It’s the familiar eye-watering legalese. I start skimming. “Your firm doesn’t have a Facebook account, and your website’s useless.”
“Son, we don’t get our clients from the internet. Simon Lazarett—the name on that letterhead—was a justice on the Ninth Circuit. The other partners call him ‘the underachiever.’ When my firm calls someone in the middle of the night, they tend to get their calls answered. That’s how we found your ICE case agent so quickly. Are you actually going to read all that?”
Hearing they found the ICE guy takes a couple tons off my chest. “Habit. Is there a part in here about how I pay you?”
“No. There is a part about how the DeWitt Agency will pay my firm unless we discover you’ve acted counter to the agency’s interests.” He peers at me over his readers. “Did you?”
“I haven’t gotten a good handle on what the agency’s interests are.”
“Understandable. Sign the form, son.” When I’m done, he says, “Ms. DeWitt sent a summary of what you’ve been doing for the past thirty days. What I need to know is, why were you discussing committing tax fraud with a federal agent?”
“He started it.” I tell him about McCarran from the time I met the man until he left the table last night. Samson takes notes on a yellow legal pad using a walnut-burl Mont Blanc. Once I finish, I ask, “It’s entrapment, isn’t it?”
“That may be beside the point.” He flips through his notes and makes checkmarks next to several lines. “Did you ever suspect McCarran was a federal agent?”
“I didn’t know what to make of him. He had a really good cover, better than Hoskins’, but I couldn’t get comfortable with it.”
“But you stayed in contact with him hoping he’d give you more information.”
“Yes.”
“Which you would’ve included in your report to ICE.”
“Um… sure. Have you heard the recording yet?”
“Not yet. I hope to at the meeting.” Samson sets his readers on the notepad and swivels to face me. “What do you know about Chad Mellin?”
My guess: he’s the client. “I did some research on him after his name came up.” I give him a rundown of what I found. “Why?”
He rocks his chair for a few moments, considering me. “I suspect most of what I’m about to tell you is available in public if you dig hard enough, so that’s where you found it in case anyone asks. My firm represents Mr. Mellin. ICE has been looking at him since they started their investigation two years ago.”
“Why’s it taking so long?”
“It hasn’t been a priority. I’m sure you’ve seen that the numbers involved aren’t large. But now it’s a big priority.”
“Why now?”
“You haven’t watched television since New Year’s?”
“I get my TV streaming.”
“You’re leading a truly blessed life, son. There happens to be an election going on. The administration wants to clean up before the new people come in. Also, nailing the scalps of a few privileged white men to the wall would make certain parts of the electorate happy enough to leave their La-Z-Boys and vote.”
That makes more sense than what little Allyson told me. “Is Mellin the type who’d pay six figures for information to get on ICE’s good side?”
He chuckles. “A man as rich as Mr. Mellin wouldn’t even stop to think about it if it keeps him out of handcuffs or out of jail.” Samson leans back with a smile. “That’s the beauty of being rich, or so I’m told.”
“Where’s the DEA fit?”
Samson shakes his head. “That, I can’t tell you. I hope that subject will come up in the meeting.”
“What’s this meeting about, anyway?”
He rocks out of his chair. “This is when they’ll decide if you’re going to be a DEA asset…” he claps me on the shoulder “…or a suspect.”
Chapter 31
They stick me in a small, windowless room with a smaller oval table before the nine o’clock meeting starts. It reminds me of an interview room, except not as homey. I’m not supposed to exist, so I guess I don’t get invited to the party.
Twenty or so minutes later, another contractor appears, has me sign forms, then hands me a sealed, clear-plastic bag with my phone, cash, wallet, tie and belt in it. I don’t ask what happened. I don’t care right now. They’re letting me out.
Savannah called my phone three times last night and sent a dozen texts. They begin with Running late? and escalate to Where are you? Are you ok? Please call I’m worried .
When I call back, her phone rings twice, then rolls to voicemail. What do I tell a machine? I send a text (I’m ok something came up I’ll try to call again) instead.
