USA, Inc. (A Mike Wardman Novel: Book 1)

by Larry Kahaner

  “Why was she killed, Mike?”

  “I don’t know. The FBI believes that a crew from another boat got into an argument with them about fishing grounds, but I don’t think so. All the fishers knew and respected your sister, besides. It’s something else.”

  “Did she say anything before she died?”

  Mike hesitated. “She said, ‘Contact her.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  Evelyn considered his words. “Was she referring to me? Did she want you to get in touch with me?”

  “Doubt it. You and I have never met, but I knew your name, so Marilyn would have said it. Can I look around the apartment?”

  “Why?”

  “There might be something here that can help me find the killer, something that the FBI missed. Before I get started, you asked to meet with me. Is there something you want to tell me first?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it means anything, but Marilyn and I communicated with each other about every two weeks, depending upon where I was, and where she was. If we had service, we would talk on our mobiles. About two weeks ago, we texted, and she told me that she dreaded going on her next monitoring assignment, the Judy Bee. She said that the captain had hassled her the last time she was aboard, but she didn’t elaborate. She also said something strange—that they didn’t only fish, but were doing other jobs. I didn’t quite understand what she meant, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Maybe now it means something.”

  “It’s not uncommon for fishing boats to take on other work,” Mike said. “Sometimes they make a few bucks and become a water taxi if riders miss the last regular ferry from Lewes to Cape May. Other times, a captain may sign on his boat as a research vessel, helping scientists collect water or core samples from the ocean floor.”

  “It just gave me a bad feeling when I read her texts. Could the Judy Bee be involved in something illegal?”

  “Possibly. Some of the more enterprising captains smuggle drugs or other contraband. Exotic animals, pirated luxury goods, sometimes going as far south as Mexico or the Caribbean. The Judy Bee certainly had that kind of range.”

  He looked around the room and noticed that everything was neatly placed, organized. Marilyn had all her important papers in clearly marked file folders. There might be something worthwhile here after all.

  As Evelyn started to go through the desk, she began to cry. “Why? She was counting fish, for God’s sake. How does that get you killed?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike said. “Whenever Marilyn went out for more than a week, she would clean out the refrigerator before she left. I know there’s nothing in there for you to eat. May I take you to dinner?”

  She sniffled. “I need to get myself together.”

  About ten minutes later, they walked out of the building, and Mike pulled his collar up to protect his neck from the wind. Not having any warm clothes of her own, Evelyn had found a navy-issued blue pea coat that had belonged to her sister. They walked to the Dogfish Head, a restaurant a few blocks away on Rehoboth Avenue. Usually bustling in the summer, the pub now served the smaller local crowd, who were lower key than their summer brethren.

  The bartender came over and stood at their table. “Sorry to hear about Marilyn. It’s on us tonight, Mike.” He turned to Evelyn. “Are you Marilyn’s sister? There’s a resemblance.”

  “Evelyn Montclair.”

  “Barry,” the bartender announced. “My condolences.”

  He stepped away and was replaced by a server who took their orders. A few minutes later, she brought a ninety-minute India Pale Ale for both of them.

  “That’s where I break ranks with my sister,” said Evelyn. “I’m a beer girl. I caught the habit in Africa, because it’s cheap and cold. The water in most countries isn’t drinkable, so beer takes its place. The national beer of Madagascar is Three Horses Beer—THB. You can buy it everywhere. This beer,” she said, aiming her chin at the mug, “feels a lot stronger.” She took another sip. “It’s what I need right now.”

  “You and me both,” said Mike.

  “I don’t want to pry, but I know that you and my sister were close for about a year. She was devastated when you broke up.”

  “I think it was all me, to tell you the truth.”

  Evelyn gave him a prompting look.

  “It’s a long story. Maybe some other time.”

  The server delivered a New York strip steak for Mike and scallops for Evelyn.

  “I see tons of fish almost every day. It makes me want to eat meat,” Mike said.

