Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  Just terrific, I thought.

  I quickly read the article. Sure enough, Magda was mentioned, though not by name. Instead, the piece revealed there was a possible eyewitness who owned a luncheonette truck at the port. That should make it easy enough for any wily predator to hunt her down.

  Idiots, I fumed while climbing into the Trailblazer.

  I was still cursing to myself as I parked in front of Kossar’s Bialys and picked up a bag of fresh bagels. I’d become spoiled since returning to New York. These weren’t the sad lumps I’d gotten used to while away; the out-of-town imposters baked with blueberries and sun-dried tomatoes, among other offenses. Rather, they were honest-to-goodness firm-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside New York bagels topped with sesame, poppy seeds, garlic, and salt, just as God had intended. I stashed the bag inside my Trailblazer and took off.

  I drove as quickly as possible through the Holland Tunnel, all the while watching to make certain that tiles didn’t pop off. I safely emerged into a different world.

  Industrial New Jersey lay spread out before me. I sped past abandoned factories, their windows covered with sheet metal like pennies on a dead man’s eyes. It made me think back once more to what Magda had told me. The image was now permanently seared into my brain. What kind of maniac would have sewn Bitsy von Falken’s eyelids and mouth shut? I couldn’t stop shivering, though the heat in the vehicle was turned up full blast.

  I tried to occupy my thoughts with the view in front of me. No problem there. I found plenty to look at. New Jersey has the densest railroad and highway system in the country. But that’s not where it stops. The state also contains 108 toxic waste dumps.

  A flock of seagulls flew over one now, and I wondered if Jonathon Livingston ever realized that he was hovering above a strip of oil refineries. It’s earned the area an apt nickname: “Oilfield U.S.A.,” boasting the largest petroleum containment system outside of the Middle East.

  But this section of New Jersey has gained additional fame. Terrorism experts recently dubbed the stretch between Newark Airport and the Seaport to be the most dangerous two miles in America. The strip is a chemical juggernaut possessing more than a hundred potential targets. Among them are chlorine gas processing plants. An attack on one could be lethal to twelve million people within a fourteen-mile radius.

  I approached Newark. Its disjointed skyline resembled a mouthful of jagged teeth. My own choppers were tightly on edge as I continued to think about Bitsy von Falken. The lot where she’d been found was one hell of a bleak, unmemorable place to be dumped in.

  I wondered if her death had been a tragic act of passion; perhaps, a love affair gone awry. Or had it been a deliberate crime, as cold and heinous as the black thread that pierced her eyelids? There were always clues left behind. It was just a matter of connecting the dots. In which case, I couldn’t help but wonder what the Port Authority police might have discovered.

  I parked, still stewing over this morning’s article as I made my way into the office and sat down. The red light on my answering machine repeatedly blinked in frustration, as if worried it might be overlooked. I hit the play button, leaned back, and listened to the message.

  “I see that Bitsy von Falken was found at the seaport yesterday. That’s funny, considering I’d never have dreamt she’d be caught dead in such a place. In any case, she might have been wearing a shawl. If so, you’ll want to check it out. The thing is shahtoosh, which I understand is illegal. It’s also worth a fortune. Oh yes—by the way, she wasn’t the only Park Avenue bitch that’s wearing them around town. Those shawls could be the unofficial flag of the Upper East Side. Ta, ta, and happy hunting!” the woman’s voice cheerfully signed off.

  I copied down my “anonymous” informant’s name, along with her phone number. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t volunteered the information. It was conveniently stored on my caller ID. You’d think by now everyone would have known not to make an anonymous call from their home, thanks to shows like Law and Order and CSI. Evidently, Tiffany Stewart didn’t watch a lot of TV.

  Hmm. Although Ms. Stewart had a Manhattan area code, her accent had sounded Southern. I gave it no more than a passing thought. All I cared about right now was that I might finally have a case on my hot little hands. With that in mind, I picked up the phone and dialed Officer Nunzio, my friendly Port Authority cop.

  “This is Special Agent Rachel Porter,” I announced, once he was on the line. I only hoped the title, Special Agent, made me sound kick-ass official. “We met at the crime scene yesterday.”

  “Yeah, I remember you,” he said, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m kinda busy right now. What’s up?”

  So much for the exchange of any pleasantries.

  “I was just wondering if you could possibly answer a question,” I replied.

  But Nunzio obviously wasn’t one to waste time.

  “Probably not,” he responded.

  “Well, let’s give it a try, anyway,” I suggested, and proceeded to launch into my inquiry. “I just received a tip that Bitsy von Falken might have been wearing an unusual shawl. The wool for it is from endangered Tibetan antelopes that are protected under international law in more than a hundred and forty-seven countries,” I said, purposely piling on the facts. “What do you think? Can you help me out here?”

