Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  “Sounds pretty hoity-toity to me. Way too rich for my blood,” Hogan commented. Taking a sip of coffee, he smacked his lips.

  “I’m just curious what she was doing at the port,” I continued, unable to erase the image of her blond hair, defiled by snow and grime, from my mind.

  “A rich broad like that? Who knows? Maybe slumming for the fun of it. Could be she was trying to score some recreational drugs,” Hogan ventured, lacing his hands behind his head. “After all, that is Newark’s main industry.”

  Then he went back to doing what he loved best—staring out at the rail yard and passing time until his retirement.

  “So, Boss. You got anything for me to work on yet?” I ventured, figuring I had little to lose.

  Hogan turned and viewed me dispassionately. “Yeah. Those damn violations that are piled up in your office.”

  I didn’t budge, but decided to stare him down.

  “If you’re planning a coup, you’d better first think of a way to kill the king,” he advised, in a tone that was clearly a warning.

  We locked eyes and I realized that the man was much shrewder than I had thought.

  “I’m not plotting anything,” I countered. “I just think it’s time I was given a real case.”

  Hogan shook his head and smiled.

  “You know what I don’t like about you, Porter? You’re a zealot, and I don’t trust them,” he reflected. “I gave you the lowdown when you first arrived. The Service only wants bodies here in Newark. That’s the beauty of this place. It’s a hidden gem. We’re second banana to the New York office and in no way a priority. They’re the star. That’s why the best agents are sent over there rather than here.”

  I felt my face begin to burn. Hogan knew how badly I’d wanted that station and had no qualms about rubbing it in.

  “Now, how about you go and write up those tickets?” he suggested.

  I didn’t say a word but left as I came, damned if I’d play the well-behaved pupil.

  I glanced in at the other special agent on my way back to my office. Bill Saunders had transferred over from the Treasury Department about two years ago.

  He had a criminal investigator’s background and was a computer geek, capable of ferreting out a company’s business records and bills of lading. The downside was that he was another with little emotion when it came to the plight of wildlife. Saunders was one more suit pulling in a paycheck whose philosophy seemed to be Do the bare minimum, punch the clock, and collect your pension.

  I was beginning to feel like a dinosaur within my own agency. I was definitely the odd woman out, as far as Hogan and Saunders were concerned.

  I busied myself unpacking files until the two men headed off to lunch together. Only then did I stroll over to the Supervisory Wildlife Inspector’s office.

  “Hey, Connie. Got a minute?” I asked, leaning against her doorjamb.

  Connie Fuca sat hunched over a stack of papers on a desk that was nearly as cluttered as my own. Though she was petitely built, there was something imposing about the woman, which gave her the presence of a tornado—one ready to pick up speed.

  “Not really. Why?” she brusquely responded, barely bothering to look up.

  In her early forties, she had strands of white woven throughout a mane of black hair, and dark eyebrows that were furrowed in frustration. “Harried” was a word I would have used had it been anyone else. But when it came to Connie, the most appropriate term was “pissed off.”

  “I was just wondering if you might have run across any illegal shipments lately.” I gingerly broached the topic, taking a step into her room. “I’ve talked to Hogan, but there don’t seem to be many cases coming out of this office. From what I’ve heard, special agents at ports depend on inspectors to trip across things during the course of their examinations.”

  Connie now took the time to peer at me. “That’s right. Inspectors are great, aren’t they? Every agent should have one. We hand over the information that we gather from all our hard work, and you happily take the evidence, along with the credit for it. Isn’t that what usually happens in such cases?” she responded, verbally biting my head off.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I feebly replied, attempting to defend myself.

  “No? Well it doesn’t really matter, since I don’t have time to do inspections, anyway,” she snapped. “I’m too busy logging in entries, or haven’t you noticed? The word ‘inspector’ is a loosely used term around here these days. My real job is collecting brokers’ fees and clearing shipments as fast as I can, based only on paperwork. That’s what D.C. wants, so that’s what they get. Unlike special agents, we’re actually expected to bring in money and pay our own way.”

