Wallace and Nguyen both scribbled in their notebooks.
“We have reason to believe your son may have been with your secretary the night she was killed.”
“I thought it was an accident.”
Wallace rephrased the sentence. “We have reason to believe your son was with your secretary the night she had her accident. The night she died.”
“He might have been. They were co-workers. You don’t suspect my son had anything to do with her death, do you? I thought you were suspicious of the man in the photo? Are you saying there are two suspects? Working together?”
Wallace felt like he was in the hot seat. “No sir. Your son is not a suspect. We would like to ask him a few questions about that night. Maybe he saw something that could help us get to the truth.”
“I thought the medical examiner’s office already got to the truth.”
Wallace didn’t like the way that line of questioning was going and changed topics. “Do you have a phone number for your son? A mobile phone number?”
“Sure, I can get that for you. Is there anything else I can help you with? I have to meet someone at the airport, and if I get going now, I should be right on time.”
“No, that’s it. If you think of anything that may help us, please contact either me or my partner here.”
“Certainly. And if you need to reach me, here is my direct number. Either Shelly or I will answer the call. She will get you my son’s phone number on the way out.”
“His mobile phone number. We have his home number,” Detective Nguyen said for clarification.
“Yes, she will provide you with whatever you want.”
Detective Wallace checked his notes. “And we will be waiting for the name of the man in the photo.”
“Yes, detective. I will get that to you as soon as possible.” ***
Peter Winthrop picked Hasad up at Reagan National Airport with Shawn, his driver, behind the wheel. Shawn, dressed in his usual black suit with a white shirt and blue tie, put the bags in the trunk as Hasad gave Peter his over-the-top greeting. Handshake, half-hug, followed by another handshake.
“So good to see you again, Mr. Winthrop. So good.”
“How was your flight?”
“Long. As you know. Istanbul to New York was non-stop. Zipped into Manhattan to visit a friend for lunch and caught the Delta shuttle here.”
“Well, I hope you can survive for another hour or so.”
“Where are we going?”
“Baltimore.”
“I love Baltimore,” Hasad said. “They have the best Hooters restaurant, right there on the harbor. Maybe we can stop there for a late dinner.”
“I think we can work it into the schedule.”
“Where is Jake?”
“He’s not going to make it.”
“That’s too bad. I enjoyed our night out in D.C. on my last visit.”
“So did Jake. He would be here but has been busy preparing for school. He’s been out of the classroom for almost two years and said he needs to re-register, talk to some professors, see what classes he needs to take.”
“I understand,” Hasad answered, no longer listening.
Baltimore Harbor is home to the third largest port on the eastern seaboard after Newport News and Charleston. Its larger siblings accounted for most of the steel and commodities coming into the U.S., the continued strength of a hundred plus years of post-slave imports. Baltimore, in contrast, had a little bit of everything. Located at the foot of the Northeast Corridor, the container ships lined up five miles out for their turn to load and unload.
Life on the docks never stopped. A stench of dead fish and diesel fuel was as consistent as the flow of the brackish waters where the river met the bay. A massive conglomeration of warehouses, docks, and miles of cracked pavement—work went on twenty-four hours a day, performed by some of the hardest men ever put on God’s green earth. U.S. Customs resided in the main facilities building on the west side of the complex, overlooking the forklifts that milled about like ants. Cranes swung back and forth, delivering cargo to the decks of ships that stood sixty feet out of the water. Pneumatic conveyors blew powdered goods from the ship hulls to waiting railcars at the far end of the yard.
The strip of warehouses and storage facilities that began near the water stretched as far as the unaided eye could see, running south like a retired couple from northern Michigan. Each building was an unofficial standard size—ninety feet by a hundred twenty. Each one was three stories, a sea of metal boxes holding priceless valuables and crates of worthless crap. Over the years the warehouses had yielded numerous front-page-worthy finds, including a stolen Picasso and a mummified family of five dating back to the Great Depression.
Warehouse 21-C was the third building down from the main access road that ran through the middle of the field of storage. Some of the smaller warehouses were divided into two multiple storage facilities, separated by a wall of plyboard and chicken wire, each side large enough for a full basketball court. Warehouse 21-C was undivided, Winthrop Enterprises its lone resident.
Dark clouds formed a front to the west as Shawn pulled into the Baltimore Harbor Warehouse and Storage facilities. A passkey combination started the gate in motion with a thud, followed by the silence of well-greased wheels on their tracks.
“Looks like storms are coming, sir.”
“Yes it does. What’s July in the D.C. area without a few afternoon boomers?”
“Yes, sir. Just letting you know the forecast.”
“Thanks, Shawn,” Peter said. “Pull the car over to the right.”
The black sedan-for-hire parked next to a roll-up door on the warehouse across from number 21-C. On cue, the rain started falling in a light pitter-patter. Peter and his Turkish client got out of opposite sides of the car. Peter pointed in the direction of the warehouse with an open hand extending from the cuff of his suit. Hasad followed as the rain picked up in intensity, larger drops, cold to the touch.
“Is this your main warehouse?” Hasad asked, unable to keep silent, even when there was nothing to say.
“I don’t own it. Winthrop Enterprises leases it on a semi-permanent basis.”
Peter opened the side door with a key and a nudge from his right shoulder. The warehouse was pitch black and Peter fumbled his hand along the right side wall until he found the oversized power switch. With a pull on the lever, the floor of the warehouse illuminated.
Boxes filled the back half of the floor space, each box neatly labeled and stacked in separate piles, some twenty feet high. The concrete floor was swept and clean. A lone forklift was parked in the back, near an emergency exit with an intermittently flashing sign.
“What’s in all the boxes?” Hasad asked.
“Let’s see,” Peter answered, walking among the stacks. He looked at the labels and started the tour. “I believe we have some Civil War memorabilia going to a collector in India. The collection includes a set of rare cavalier sabers, and a few cannon remains. Not a big shipment, but we are still finalizing some documentation before it can be exported. We keep most of our large shipments in another location. Heavy items that can’t be moved as easily by forklift.”
“Things like Hummers.”
“Exactly. Your Hummers were retrofitted not too far from here.”
“They are great vehicles.”
“I am glad you enjoy them.”
“I do, I do. My friends and I enjoy them very much.” ***
Shawn looked through the window of the parked car, rain cascading down the windshield in sheets. He saw a figure in front of the car and hit the wipers. The swipe of rubber across the glass brought the leveled gun into perfect focus. The door was yanked open from the outside and Shawn looked out of the corner of his eye to see another gun—very real and very close.
“FBI. Don’t move,” Special Agent Ann Cahill said with glee. “Keep your hands on the wheel where I can see