A frosty text rolls in a few minutes later (You’re still alive). I’ve been in the doghouse enough to know when I’m in the doghouse. I can’t afford to have her pissed off at me—I don’t know what she’ll do with it.
I try to call again and finally reach her. After a chilly conversation, we settle on dinner, where I promise to tell her everything—at least, everything I need her to know. I say, “I promise I’ll be there.”
“You’d better be. If you’re not, don’t call me again.” Click.
I get almost ninety minutes to stew about that, and McCarran, and whatever else jumps up to torture me. I call Bandineau to set up lunch so I can hit him with the storage cube. Somewhere along the way I fall asleep for fifteen minutes. It isn’t restful.
Finally, Samson walks in. “Son, you’re off the hook. They’ve dropped the charges.”
Thank god. Something finally went right.
He gives me the TV Guide version of the meeting. After a lot of interagency head-butting, they came to a typically bureaucratic decision: DEA will continue its investigation separately, but they’ll meet weekly with the Task Force (HSI and the IRS) to “discuss” information their operations uncover.
He says, “Both case agents are on their way to talk to you. Cooperate with them, answer their questions, make them feel good. They’re just looking to catch up, not to trap you.”
“Will you be here?”
“No, you don’t need me for this.” He must see the panic in my eyes, because he pats me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine, son. If you get nervous, call me.”
Carruthers and another guy appear five minutes after Samson leaves. Carruthers looks like his suit and tie are smothering him. The other guy gives me the once-over. “Friedrich?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sticks out his hand. “Vern Talbot, ICE HSI. Good to meet you finally.” He’s in his late forties, balding, a profile off a Roman coin. He seems more comfortable in a suit than Carruthers does.
We settle around the table. Carruthers stares at me like I give him indigestion. “Whadda I do with you? I already got a UC working this line.” He flops his arm on the table with the hand stretching out to Talbot. “Don’t get why you need him neithah. You got agents, I know you do.”
Talbot leans back, all smiles. “Sure. I’ve got UCs all over.” I assume UC means undercover agents. “But I’ll tell you—Friedrich here’s about as far along as my UCs, but he did it in thirty days instead of a year, and he’s not burned yet. I’m happy as a clam—” he flicks a glance at me “—so far.”
That gives me a few seconds of warm fuzzies until I notice they’re both staring at me. I guess it’s my turn. “Thank you, Agent Talbot. I’m glad you’re happy with my work.”
“So far.”
“Right.” Warm fuzzies—gone. I watch Carruthers drill holes in my teeth with his eyes. “Agent Carruthers, I’ve got one big question right now: what do pots have to do with drugs?”
He makes a sour face and scratches the back of his head. The look he gives Talbot is almost a plea—help me out here, will you?
Talbot says, “Go ahead, Bruce. I’d love to hear this.”
Carruthers sighs. “Fine. Back 2011, early 2012, Oakland PD starts finding dead junkies. They got s
ome kind of super heroin. Real pure—” puah “—real strong. Not cut with fentanyl or any of that shit. Number Four, except better, you know? OPD calls for help. We figah the Mexicans for it. They own heroin on the coast, right? So we spend two years trying to work out which cartel’s shipping in the dope, and how. By then, we got dead junkies all up and down the East Bay, and it’s in Frisco. Thing that gets everyone spun up? Techies are getting it—and they’re dyin’.”
My brain tilts. “Wait a minute—techies are taking heroin?”
Talbot chuckles. “It’s not just for skanks anymore.”
Even Carruthers laughs a little. “True that. Look. This place’s fulla people working eighty, hundred hours a week, week in, week out, to hit these crazy deadlines. How d’you think they do that? They start out on Red Bull when they’re kids. Time they get here, they’ve moved up to Adderall, Provigil. When that don’t give the bump no moah, it’s coke or meth. They go to parties, drop Molly. Then they’re all cranked up, can’t sleep. So they take oxy or hydrocodone. When that don’t work no moah, they move to heroin. God knows they got the money for it, not that it costs so much anyway.”