  I was prepared for her to hurl a lightning bolt with the glare she gave me. She then returned to her work. I quietly turned around and hightailed it out the door.

  What in the hell was that all about? I wondered, heading for the safety of my office.

  I’d heard that relations between agents and inspectors at ports could sometimes be tense. However, I hadn’t expected all-out war.

  I pulled a hand full of violations from a box and began to write up tickets, wondering if Connie’s fate might not soon be my own. At times like this, I questioned why I’d ever become an agent in the first place. Then I remembered something my old boss, Charlie Hickok, had once told me.

  “We’re all social misfits, Bronx. What kind of individual not only goes into law enforcement, but joins an agency where we work by ourselves? I’ll tell you what kind. The ones that don’t play well with others.”

  I was beginning to think he’d been right. At the moment, I was tempted to pick up my toys and go home. Instead, I waited for Hogan and Saunders to return and then announced that I was taking a late lunch.

  I escaped the confines of the office to the invigorating cold, jumped in my vehicle, and took off, free to roam. Even being stuck among a covey of trucks suddenly felt liberating. I hummed to myself as we traveled in a line down pock-marked roads.

  Large oil storage tanks, softened by the snow, were magically transformed into igloos, their steel staircases meandering silver vines. Mountains of rock salt were no longer simply waiting to be scattered on hazardous roadways, but had morphed into miniature versions of the Rockies, the Himalayas, and the Swiss Alps. As for Tripoli, Calcutta, and Neptune, each formerly dingy street suddenly seemed exotic and foreign. I soon spotted the same lunch truck that I’d seen earlier that morning.

  The Kielbasa House sat parked in its usual spot, where Magda was serving a few late-afternoon customers. It was easy to see why her luncheonette was the busiest one at the port. She offered homemade kielbasa and pierogi rather than the usual tasteless fare. I could easily scarf down a plateful of the doughy pockets filled with potato, cabbage, or my favorite: sweet farmers cheese. But right now, the aroma of Polish sausage was calling to me.

  I waited until the last trucker was gone before walking to the outdoor counter. Magda had her back turned, and was already hard at work closing up shop for the day.

  “Hi, Magda. Have anything left for a hungry customer?” I asked.

  She jumped in surprise, as though a ghost had snuck up behind her. Whirling around, her hand flew to her heart and her complexion turned pale.

  “My goodness, Rachel! You startled me,” she scolded, nervously glancing about. “The pierogis are all gone. But there’s still some kielbasa left. Wait a minute and I’ll make you one.”

  I watched as Magda placed a thick sausage on the grill, along with onions and sweet peppers. She looked so gaunt and frail, I could almost see her vertebrae sticking through her thin winter coat. Only something new had been added.

  A large shawl lay draped about her shoulders and neck, its color that of rich, red claret. It must have been warm, because for once she wasn’t shivering. Rather, Magda appeared to be perfectly comfortable working in the frigid cold. The shawl was probably about six feet in length, for it wound several times around her. Ragged
fringe hung from its edge, and a set of initials were crudely embroidered in one corner. That seemed to imply that the stole was handmade.

  I tried to read the letters, but wasn’t quick enough, as Magda turned back to face me. In any case, the wool seemed to be either pashmina or cashmere. The shawl was finely crafted, quite exquisite, and had obviously cost a good deal of money.

  “That’s a beautiful shawl, Magda,” I commented, as she handed me the kielbasa nestled in a roll.

  “Yes, and it’s very warm,” Magda replied, her fingers gently stroking the wool.

  My own fingers eagerly clutched the bread, grateful for the warmth that emanated from the grilled sausage.

  “Where did you get it?” I asked and bit into the meat, its sweet juices bursting inside my mouth.

  “It’s a gift from a friend,” Magda answered with a smile.

  “You know, I saw you with the police this morning,” I followed up between bites, suddenly feeling quite ravenous. I wanted to question the woman, but knew enough to be careful not to spook her. She already seemed to be on edge.