  Evelyn speared a scallop. “I have to take care of Marilyn’s estate, such as it is. Her car, condo, bank accounts. I have her will in my papers back home.”

  “Where is back home?” Mike asked.

  “I keep an apartment in New York. I get detailed to UN headquarters every few years, but I don’t want to give it up, so I sublet it when I’m away. I’ve requested emergency family leave, and I’m planning to stay in my sister’s place for a while. It’s mine now, I guess. I’ll stay here for a few days, then head for New York to pick up some things from storage, and come back. I may call you for help.”

  “I’ll be around if you need anything.”

  They interspersed their dinner with small talk about Rehoboth Beach, the crowded summers and mellow winters. They exchanged stories about Marilyn, with Evelyn offering childhood recollections.

  “We were the weird sisters, always reading about science, loving math,” she said. “Tell me about Marilyn when she …”

  “It wasn’t an easy job, being at sea for days at a time. Sometimes a week. We don’t get the kind of storms and frigid cold that you see on those reality shows about fishing in the Bering Sea, but it can get pretty rough out there. She always held her own.”

  Mike pointed to Evelyn’s plate. “It was her job to help manage the scallop catch. You see, there are three major fishing grounds about a hundred miles off the coast: Hudson Canyon, Elephant Trunk, and Delmarva. Fisheries opens and closes these areas based on how big the fish are and how many are caught. We may close one for a year or two and open another.

  “Marilyn monitored the catch and helped crunch the numbers to determine how long the fishing season would be, when to open it, and when to rotate the fishing grounds. The older fishermen were skeptical at first of how we did our jobs. They can be ornery about someone from the government telling them what to do. But when they found themselves making more money than ever, they embraced it. When it came to the scallop fleet, and the Judy Bee was one of them, there was plenty to go around. That’s why I don’t buy the FBI’s premise about boat rivalry.”

  “Mike, I want you to promise me something. Find my sister’s killer. It will help me cope if I know why she died. Her death has to have some meaning.”

  Mike reflected on his years at the FBI and saw too many crimes that had gone unsolved. Even those with a resolution didn’t always bring comfort to the family. Many crimes were simply senseless, devoid of greater implication. However, in this case, his experience told him there was something bigger here.

  “I will do everything I can,” he said. “I promise that.”

  They finished with coffee and headed outside. The wind subsided, but it was still damp and cold. Spring was close, but not close enough. She held her arm through his as they walked. Neither said a word.

  When they reached the apartment door, it was ajar.

  “I know I locked it,” Evelyn whispered.

  Mike pressed her against the wall with his arm and put a finger to her lips. He pulled out his service pistol and entered. Drawers were pulled out. Clothing littered the floor. Chair cushions were overturned. He cleared the place room by room, holstered his weapon, and found Evelyn shivering against the wall where he had left her.

  “It’s okay, Evelyn. They’re gone.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?” she asked.

  Mike checked the doorframe and lock. No damage. The searchers had either picked the lock or had a key. “The lock is still
good. So is the door. Give me your key.”

  He grabbed her suitcase, which sat in the middle of the living room. It appeared untouched. He closed and locked the door. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

  Chapter 10

  The sun rose over the ocean as Mike drove his government-issued Jeep Cherokee south on Route 1, the main road connecting all the towns south of Rehoboth—Dewey, Bethany, and Fenwick Island. He headed for Ocean City, a honky-tonk beach town at the end of the spit, about twenty miles away. Unlike the other laidback towns, OC was big, brash, and noisy, with boardwalk high-rises, carnival rides, and all the miniature golf courses you could play.

  He left a note on the kitchen table telling Evelyn he planned to be out most of the day. He jotted his cell-phone number at the bottom and placed a house key on top. He thought again about the break-in, and decided not to report it.

  With the ocean to his left, Mike passed cement lookout towers built on the beaches from Delaware to New Jersey. During World War II, spotters inside had kept watch for enemy aircraft and ships, even submarines, that might attack US shores. Now abandoned, these empty cylinders stood watch over sunbathers, surfers, and swimmers. Mike drove past gated communities and crab shacks, cigar bars and public fishing piers. Something for every income and interest.

