Blackout

by David Rosenfelt

  “That makes sense,” I say.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Nate says, demonstrating that his sarcasm ability has not been damaged by the bullet. “If Bennett was going to kill everyone who ever screwed something up, he’d run out of people real quickly.”

  “So what do you think it is?”

  “Bennett must think they talked to you. Of course, if they admitted that they did, they are so dumb that they deserved to die.”

  “Maybe one of them ratted out the other, thinking he’d be off the hook, and Bennett saw it differently,” Jessie said.

  Both Nate and I consider that to be possible, and we don’t have any better explanation. Nor does it really matter, since the two dead guys were out of the picture for us anyway.

  “We have to assume they’re going to come after me again,” I say.

  “Then get the hell out of here,” Nate says. “I don’t want to get caught in the cross fire. Been there, done that.”

  I ignore that. “The problem is that he’ll just send more goons who don’t really know anything, so we can’t count on that as a way of getting information.”

  “What about the GPS records on your phone?”

  “I’m running out of places to track down, and anyway, when I get there I have no idea what the significance of each place is.”

  “As I recall, there were a lot of New York City places on the list,” Jessie says.

  “That’s what I’m going to check out next, though I don’t see how it can be anything other than a waste of time. Based on the GPS report, all I did was wander around the city. I didn’t spend more than fifteen minutes in any one place.”

  “Those guys told you that Bennett was recruiting people; maybe this was part of that,” Nate says.

  I don’t think that’s right, but once again I don’t have a better explanation. “The thing that’s bugging me is the used car dealership. You’re both agreed that I wouldn’t have been looking at a used car, particularly at a time when the dealership is closed. So the reason I was there has to be tied to this investigation.”

  “But that in and of itself doesn’t make it significant,” Jessie points out. “You could have been following someone, and maybe that person was buying a car.”

  “After hours?”

  “Maybe he made a special appointment, or maybe he was dating someone who worked there, and she was working late. I’m not saying it isn’t important; I’m just saying it doesn’t have to be.”

  “We need to find a way to put pressure on Bennett.”

  “Why don’t you throw him into another cabinet?” Nate asks. “That worked real well for you last time.”

  “That’s one thing I wish I remembered,” I say. “That must have felt good. Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell. He said something that irritated you, and you walked over and pushed him hard, and he fell back into a cabinet. I don’t know how we got out of there alive.”

  “Out of where? Where were we?”

  “In his office. I believe I’ve mentioned that you were nuts?”

  Something about this is confusing to me. “Jess, I didn’t see Bennett’s office on my phone GPS. Did you not go back that far?”

  “I went back to the beginning; that’s a new phone, or at least you only started using it recently.”

  “Why?”

  Nate has the answer. “Because when you got suspended, they took your department phone, along with your gun and badge. You replaced all of it with your own stuff, except for the badge.”

  “Can we trace my department phone before I got suspended?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Jessie says.

  “Nate, would I have been with you all the time?”

  He shakes his head. “No chance. You were after Bennett twenty-four/seven; you even took a vacation week to do it. I’m telling you, all bets were off once—” He catches himself and stops.

  “I told him about Johnny Arroyo,” Jessie says, understanding his hesitation.

  “Once that happened, you went batshit,” Nate says. “We all thought you were crazy before, but you raised the nut-bar. Nobody could control you.”

  “How come you guys never tell me any stories about how charming I was?” I ask. “How much fun I was to be with?”

  Neither Jessie nor Nate says a word, and I give them plenty of time.

  “Oh.”

  Jessie must have worked all night, because she gives me the GPS rundown on my department cell phone first thing in the morning.

  I used it until my suspension, so that’s where the report ends. It begins a couple of days after Johnny Arroyo’s death, since that is apparently when I went off on my own crusade to nail Bennett.

  As in the case with my phone, a first look at the list basically tells me nothing, as I don’t recognize most of the addresses. My apartment, the barracks, and Jessie’s house are on there frequently, which is no surprise. Also on there is a visit to the state prison, which I’m called upon to do occasionally, usually to question convicts.

  I’m going to have to run everything down, and like before I’ll be operating in the dark. It’s frustrating, but as long as my memory is locked away in some room, there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I’m home this morning, trying to go through the pages, eating cold pizza. My diet these days is pretty varied. I either eat hot pizza, cold pizza, or cold pizza that has been cold for more than thirty-six hours. The latter has lost some taste, and is very dry, but in its aging has gained some character.

  The doorbell rings, or at least I think it’s the doorbell, since I don’t remember ever hearing it before. It makes a very light pinging sound, but since there’s nothing else around that is a likely candidate for making that noise, I walk over to see if someone is there.

  I take my gun off the table and hold it in the ready position, just in case. I look through the peephole and see a man, about my age. At first I don’t recognize him, but then realize it’s the guy from across the hall, the one that Nate and I ran into on my first day back here. I think he said his name was Bert Manning.

  I open the door and he says, “Hey, Doug.”