  I knew he was still on the line because I could hear him breathing.

  “Did she have one on?” I pressed.

  “A woman’s been killed and this is what you’re calling me about? Some goddamn shawl?” he replied. “Where in the hell are your priorities?”

  “You have your job and I have mine,” I replied, feeling slightly guilty—until I remembered the excitement in his voice at having found a dead body yesterday. “So, did you find one or not?”

  Nunzio cleared his throat of morning phlegm, as if giving himself time to think.

  “Come on. It’s not like I’m asking about the murder weapon or vital evidence from the crime scene,” I continued to plead.

  “Yeah, but you know the rules. This is an active investigation. I’m not supposed to talk about anything,” Nunzio said, as if reciting an official police handbook.

  “And I’m not the press. I’m a federal agent. I swear not to interfere or step on your toes as far as the case is concerned. So, how about it?” I would have promised the moon to get what I wanted.

  “Aw, what the hell,” Nunzio finally relented. “The press already knows just about everything on this case, anyway. I don’t see how giving you this information will make any difference.”

  Yes! I silently rejoiced. Then I held my breath, waiting to hear that Bitsy von Falken had indeed gone to meet her maker draped in a shahtoosh shawl.

  “Nope, we didn’t find anything like that,” he responded.

  Damn!

  I thanked him and hung up. But I wasn’t yet ready to call it quits. Instead, I hightailed it into Jack Hogan’s office.

  “What’s up, Grasshopper?” he asked, without raising his head from his newspaper.

  It gave me quite the view. The few wispy strands of hair that clung to his scalp for dear life were still damp from their morning shower.

  “I just had an interesting message on my answering machine,” I informed him. “A tip was left that Bitsy von Falken might have been wearing a shahtoosh shawl when she died. Do you know if any shipments of shahtoosh have ever been smuggled into this port?”

  “Sure. We found one a couple of years ago,” Hogan matter-of-factly retorted. “Some company here in Jersey was bringing them in.”

  Bingo! If that wasn’t hardcore proof of smuggling, then I didn’t know what was. There was no way that Hogan could stop me from opening a case now.

  “Great. I take it that the owner was convicted,” I said, my pulse beginning to stir.

  “Nah. We couldn’t prove that the company knowingly violated the law. The owner claimed they thought the stuff was cashmere. He swore he’d never even heard of shahtoosh. So we slapped them with
a three-hundred-and-fifty dollar fine and told them not to make that same mistake again. That was it. Case closed,” Hogan replied.

  Terrific. A 350-dollar fine amounted to no more than a speeding ticket. But then Fish and Wildlife’s penalty system was routinely viewed by companies as a cost of doing business. Get caught, pay a fine, and continue on with trade as usual. It was cynically referred to, by agents and inspectors alike, as “Monty Hall Justice,” or “Let’s Make A Deal.” The message that it sent was loud and clear: This is American commerce, where everything can be negotiated away.

  “Well then, they’re probably at it again,” I surmised. “Bitsy von Falken had to get that shawl from somewhere. And evidently, she wasn’t the only socialite who’s been running around town wearing one.”

  “If you’re trying to open an investigation, forget about it, Porter. That company closed up shop two years ago. They’re long gone. Besides, one shawl on a dead socialite does not a case make,” he shrewdly observed. “Did you bother to even ask the P.A. police if they knew anything about it?”

  “Yes,” I reluctantly responded.

  “And? What was the upshot?” Hogan inquired. “Do they have the damn thing?”

  “No. They said it wasn’t there,” I was forced to admit.

  “Then there’s your answer,” Hogan said, and returned to his newspaper.

  But I had a good idea where it was.

  I went back to my desk, grabbed the bag of bagels, and stuck my head inside Wildlife Inspector Fuca’s office.

  “Good morning. How about trying the best bagel in New York?” I offered, and shook the bag as a peace offering.

  Connie looked up from over her pile of papers and smiled hesitantly.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  I plunked the bag down on her desk and we each took a bagel.

  “Sorry to have snapped at you yesterday,” she said after the first bite. “It’s just that sometimes this whole thing really hits me. I’ve become nothing more than a paper pusher and it’s frustrating as hell. I begin to forget why I ever took this job.”

  “I can relate to that,” I told her. “I’m itching to do a case and instead wind up writing violations all day like some kind of glorified meter maid. Newark isn’t turning out to be my dream station, either.”

  “That’s odd. Everyone else here seems content with having their ass planted behind a desk. You got some kind of problem with that?” Connie joked wryly.

  “Yeah. It makes me edgy when I’m not digging into things. But then, I’ve never worked at a port before,” I replied.