Talbot smirks. “Score another one for the War on Drugs.”
“Hey, watch that shit. We bust illegals all the time, but I don’t ride you for it.”
I put up a hand to each of them. “Guys, seriously? I’m losing my faith in federal law enforcement here.”
Carruthers nods toward me and says to Talbot, “Smartah than he looks.” He turns to me. “Right, I was sayin’. Couple years back, we get stupid lucky. TSA grabs a couriah with half a kilo of this shit in his checked bags. He flew Bangkok to Honolulu to Oakland. So now we know we’re looking for Thais…”
Oh, god. Cops and their stories. They’re worse than fishermen. Because I don’t want to sit through the next half-hour of this, my brain’s already running through the possibilities until I get to the one that makes most sense. “Are they smuggling heroin in the pots?”
Carruthers looks like I stole his best punchline. “Uh… yeah.”
Oh, shit. Heroin.
My undergrad studies in pharmacology convinced me of one thing: I don’t like other people stoned, and I really don’t like me stoned. So other than the very occasional joint in social situations, I take my mind-altering chemicals out of a glass.
But the art world and drugs go together like hot dogs and nitrites. I saw… well, a lot of eye-opening things at gallery parties. And the big takeaway there (and at school) was that the people who sell hard drugs—like heroin—aren’t at all nice.
I say, “How does that work? Why don’t you guys find them coming in, like you do at the border?”
Carruthers leans back, nodding. “Yeah. We were wondering that, too. Then we busted a load on a containah ship in Port of Oakland. Out of Singapore, caught a storm—” stoam “—knocked around some containers. Sniffah dog alerted on a twenty-footah. We cracked it open, found crushed boxes, broken pots, and horse. So, lab guys tested it. It’s the clay.”
I swap a confused look with Talbot. He says, “What’s the clay?”
“There’s something in the clay.” Carruthers points to his nose. “Confuses the dogs. They can’t smell the junk.”
Talbot laughs. “For real?”
“For reals.”
I ask, “White slip, vivid blue underglaze?”
“Squiggles on the outside? Yeah, some of ‘em. Some just painted, you know, red, tan, stuff on the outside. Mean something to you?”
Someone’s mixing the Nam Ton wares with other styles of ceramics, all made from the same clay. “Got pictures?”
“Yeah. We shot everything.”
Talbot makes a choking sound. “Now we find out. Can we get those?”
Carruthers shrugs. “I’ll talk to the ASAC.”
My brain’s busy working out the next step. “You think they’re moving the heroin around in the pots here?”
“Maybe. That’s the angle McCarran’s working. Not his real name, by the way.”
“Yeah, I figured.” I stop to think carefully about my next question. If the DEA already knows all about the drugs, they may also know where the ceramics come from and they’re sitting on the info. If that’s how it is, ICE doesn’t need me anymore. Bad news for my early termination. So the last thing I want is to ask if they know where the drugs come from.
Talbot rocks his chair for a few moments. “Know where the H is coming from?”
Shit.
Carruthers says, “You mean before it hits Khlong Toei? No. We—”
I ask, “What’s Khlong Toei?”
“Main seaport for Bangkok. We’ve run samples against all our comparators. Nothing. New product. We’re getting shit cooperation from the Thais. Probably means whoever’s doing this is hooked up with the army or the government. We’re stuck going over containahs originating in Thailand manifested for handicrafts or souvenirs. Which is a—”
“Wait.” I hold up a finger to put him on “pause” while I think about this. “Why those?”
“That shipment we busted? Bills of lading said ‘handicrafts’ and ‘folk aht’ and ‘souvenirs’.”
“Those pots you found. Did they have ‘Made in Thailand’ stickers on the bottom?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I found one in Bandineau’s storage cube. It was in the trash.” I also still have that document sleeve but haven’t had time to do anything with it yet.
“Yeah?” For once, Carruthers looks interested in something I said. “Tell me about this cube.”
Talbot wrestles some papers out of his black leather portfolio and shoves them across the table. “His report. Merry Christmas.”