  “Hello, Bert.” He doesn’t correct me, so I’m probably right about at least the first name. He seems a little nervous; maybe he’s read about my memory situation and doesn’t quite know what to say.

  “Doug, can I come in for a minute? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Sure,” I say, and step aside to let him pass. As he does so, he sees the gun still in my hand; I had forgotten to conceal it. His eyes widen, and if he wasn’t nervous before, I’m sure he is now. I put the gun in a drawer. “Sorry. Just being careful.”

  “No problem.”

  “You want some coffee? Or soda? Or water?” I ask, but he declines all three. “What about some pizza? It’s old, but it seems to be holding up pretty well.”

  “No thanks. I don’t want to bother you, Doug, but…”

  “No bother.”

  “I read about your memory thing. Is it all back?”

  “I’m getting there. Something on your mind, Bert?” The answer to that question is clearly going to be yes.

  “Do you remember the conversation we had a while back?”

  “I’m not sure which one you mean. Why don’t you tell me about it as if I don’t remember, and if I do, no harm done.”

  “Okay. Well, as you know, I work down at the pier, in Newark.”

  “Right,” I say, though of course I have no idea where he works.

  “Anyway, I talked to you about something that was going on at work. At least I thought it was. You remember this?”

  This guy is never going to get to the point. “Bert, don’t worry about what I remember and what I don’t, okay? Just tell me as if it’s the first time.”

  “Okay, well, I didn’t know whether to keep my mouth shut or not, I mean these are not people to mess around with, but when I found out about you and Nicholas Bennett, about how you were goin
g after him, well, I figured you were a guy I could talk to about it.”

  “Right, and I still am.” I don’t know how he knew about me and Bennett. Maybe it was in the paper when I got suspended, or maybe I mentioned it, or maybe he has another friend in the department. Or maybe one of a dozen other ways; it doesn’t matter now, and I’m not going to interrupt him to find out.

  “Okay, good. Anyway, there’s talk that Bennett is bringing stuff into the port, without it being examined, or in some cases even scanned.”

  “Explain to me how it’s supposed to work,” I say.

  “Well, goods come in on these huge cargo ships. Before they’re shipped, they’re certified in the other country as to what they contain, and that everything is legal. These are big, reputable companies, sending goods in from friendly countries, so we supposedly can trust them.”

  He continues. “Anyway, it’s like the honor system, and since we don’t have nearly the personnel to check much of this stuff out, only random inspections are made. Very random; there’s no other way. It’s the largest container port in the world.”

  “You said something about scans?”

  He nods. “Yeah, there’s some tech stuff that scans some of the things that aren’t inspected. I guess it can pick up drugs, or radioactive stuff, or whatever. I really don’t know; they don’t tell me about those things.”

  “Okay. Got it.”

  “Well, people say things, and the word is that Bennett is paying off a guy to make sure his stuff goes right through, completely unchecked, except for the scan for radioactive materials; everything goes through that. He might also be paying somebody off on the foreign end, but I can’t speak to that.”

  “So it’s just a rumor?” I ask.

  “It was, until I saw it happen.”

  “What do you mean, you saw it happen?”

  “We were unloading some cargo—it goes right onto these trucks in the containers. Anyway, this cargo was on a list to be scanned, and the order came down to switch things around. So this stuff went right through, and other stuff got scanned instead. There was no reason for it to have happened that way, at least that I can tell.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No. The guy who is rumored to be doing this, he’s a manager down there named Tony Gibbons. He’s the guy who switched the scanning instructions around.”

  “When was this?”

  “May seventeenth. The cargo that went unchecked was from Con-Over Shipping Services. It flies under the Moroccan flag, but ships from Spain.”

  “And you don’t know where the cargo goes once it leaves the pier, right?” I ask.

  He nods. “Right. The containers get loaded right onto the trucks, it’s almost all automated. Then they go where they go. A lot of it goes by rail also, but the process is pretty much the same.”

  “Thanks, Bert; you did the right thing by talking to me about this.”

  “I just don’t like the idea of drugs or weapons or whatever coming into this country.”

  “I’m with you on that.” I find a paper and pen and start writing. “I’m going to give you my cell number. I want you to call me if you suspect anything happening again.”

  “You told me last time that you’d keep my name out of it,” he says. “I don’t need guys like Bennett knowing I said anything.”

  “You can count on it.”

  The information that Bert provided has ratcheted the situation up another notch.

  It may have nothing to do with Bennett or my investigation, and it may be unfounded. For all I know Bert is jealous of this Tony Gibbons guy at work, and he wants his job.

  If Bert’s description is accurate, if illegal contraband of any kind is being brought into this country for criminal purposes, then this is way above my pay grade. This is a federal responsibility all the way.

  If he had come to me before, as he said he did, then I would have certainly checked it out. I would have considered anything that could have implicated Bennett in something illegal well worth my time. And if I needed any further confirmation of that, based on the cell phone GPS records that Jessie just provided, I spent forty-five minutes at Port Newark two days before I was suspended. I don’t know if I talked to Gibbons or not, but it’s a pretty good bet that I was there as a result of Bert’s giving me the information.

