched.