Convergence at Two Harbors

by Dennis Herschbach

  Deidre sat up straight with those words. “But can’t you tell me what he’s done that’s put him on the radar of your agency?”

  John looked at her through his clear blue eyes. “I’m really sorry. Really. But I haven’t been given clearance to tell you anything more. My boss told me to tell you that you’re doing everything we’ve asked, and to tell you to continue to keep an eye on the group up north in that hunting shack. You’re to report any of their observed activities to us.”

  “But, John,” Deidre pleaded. “What about the murder in the Drummond pit? What am I supposed to make of the fact that you undercut my department by having an inside track with the coroner? We deserve more for what we’re doing than what we’re getting.”

  Again he pushed his salad around on his plate.

  “I know you do, but what can I say? I’ll be in trouble if I get caught telling too much. And I have to ask that you don’t pursue the murder case too vigorously. Make it look like you’re working on it, but make it take some time. Eventually, things will work their way out, and you’ll know the reasons for everything.”

  Deidre didn’t say anything to that request, but she thought, Yeah, right. I’m going to let a murder happen in my county and not investigate it. In a pig’s eye.

  “John, I’ve got to get back to work. Thank you for the picnic lunch.”

  She was surprised when John took both of her hands and said, “I wish I could share more, but orders are orders. Maybe when this is over we can meet here again for a picnic and talk about all that happened.”

  With that he gave Deidre’s hands a gentle squeeze and said, “Keep up the good work. I appreciate what you’re up against.”

  Deidre got into her SUV and drove away, unsure of her emotions. She should have been seething, but she realized she was more confused than anything.

  Chapter Twenty

  Zaim lay in his bed, listening to the wheezes and snorts of the others as they slept soundly. Unlike them, the place was strange to him. They had lived here for the past several months and were used to the complete silence of the wilderness night, but to Zaim it was unnerving, like the feeling one gets during the calm that precedes a storm. He quietly rolled out of bed so as not to disturb the others and made his way to the porch where he found a comfortable chair. Zaim took out a cigarette and lit it. The cigarette’s glow was a burning ember in the blackness of the night.

  Periodically, the horizon would dimly light up because of some distant electrical storm, and he thought there must be a storm approaching.

  As he sat in the dark, Zaim ran his fingers over the easily palpable lump on his forearm, massaging it as he did so often when he was deep in thought. Sometimes it ached so that he had to take pain pills to numb the discomfort, but he was thankful for its presence. Like a bur under a horse’s saddle, it was a constant reminder to him of the day his arm had been so viciously broken. It was a constant reminder of his lack of medical attention and the days of abuse he endured for no other reason than he had protested over Dania’s treatment. He was thankful he would never be allowed to forget.

  Zaim contemplated how quickly plans could be altered. Every part of his plan had been meticulously arranged. The cell had been successfully set up in this wilderness area, and no one seemed to be suspicious. He thought it fortunate that these north woods people kept to themselves and didn’t meddle in other people’s affairs. In fact, not one person had ever stopped in to see who was living in the old shack that had been all but abandoned for years.

  But now, one careless act by someone who should have known better had perhaps compromised the entire operation. Yusuf was to have brought with him a flash drive containing information about the docks, but when he boarded the freighter in Thunder Bay and Zaim had met him, there was no flash drive. After searching every possible place it could have been on his person, he had to admit it was gone.

  Zaim was furious and had forced Yusuf to backtrack in his mind and relive the time leading up to the discovery of the loss. The careless one insisted he had it in his pocket when the men boarded David’s boat at Silver Bay, but now it was missing.

  After more prodding, he finally admitted to Zaim that he discovered its loss after getting in the SUV at the dock in Canada. The only logical conclusion was that it had fallen out of his pocket on David Craine’s boat, and somewhere on Crusader, Too incriminating evidence lay hidden.

  For weeks Zaim had waited for some sort of fallout because of the lost flash drive, but as the days passed and law enforcement seemed oblivious to the men living in the hunting shack north of Two Harbors, he came to believe that nothing was going to come of it and the only ramification would be that much of the plan would have to be constructed from memory.

  Eventually, Zaim settled on several explanations of why the docks weren’t swarming with security guards. One, if David Craine had found it, he had realized that by alerting the authorities about the information contained on the flash drive, he would have incriminated himself and would, himself, face prosecution.

  Or, second, the flash drive had been lost by Yusuf as he either boarded or left the boat. If it had fallen into the water, no one would find it. It may have even been lost on land and might be lying in the weeds and tall grass near their Canadian landing site. In which case, at the worst, someone other than David might have picked it up. But with no point of reference, a stranger probably wouldn’t make much of it. For all they would know, it might have been notes for a book an author was writing.

  Zaim sat inside the screened porch of the rundown shack. Its wooden floor tilted downward away from the building, suggesting that the foundation timbers had rotted away, and the screens had a few small tears in them that persistent mosquitoes found. The night was calm and peaceful, the kind of peace that would nurture an inner quiet in most people. For Zaim, however, silence only allowed the hatred stemming from his memories to fester and become more inflamed. More than ever, he wanted to punish someone for his Dania. Someone had to pay, and it would be those who propped up and offered unwavering, unthinking support for the Israelis who destroyed everything he had in life. They would pay.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After the coroner had finished his investigation of the crime scene at the Drummond Pit, Deidre had ordered the abandoned car to be towed to Denny’s Automotive in Two Harbors. She had it stored in a locked stall in his shop. On the way back from her meeting with John Erickson, she stopped at the garage. She knew that the first step in solving Herminio’s murder would be to trace the ownership history of the Corolla.

  “Hi, Denny,” she shouted in greeting.

  Amid the din of hammers pounding out dents and grinders smoothing steel, Danny called back, “Hey, Deidre. How’s it going? Haven’t talked with you for a long time.”

  The whole while he talked, Denny strode to where Deidre had entered the building.

  “What’s up?” he wanted to know?

  “I need your help for a few minutes, if you can spare the time.”

  Denny had been involved in other cases when Deidre needed help with automotive incidents. “Sure, any time. What can I do?”

  “I need to find the VIN of that car.” She pointed at the blue Corolla sitting crooked on its flat tires inside the shop. “Usually it’s found on the dash where the windshield meets, but the glass was broken out and the number had been scraped off. I checked the inside of the door frame, and the number had been obliterated there as well. Any suggestions?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Denny said confidently. But then he added, “Unless, of course, whoever owned this car knew about the third location.”

  He lifted the hood of the wreck and took out his flashlight. Denny aimed the beam of light at the fire wall, and said, “It should be back there, behind the engine. Not all cars have it at this location, but this year Toyota does.” He scraped away the dirt and oil grime from an aluminum tag. “Here it is … 4TZQAJ8TN067084. I hope this is what you need.”

  Deidre walked the hal
f block back to the law enforcement center and climbed the flight of stairs to her office. Logged into her computer, she began a search for a Corolla with the matching VIN.

  That’s strange, she thought, this car was last registered to a couple who live in Duluth. She found their telephone number listed in the directory and dialed it up.

  After several rings, the party at the other end answered.

  “I’m calling for Alf Larson,” Deidre said.

  “This is he. May I ask who’s calling,” a man with a reedy voice responded.

  “This is Sheriff Deidre Johnson of the Lake County Sheriff’s Office. Do you have a minute to talk to me?”

  After a moment’s silence the man blurted out. “This is about my son, James, isn’t it? He hasn’t lived here for quite some time. Do you know where he is? What has he done now? Is he injured?”

  It was Deidre’s turn to be a little flummoxed. “No, Mr. Larson. This is probably not about your son, and I’m sorry, I don’t know where he is. This is about a 1997 blue Toyota Corolla. Do you own such a vehicle?”

  Again there was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I, we did. Actually it was James’s car, but it was registered to me. He was pretty hard on it. Had a couple of accidents, fender benders that pushed up the insurance costs. By the time he left home last winter, it was pretty much junk, so I had it towed to a recycling place for scrap. I got sixty dollars for it.”

  “Do you remember when the car was towed?” Deidre wanted to know.

  “Just a second. I’ve got it marked on my calendar.” Deidre heard pages being turned. “Yes, here it is. He came for it on May 9th. Like I said, he paid me sixty dollars for it. I was careful to have him write out a receipt that I have here.”

  “Mr. Larson,” Deidre pressed. “Do you remember the name of the junkyard?”

  “Not exactly. It was the one up on Dice Bay Road, out of Duluth, Standard’s or something like that.”

  Deidre was pretty sure she knew the spot, but asked, “Stanford’s?”

  “Yes. That’s it, Stanford’s Auto Salvage. Here it is. He signed his name Stanford Williams.”

  Deidre was about to thank him for his time and cooperation, when the old man asked, “You will tell me if you hear anything about my son, James, won’t you?”

  Deidre assured him she would, thanked him, and hung up the phone. Alf Larson certainly didn’t murder Herminio, she thought.

  On the way out of the office, she told her secretary to route all calls to her cell phone, because she would be on her way to Duluth.

  The Stanford’s Auto Salvage yard was anything but usual. A row of flowers—hollyhocks, delphinium, and phlox—lined the ditch by the driveway. The lawn was mowed and trimmed around the edges. There were no car parts lying around. Everything was spotless. Even the three shops looked to have been freshly painted, and the fence, behind which rows of junkers were hidden, was perfectly a lined.

  Stanford Williams, the owner and operator of the yard came out of his office to meet her, and Deidre almost laughed, because she couldn’t help but think this was an English gentleman coming to invite her in for tea. His clean khaki pants had a sharp crease, and he was wearing a plaid, long sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up two turns, and on his head he sported a short-billed flat hat. He was a small man with delicate fingers and a neatly trimmed, gray moustache.

  “Can I get you something?” he asked, his friendly smile exposing whitened teeth.

  Deidre showed her badge. “Deidre Johnson, Lake County Sheriff.” The man stiffened ever so slightly.

  “I’m here to check on the whereabouts of a vehicle. It was reportedly picked up by someone from this yard, although it was supposed to have been junked. I’d like to talk to you about that.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Stanford said, still smiling. “This is St. Louis County, and you are from Lake County. That means this is out of your jurisdiction.”