  “Yes, I know,” Magda solemnly responded as her eyes filled with tears. “Something terrible happened. It was a horrible thing. Horrible.”

  “I heard you found a body,” I added, hoping that she would continue.

  Magda’s eyes once again began to dart around. I casually followed their course, wondering what could possibly be making her so nervous. However, rather than speak, she busied herself with cleaning, choosing not to respond. Only I wasn’t yet ready to let go.

  “What were you doing in that empty field at the crack of dawn?” I pursued, egged on by my curiosity.

  She cleared her throat, stalling for time, her reluctance having become a palpable living thing.

  “I’ve been parking my truck across the street at night. You know, in the warehouse lot that’s filled with wheels. The owner said it would be all right. Oh, I hope he doesn’t get angry now that the police are snooping around,” she anxiously replied.

  “But don’t you drive your truck home at the end of each day? Or does somebody give you a lift?” I questioned, having no idea where it was that she lived.

  Magda bit her lip and lowered her head, as if in shame. “The truck is my home now. I lost my apartment close to a month ago.”

  I looked at her in astonishment, not having realized that Magda was in such dire straights.

  “You’re not saying that you sleep inside your truck?” I blurted in disbelief.

  Magda nodded, her chin bobbing in and out of the folds of the shawl. “I scrub it every day after work, and a friend lent me a sleeping bag.”

  “But how can you possibly sleep out here in this cold?” I questioned, feeling both frustrated and embarrassed not to have known.

  Magda shrugged stoically which only made me feel all the worse. “I run the heater full blast before going to sleep. If I wake up, I turn it on again for a while. That helps to take the chill off. It’s really not so bad.”

  I could scarcely believe what I heard. I wouldn’t have left a dog or cat outside, no less a person.

  “I’m sure there must be a shelter where you can sleep. At least temporarily, until you find another place to stay.”

  But it was as if I’d suggested that Magda be locked up in prison.

  “No! I won’t go to one of those horrible places. They’re filthy, and the people…they steal,” she declared vehemently, her voice trembling with rage.

  Then she began to scrub the grill, ignoring me and making it clear that the subject was off-limits.

  “Fine. Just as long as you’re all right,” I replied, and let a moment slide before returning to the topic of interest. “So, you were parked across the street last night? Then you must have seen what happened.”

  Magda slowly turned back again to face me. This time her expression was full of pain. “No. It was dark. The sound of a car woke me up and then there was the glare of the headlights. They were so bright.”

  “Did you hear anything? Voices, perhaps?” I continued to prod.

  Magda quickly glanced around once more, and then leaned over the counter. She motioned to me and I followed as if pulled by a string.

  “I did see two people get out and open the trunk. They dragged something from inside and carried it into the field,” she revealed in a whisper. “They stayed there for a while and then eventually left. I waited a long time after that. Maybe two or three hours. I lay listening to the pounding of my heart until the sky turned light. Only then did I go and take a look.”

  It was now my turn to wait as Magda covered her face with her hands and drew a tremulous breath. I held my own, having become a captive audience.

  “What did you find?” I finally asked, unable to wait any longer.

  “I found a woman lying dead in the snow. Her skin was so white it didn’t look real. And then there were her eyes and that mouth…” Magda shuddered at the memory.

  “What about them?” I asked, dying to know.

  Magda’s eyes locked onto mine as if afraid to let go. “They’d been sewn shut with black thread. She couldn’t have screamed no matter how hard she tried.”

  We were both quiet, as if imagining her whimpering sobs locked in the back of her throat.

  “Could you tell if she’d been shot?” I asked, eventually breaking the silence.

  Magda continued to hold my eyes as if hanging on for dear life. “No. There were no bullet wounds.”

  “Maybe she’d been stabbed,” I proposed lightly.