  His final destination was the Isle of Wight Bay, which separated OC from the mainland. It accommodated a small fishing fleet, and berthed the Judy Bee when the vessel wasn’t sitting in Lewes, covered in crime-scene tape.

  Pulling into OC, Mike saw the beginnings of spring, a few hardy souls walking to the beach to catch some rays. In a few weeks, high-school seniors, celebrating the end of four years of torture, would hit the town en masse and blanket the city with phony IDs.

  He headed for the coastguard station.

  “Special Agent Wardman,” said the lieutenant at the reception desk. “What can we do for you?”

  “Tony, I’d like to borrow a skiff for a few hours.”

  “Is this about the Judy Bee?”

  “I need to talk to the other fishers. See what they have to say.”

  “The FBI was already snooping around. Guy named … let me see. Left his card.”

  Before he could retrieve it, Mike said, “Hearst.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Arrogant son of a bitch, he was.”

  “Have you seen the scallopers?”

  “Most came in last night. Some the night before. Had a good haul, from what I understand. You know where they are.” Tony threw the keys to Mike. “Have a good one.”

  Mike cranked up the Boston Whaler 110 Sport, a tender used for one-man patrols around the docks, and aimed for a shoal area north of the Route 90 bridge. He breathed in the ocean air. A few fishermen in small boats, thinking he was a Coastie, waved as he passed. After a few minutes, Mike pulled alongside a hundred-foot research vessel that had run aground in the shallows and been left to rust. It was not a hazard to navigation, and no salvager had ever claimed it, so it sat where it was, beached, broken, and tilted to starboard.

  Mike pushed his boat on the sand and tied the lines to a stubby tree. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed for the far side of the wreck.

  In a clearing, surrounded by trees on three sides and the vessel on the fourth, a half-dozen men and one woman sat around a table constructed from a wooden deck door. Their chairs had once served as cable spools and nail kegs. Overgrown as it was, the area was invisible from the water. Tired of all the local watering holes overrun with tourists, some of the local commercial fishers had scavenged the left-for-dead research vessel for parts and constructed an outdoor sitting area, as well as a covered area with propane heaters. A small satellite dish faced up.

  “Members only,” one of the men growled as he saw the agent approach.

  Mike dropped his pack and pulled out a six-pack of beer. “I brought my dues.”

  He knew all of them, as he’d been checking their catches for years. They were not particularly fond of government agents of any stripe, but they knew him and appreciated that he always gave them a fair shake—and sometimes more than they deserved. On the other hand, Mike was not afraid to cite them for offenses when they deserved it.

  “Terrible business, the Judy Bee,” said Charlie Steeple, the captain of the Fire Bush, homage to his redheaded wife. Of all the fishing captains, Mike had known Charlie the longest. A fat, stubby man, his claim to fame was that he was an arm-wrestling champion, willing and able to take on anyone, anytime. Mike grinned when he saw him in short sleeves, as his muscular forearms resembled those of Popeye. Charlie even had anchor tattoos from his navy days on both forearms.

  “I heard the FBI was around here,” said Mike.

  “We heard that, too,” Charlie said, smiling.

  “You didn’t talk with them?”

  “Well, we would have, but we didn’t see them. Guess they didn’t know where to find us.”

  Only a handful of people knew about the makeshift tavern dubbed the Shipwreck Club. Anyone who considered exploring the wreck would have been dissuaded by the skull-and-crossbones signs on the hull warning about the presence of toxic chemicals. The GOVERNMENT PROPERTY – UNDER SURVEILLANCE – KEEP OUT sign discouraged any others.

  “How have you been, Mike? Since, you know?” Charlie asked.

  Mike gave him an unconvincing nod, then asked plainly, “Was Captain Weatherhill doing some other jobs?”

  Charlie took a beer, popped the cap with his thumb, and handed it to Mike. He took one for himself.