  “You’re right as far as my having no jurisdiction here relative to an automobile registration, but this visit is regarding a junked car that has been involved in a homicide in Lake County. Whoever took that car in as a junker and then allowed it back on the street could possibly be considered an accessory to murder,” Deidre bluffed.

  Those words had an effect on Stanford’s attitude. Suddenly, he wasn’t quite so smiling. He became serious.

  “I don’t know what I can do to help you, Sheriff. I know I didn’t have anything to do with any murder or whatever you’re talking about. But if there’s anything I do know, I’ll tell you.”

  “A 1997 Toyota Corolla is registered to an older gentleman, Alf Larson, who claims you towed it away for scrap. It had some body damage and had been pretty well beat. Do you remember picking up that vehicle?” Deidre asked.

  Stanford toed the crushed rock in the drive before answering with a question of his own. “When was that supposed to have happened?”

  He’s stalling for time, Deidre thought. “Last month, May 9th. Alf has the day marked on his calendar. He’s very meticulous with his record keeping. You might remember that he’d drawn up a bill of sale. Will it help your memory if I told you that you paid him sixty dollars for the beater.”

  Stanford’s memory became much more acute. “Now I remember. An older man who complained about his son not appreciating what he had. Yeah, I remember him—and the car. It ran, barely, but I got it started and drove it up onto the trailer.”

  “So, if you towed the car here, what happened to it? You didn’t file the title with the state, indicating that the car had been junked.” Deidre had Stanford and he knew it.

  “The title’s probably in my office. It’s a little messy in there, and it’s probably under a pile of paperwork I haven’t got to yet.”

  Deidre looked around at the park-like appearance of the yard and thought, Yeah, right, and you probably have stacks of dirty dishes in your sink, too.

  “If the car hasn’t been registered as junked, and if there is no record of the title being transferred to another party, how did it end up in a gravel pit west of Two Harbors?”

  Stanford was getting more agitated by the minute. He continued to look at the ground and dig at it with the toe of his boot.

  “If I tell what I remember, am I going to end up in serious trouble?” Stanford wanted to know.

  “If you don’t tell me what you know, you definitely are going to end up in serious trouble,” Deidre threatened. “Right now, the only law you’ve broken is letting a vehicle off your lot without any record of a sale. You sold or gave away or had stolen a vehicle meant to be junked. Because that happened in St. Louis County, I have no reason to arrest you. However, I will be obligated to turn over that information to the St. Louis County sheriff. What they do after that is up to them. But if you’re concealing information about a crime that occurred in Lake County, that’s another issue. The Corolla was found abandoned in a gravel pit, and there was a body in the trunk. That’s serious business, Stanford, far more serious than not registering a junked vehicle.”

  “Okay, okay,” Stanford said, squaring his shoulders as though he was about to face a firing squad.

  “A couple of days after I towed it in here, two men stopped by. They said they were looking for an old beater they could use to drive on some rough roads up north, something that wouldn’t matter if it was wrecked. I thought it was a little unusual—they didn’t seem like the kind who were used to driving on logging roads, but they said they wanted to drive into some brook trout lakes north of Two Harbors.”

  “How did they pay you?” Deidre wanted to know.

  “Cash, $500. Cash if I’d turn over the title to them without signing it. They said they’d register it when they went through Two Harbors.”

  “And you let them do that?” Deidre wasn’t buying the whole story.

  “Listen, five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks, and in this business that’s not easy to come by. They said if the car broke down in the woods, they wanted to be able to walk away f
rom it. I figured no one would be the wiser.”

  Deidre now believed she was getting closer to the truth. “Can you give me a description of the two men?”

  Stanford looked at the sky as he thought. “I guess they’d be about five-ten, not big not small, if you know what I mean. They had black hair. And, oh yeah, they had darker skin than most people around here. Not black, mind you, but darker. That’s about all I can remember.”

  Deidre prodded his memory. “What about the way they spoke? Was anything out of the ordinary?”

  Once again Stanford looked at an invisible something in the sky. “There was something about the way they spoke that was unusual. They didn’t really have an accent. Maybe it was the way they put their words together. You know how the old Norwegians around here say, ‘Ya’ or ‘You betcha?’ Well, these guys had their own way of speaking, but I can’t really tell you what it was. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

  Deidre couldn’t let it drop. “Stanford, do you watch the news on TV?”

  “Sure, who doesn’t?” He looked at her curiously.

  “Have you ever paid attention to how people from the Middle East sound?”

  At that Stanford’s eyes came alive with recognition. “That’s it! They didn’t have an accent like you hear so often, but the way they spoke reminded me an awful lot of what people from that area say.”

  “One last thing,” Deidre announced to the now visibly flustered junkman. “Do you remember anything about the car the two drove up in?”

  “Well, yes, of course I do,” Stanford answered almost indignantly as if Deidre should have assumed he would notice. “It was a 2010 black Ford Explorer, Minnesota license plate 765 BGY.”

  Deidre’s eyes opened a little wider with that information. “Stanford, are you sure about the license number? Did you write it down for some reason?”