[Quinn 02] - The Deceived

recognize the name, but that wasn’t surprising. At times it seemed as if there were nearly as many shipping companies scattered around the globe as there were containers.

When Quinn reached the point where he had begun his inspection, he stopped, his eyes still on the box.

“You’re going to get rid of this, right?” Stafford asked. “I mean... that’s what Mr. Albina told me. He said he was sending someone to get rid of it. That’s you, right?”

“Manifest?” Quinn asked.

The man took a second to react, then nodded and picked up the clipboard he’d put on the ground when he’d opened the container’s doors.

“What’s supposed to be inside?” Quinn asked. With the trade imbalance the way it was, nothing came into the States empty anymore. Any container that did would be suspicious.

Stafford flipped through several pages, then stopped. “Tennis shoes,” he said, looking up.

Quinn glanced over at the man. “One pair?”

“That’s really funny,” the man said, not laughing.

“Who found it?” Quinn asked.

Stafford seemed unsure what to say. When he did speak, his words didn’t match the evasiveness in his eyes. “One of the dockhands. Said he smelled something when the crane set it down on the pier.”

“From that ship out there?” Quinn asked, motioning toward the door that led outside. “The Riegle 3?”

Stafford nodded his head. “Yeah. It was one of the first ones off-loaded.”

“So this dockhand, he just brought the container in here and called you?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t call the police?”

“I run everything by Mr. Albina. He said to wait for you.” When Quinn didn’t reply right away, Stafford added, “That’s the way it happened, okay?”

Quinn continued to stare at the man for a moment, then he turned and started walking toward the exit.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Stafford asked.

“Home,” Quinn said without stopping.

“Wait. What am I supposed to do?”

Quinn paused a few feet from the door and looked back. Stafford was still standing near the container.

“Where did the crate come from? Who found it? And why did they let you know?” Quinn asked.

“I already told you that.” This time there was even less conviction in Stafford’s words.

Quinn smiled, then shook his head. There was no reason to blame the man. It was obvious he was only saying what he’d been told to say. Still, Quinn didn’t like being jerked around.

“Good luck with your problem.”

He pushed open the door and left.

“That was quick,” Nate said.

Quinn climbed into the passenger seat of his BMW M3. Nate, his apprentice, was sitting behind the wheel, a copy of The Basics of Instrumental Flight in his lap. Just a week earlier, Nate had begun small-aircraft flying lessons. It was just one of many outside training courses he’d be taking during his apprenticeship.

While his boss had been inside, he’d also rolled down the windows to let the cool ocean breeze pass through the interior while he waited. His iPod was plugged into the stereo playing KT Tunstall low in the background—a live cover of the old Jackson 5 hit “I Want You Back.”

“Turns out they didn’t need us,” Quinn said.

“No body?” Nate asked, surprised.

“There was a body. I just decided it might be better if they take care of it themselves.”

Nate let out a short laugh. “Right. Better for who? Them or us?”

Quinn allowed a smile to touch his lips. “Let’s go.”

Nate looked at Quinn for a moment longer, seeming to be expecting more. When that didn’t happen, he tossed his book in the back and started the engine. “Where to?”

Quinn glanced at his watch. It was 11 a.m. The drive back from Long Beach to his house in the Hollywood Hills would take them over an hour. “Home. But I’m hungry. Let’s stop someplace first.”

“How about Pink’s?”

Quinn smiled. “That’ll work.”

They drove in silence for several minutes as Nate maneuvered the car through the city and onto the freeway.

Once they were up to cruising speed, Nate said, “So what exactly happened?”

Quinn gazed out the window at nothing in particular. “They didn’t tell me all I needed to know.”