  I discuss the situation with Captain Bradley and Jerry Bettis, and they completely agree that I need to go to Homeland Security with what I’ve learned. They’re both skeptical that it’s valuable information, especially Bettis, but they concur that it’s a piece that we need to share. The Feds can determine if it means anything.

  I call Dan Congers and tell him I need to see him right away. He agrees and says to come right down to his office, and that he’ll have Agent Metcalf in the meeting. It may be a sign that Homeland Security has decided that I’m to be taken seriously when I say that this is not over.

  When I get there, I’m brought into Congers’s office right away. “Metcalf got called away on an emergency,” he says. “Let’s talk, but I can’t promise that you won’t have to repeat it for him later on. He might have additional questions; additional questions are a specialty of his.”

  “Okay,” I say, and I get right to the point. “I have information that a manager at Port Newark is arranging to have certain cargo come in without being examined or scanned. And he’s doing it on behalf of Nicholas Bennett.”

  “What is the source of this information?”

  “An informant.”

  “Who might that be?” Congers asks.

  “Sorry. A confidential informant.”

  “It’s okay to share it with me,” he says. “We’re the good guys here.”

  “I don’t share confidential information with anyone; that’s how I did it ten years ago, and I’m not aware of a change in my policy. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The information is what it is.”

  “Do you have information as to what kind of cargo we’re talking about, or when it came into the country?”

  “I just know the date and the shipping company.” I give him what I have, and he writes it down.

  He nods. “Okay, it’s worth checking. I’ll put CPB on it.”

  “What is CPB?” I’m sure I should know that, but I don’t.

  “Customs Border Protection. That’s what we call it now.”

  “What will they do with it?” I ask.

  He frowns. “They’ll do their job, Doug. They know what they’re doing; if this Gibbons guy is dirty, they’ll handle it. I’ll make it a priority; I’ll make sure they turn it around in twenty-four hours.”

  “Shouldn’t this be a Homeland Security function?” I ask.

  “They’re part of Homeland Security. Everything is,” he says with a smile. “We’re taking over the world.”

  “How’d you get placed here?” I ask.

  “Actually, I beat you out for the assignment.” Another smile. “You were deemed not quite stable enough.”

  “I’m happy for you,” I lie.

  “Truth is you wouldn’t have liked it. All I do is sit behind a damn desk.”

  “That sounds pretty good about now.”

  “Anything else, Doug?”

  I consider whether to tell him about the used car lot, but then decide against it. Other than the fact that I know my phone was there, there is really nothing to tie it in, and certainly nothing for him to go on. So I tell him there’s nothing else, and he promises again to deal with Tony Gibbons and the issue at the pier right away.

  When I leave Congers, I wave to the ever-present cops assigned to follow me. Even though I’ve remained alert, I’m struck by the fact that Bennett has not made another run at me. Either he’s learned that The Times story was bull, or for some reason he’s no longer afraid of my memory coming back. Perhaps the operation is so far along that we can no longer stop it.

  Of course, the other possibility is that he’s just waiting for the right time to get me. It’s something I think about every time I start
my car.

  I’m not sure what to do about Tony Gibbons and the situation at the pier. I’ve turned it over to Homeland Security, so I can’t go down there with guns blazing. Congers promised to get an answer on this immediately, and I believe him, but I also know what bureaucracies can be like. If this goes to CPB and they treat it as just another item on a list, nothing will get done nearly quickly enough.

  Based on the GPS, I was obviously down at the pier, but I have no idea why, or what I did there. If I caused any kind of commotion, or stepped on the toes of another agency, my guess is that I would have since heard about it. I don’t know if I talked to Gibbons or not; the fact that Bert didn’t mention it makes me think I didn’t.

  I head into Manhattan to retrace my steps of the day that the GPS says I spent there. It turns out to be even more frustrating than the rest of the stops on my GPS tour.

  I travel all around the city. According to the GPS I spent very little time at any one stop. Jessie had warned me that it was an inexact science as far as the addresses go, and that problem is compounded in New York, where all the buildings are so close together.

  I could have stopped in that large office building, or the coffee shop across the street, or the movie theater next door, or the fruit stand on the other side. Even if I knew the location I had visited, I’d have absolutely no idea why.

  I had hoped that by being there, something would jump out at me, some inspiration would hit.

  It doesn’t. In fact, the only “things” that jump out at me are people who have seen me through the televised press conference celebrating my “heroism.”

  A young woman named Lillian Singer approaches and tells me that she’s a booker for the Today Show, and they’d love to have me on any time to interview me about what she calls my “journey.” She gives me her card, and I put it in my wallet while lying that I might be interested.

  Being a hero actually makes it hard to get around; it would make me sympathize with today’s actual celebrities, if I knew who most of them are.