  But Magda brushed aside the suggestion. “No. No knife marks. No blood. There were only purple bruises around her neck.” Her hand crept up to her throat, as if to make sure the blemishes hadn’t spread to her own skin. “I saw nothing else. After that, a police car drove by and I ran into the road and waved it down. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Purple bruises were something I knew about all too well. I’d nearly been choked to death while stationed in Texas. The experience had taught me an important lesson: Never wear a leather cord around my neck that could be used against me as a weapon. Ligature marks would most likely reveal that Bitsy von Falken had been strangled.

  Magda’s elbows remained planted on the counter where she buried her head. Soon she was covered in a sea of claret. It was as if the shawl were beckoning to me. I couldn’t help but reach out and touch it. My fingers lingered on it, having never felt anything so luxurious in all of my life.

  “I’m so sorry you had so see that,” I quietly said.

  Magda raised her eyes and dried her tears. Then she grasped my hand.

  “Oh, you’re so cold. Here, give me your other hand and I’ll warm them up for you,” she offered.

  I didn’t protest, but let her wrap them in the stole.

  My hands floated inside material that was light as gossamer and sinfully sensuous. Ultrasoft and thin, the wool could have been a mound of downy feathers; it weighed no more than air. Yet within minutes, my hands were so toasty that they nearly began to sweat.

  “This shawl is so nice and warm. Where did you say that you got it again?” I asked.

  Magda softly giggled, as if about to reveal a secret. “I told you. A friend gave it to me. It’s good for the cold. Yes?”

  It was good for the cold. Which made me wonder why she hadn’t been wearing it this morning.

  “What kind of wool is it?” I asked, and gently rubbed the fabric against my cheek.

  Perhaps Magda felt I was being too forward, for she abruptly unwrapped my hands and pulled the shawl away.

  “I don’t know. Wool is wool. I have to close up now,” she said.

  She lowered the counter window, and I slowly walked back to my SUV.

  Magda was right. Wool is wool is wool. Only some are vastly more expensive than others, and then there are those that are highly illegal.

  A sickening feeling began to take hold. It was one that, for now, I didn’t want to think about, much less know.

  Three

&n
bsp; I wrote up a few more tickets, until four thirty rolled around and everyone promptly rushed out. It was as if a school bell had rung and officially announced dismissal. I hung back, choosing not to be part of the throng. Besides, I knew what awaited me on the road. I’d be swallowed up in a mob of cars. Finally, having no other choice, I climbed into my vehicle and gave way to being part of rush-hour traffic.

  My Trailblazer joined the horde that inched along the Jersey Turnpike. It gave me plenty of time to take in the local scenery. Row houses stood etched against clouds of smoke spewing from refinery stacks. It billowed like grimy scarves being pulled from a magician’s sleeve. Then I looked to my right and my heart did a somersault. There was the place that I’d left for so long. I’d finally returned home to New York.

  The Statue of Liberty seemed to welcome me back as it followed my Chevy, never choosing to leave my sight. However, there was still a gap where the Twin Towers used to be. If I tried hard enough, I could almost paint them in once more with my mind. Then I’d look again only to find that they were really gone.

  The city was where I’d been born and raised. It was the one true, solid thing in my life. Or at least that’s what I’d always believed. But I’d been feeling lost of late, having bounced around for so many years. My friend Terri had suggested that maybe I needed to reconnect with my roots. Perhaps he’d been right. In this case, my Africa was New York City.

  I followed the traffic into the Holland Tunnel and held my breath, anxious to reach the end. Once inside the tunnel, I always had the same vision. I imagined one tile popping off the wall, followed by another and another. Then a trickle of water would begin to seep in. I’d watch in growing horror as the volume continued to swell until tiles shot off the walls like rockets. But as in all good horror flicks, there was still more to come. That would only be the beginning.

  A torrent of water next came hurtling in from the tunnel’s opposite end. Then the crest would rise up along my tires. Soon it would slip into the car, and my feet would begin to get wet. The cold, dark liquid would tickle my ankles, climb past my calves, and scale my legs to slowly cover my thighs. All the while, I’d be pounding on the car door and windows, knowing that I was going to die.