  The others listened to their conversation, but nobody else said a word. Mike could tell from their expressions, though, that the answer to his question was “Yes.”

  “We all left around the same time that morning,” Charlie said. “It was us, Judy Bee, Mona’s Dream, and Bamboo. We made a beeline for Elephant Trunk. There was some chatter on the VHF, and we switched over to the CB, as we always do. Nothing unusual, except Weatherhill said he had a monitor on board, and he wasn’t happy about it.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “A woman, a fed on board, normal gripes. Not that we have anything to hide.” Charlie gave a thin smirk. “But you’re always self-conscious that you’re going to screw up, get written up for some bullshit regulation. Anyways, my crew did some maintenance on the dredges as we motored out. A few hours later, they were done and got some shuteye before we reached Trunk.”

  “Where was the Judy Bee?” Mike asked.

  “We were all in formation, about a half-hour apart.”

  “Any other vessels in the area?”

  “As we got closer to the fishing grounds, it was just us. There was maybe one sportfishing boat on radar, but it was further north.” He turned to his right and looked at “Skinny” Mangus, his obese first mate, for a response.

  “When I looked through the glasses, I saw them rigged for marlin,” Skinny said. “I didn’t know them, but I’m pretty sure it was a ninety-foot Affinity. Didn’t catch a name.”

  “Heavy metal,” Mike said. He knew the vessel type. Eight-million dollars worth of well-appointed luxury yacht. The choice of oil-rich princes and hedge-fund managers. If you were eager to cruise the Pacific Ocean and stop at all the exotic islands, this was the one to buy. Mike wished he was doing just that.

  “Must be nice,” Skinny muttered.

  Charlie continued. “We got on station, lowered our dredges, and started dragging. We all worked our spots. We were close, but there were no problems. We fished for about twenty-four hours, on and off, changing positions maybe five times.”

  “How was everyone else doing?” Mike asked.

  “Great. Bamboo had some winch problems and needed extra welding rods. They came alongside, and we gave them some.”

  “How was Weatherhill?”

  “As far as I could tell, he was doing as well as anyone. He stopped bitching about his monitor, and it was business as usual.”

  “Then what?”

  “Like I said, it was a good catch, and we
all reached our limit. We left the grounds in about the same order as when we headed out.”

  Charlie stopped and looked at Skinny. They held the glance longer than they should have.

  “That’s right,” Charlie said, as if their thoughts had been spoken. “We all headed back to the fish dock, direct shot, except for Weatherhill. He headed northwest toward Lewes. He said on the radio that he had to pick up some gear and would see us back in OC.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “It’s not unusual that he would pick up gear in Lewes, but it was odd he would do it with a full catch on board. He said he had plenty of ice and wasn’t worried.”

  “Did he say what he had to pick up?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. You know Weatherhill. He could be secretive, and not for any good reason. He was just like that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “My crew caught a few more zees, and Skinny and I drove it back home. We unloaded, the other boats unloaded, and we didn’t think anything of the Judy Bee until we heard about what happened.”

  “Do you know anybody who would want Weatherhill killed?”

  Charlie rubbed his chin. “No. He could be a prickly sort sometimes, and you know his history with monitors, especially female ones. But I don’t think anyone would want him dead.”

  “And the outside work?”

  “It’s not something we talk about. And it’s usually in the off season, or when the catch sucks. So far, we’ve had a good season.”

  “Was he involved in smuggling? Cigarettes, booze?” Mike had worked his share of cases where local fishing boats headed to South Carolina, picked up tax-free cigarettes and cigars, and sold them in New Jersey and New York, where the tobacco tax was high. They did the same for beer and liquor, although not as much; such loads were much heavier, and not as easy to hide behind bulkheads. Unless they were chronic offenders, these actions were met with fines, not jail time. Smugglers might do it a few times until they were caught, then stop.

  “Nothing that I know of. I do remember him saying something about offering out his rig to a contractor, but he didn’t go into detail.”