Carruthers leafs through the report. “You talk about the stickahs in here?”
“Yeah. Toward the end.”
“Pitchas?”
Talbot slides a thumb drive toward him. “Happy New Year.”
“What else you got in there?”
“Ask. We’ll see.”
I ask, “Did you look at Bandineau or Montford?”
Carruthers is reading my report now. “Yeah. Staked out the gallery—what is it, Achama?—intercepted a couple packages. Nothin’. They’re moving the pots, though, so we’re still looking. Bandineau’s up to his neck in it, but we got nothing on a narco connection yet.”
I hesitate to ask this, but I need to know. “How about the art advisor? Kendicott?”
“Oh yeah, her. Yeah, we looked at her a lot.” Carruthers winks. “A real lookah, that one. She’s a busy girl, but we didn’t see nothing that’d get us a warrant.”
Phew. At least Savannah’s not their prime suspect. “What do you want me to look for?”
Carruthers drops the report on the table, rocks back, and folds his hands behind his head. “Just stay outta my way. Don’t fuck with my people, just—”
“For chrissake, Bruce.” Talbot squints at Carruthers like he’s aiming at him. “He’s going to be out there anyway. He doesn’t know who your people are. While he’s asking questions for us, he can ask for you. Don’t be a dick.”
“You should talk.” Carruthers swivels toward me. “You know what drugs look like, Mistah I’ve-Only-Done-Pot-Since-College?”
“I’ve got a good idea.”
“Good. You see any, let us know. Otherwise, stay out of our shit.”
After more jousting and more stories, Carruthers leaves to talk to his higher-ups. Talbot and I sit side-by-side, sighing and staring at the table.
Talbot says, “Good work.”
“Thanks.”
“How’d you get in so fast?”
I’m sleeping with one of the suspects? “Just talented, I guess.”
“Well, keep it up.”
I never expected to get a shot at the guy who officially doesn’t know me. Since I have one, I might as well take it. “I know the deal with Mellin was for sixty days. If I’m close to something on Day 59, are you really gonn
a pull the plug on it?”
“We’ll see. Something for you to remember—you’re useful only if you’re developing intel for us that we can’t get. If we develop the intel ourselves, we’ll run with that instead of yours. It’s cleaner for us. You hear me?”
In other words, I’m racing against his people to get to the end. “Yes, sir.”
“Something else. You noticed nobody was taking notes in here, right?” I nod. “This meeting didn’t happen. You’re still off-books. We had to read Bruce in on you so he’ll stop arresting you. So even though you’ve seen me, nothing changes. Everything goes through your normal channels—nothing comes straight to me. You hear that, too?”
Translation: if anything happens, we don’t know you. “Yes, sir. One more question. How far do you want me to take this?”
He considers this. “To the source.”
The worst possible answer. “The ultimate source? Where the pots come from? Or just to who’s importing them?”
“Where they come from. We want this stopped. The only way to do that is to keep people from digging up the pots. We can’t do that until we know where they are.”
And here I was starting to feel good about this. “Nobody knows where they are.”
“Somebody does.” Talbot zips his portfolio and stands to go. “Find that somebody. You’ve got plenty of time.” He checks his watch “Thirty-six days. Better get to it.”
Chapter 32
The Tabletop Tap House on Fourth Street in the Metreon mall’s ground floor is full of a mixed bag of geeks: the local ones who work around here and the visiting ones from the IEEE convention across the street in the Moscone Center.
Bandineau and I grab two seats at the end of the long tufted-leather banquette that stretches along one wall of the hangar-like dining room. Between the groups of tech bros using their outdoor voices and the sound bounce from all the hard surfaces, there’s no chance we’ll be overheard.
We make polite chat until the food arrives. I don’t want to hit him right away; I want to lull him into a false sense of security first. I’m halfway into my grilled chicken-bacon-red-leaf-lettuce-tomato sandwich before I reach into my coat pocket and drop a four-by-six manila envelope on his side of the table.
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 19