  “Get used to it,” she advised. Her fingers gathered stray poppy seeds into a neat little pile. “You’re one of us now.”

  “How do you figure that?” I asked.

  “Because we’re both forced to operate under an identical set of rules. We only do inspections when there’s major suspicion of smuggling, the same as agents. Otherwise, we’re totally bogged down with paperwork,” she responded, and waved a hand at her desk. “Do you want to guess how often I’m able to go into the field and examine what comes in?”

  I hadn’t realized the situation was equally bad for inspectors. The thought was appalling. Wildlife imports into Newark had increased 332 percent over the past six years. Without a doubt, the U.S. was now every wildlife trafficker’s number-one destination.

  Creatures were routinely sliced and diced into jewelry, turned into Chinese medicinals, and transformed into ornamental statues, lamps, shoes, and belts. Then there was the black market for live animals that supplied pet stores, circuses, collectors, and laboratories. Add those together, and illegal trafficking came to a staggering 12 billion dollars a year, all moving through an underground pipeline of flesh, feathers, and fur. Yet almost no inspections were being conducted.

  “That’s crazy,” I replied.

  “No kidding. Think about it,” Connie continued. “A million containers come into this port every year, of which about seven thousand are specifically reported to contain wildlife. And each of those shipments can hold up to fifteen hundred boxes apiece.” She grabbed a second bagel. “If we do inspect anything, all we’re likely to find are minor violations. That’s because the real smugglers are smart enough to mark their shipments as containing something other than wildlife. They’re listed instead as clothing, cookware, or pottery. Which means those containers are able to simply sail right on through. Much as I hate to admit it, not all the blame can be pinned on Hogan. It’s the bigwigs in D.C. that won’t allow us to do our job.”

  “But what about Customs inspectors? Won’t they catch those items that we don’t?” I questioned, beginning to feel totally impotent.

  “What, are you kidding? Most of them wouldn’t know an elephant if it bit them on the butt,” Connie retorted with a sharp laugh. “Not that it matters. Ocean cargo has always had the lowest rate of inspection in this country. I mean, come on. Ninety-eight percent of all containers are electronically cleared before they even land here. Sure, there used to be a random check of goods at one time. But not anymore. The truth is, Customs’ attention is focused on just one thing these days. Terrorism is their only priority,” she said, setting me straight.

  I had to concede it was certainly understandable. Ocean ports are deemed to be the soft underbelly of the nation’s security, with 6 million containers flowing into the U.S. every year. Bin Laden knows this well. He covertly owns a shipping fleet and has used it in the past to transport stockpiles of weapons. It’s why cargo containers are now viewed as potential terror vehicles—the Trojan horses of the twenty-first century. Most experts predict it’s the way in which the next terror attack will be launched.

  Equally disturbing was that Newark is rumored to be the number-one port on the terrorist hit list. A dirty bomb set off inside one container would successfully disrupt rail lines, oil refineries, the air traffic system, and highways, essentially crippling the economy.

  “Even drug cases are way down since nine-eleven,” Connie revealed. “We have no choice but to depend on the general public’s honesty and integrity.”

  “In other words, we’re screwed,” I morosely summed up.

  “You got it,” Connie agreed with a tight grin. “Meanwhile, what little security we have here is pretty much of a joke. But then, what can you expect when Montana receives three times more money from the government than the Port of New York and New Jersey, and Houston gets five times as much?”

  It was due to Homeland Security’s financing formula, better known as “follow the pork.” Money wasn’t being allocated based on risk of attack, but rather on which politicians had the most clout. It’s why Wyoming was granted $38.00 per person in antiterrorism funds last year, while New Yorkers received just a measly $5.50 apiece.

  Not to mention ports in Martha’s Vineyard and Arkansas that received funds, though they didn’t even meet requirements for eligibility. It was enough to make me start drinking at ten o’clock in the morning.

  “Sorry to have chewed your ear off,” she proffered.

  “Don’t be silly. It’s interesting, even if its does make me want to go out and slit my wrists,” I joked. “But now let me tell you the reason why I came in here.”

  “You mean it was more than just to offer me a bagel?” Connie asked, playing the wide-eyed innocent.

  “I’m afraid so. You heard about the woman that was found at the port yesterday?”

  Connie nodded.

  “Well, I received a tip this morning that she might have been wearing a shahtoosh shawl. The problem is, I have no idea how to differentiate it from cashmere or pashmina,” I explained. “I’m not sure I could even identify shahtoosh if I saw it.”

  “Shahtoosh, huh?” Connie seemed to think about it for a minute. “Okay. Let me give you a tip. Try this if you find a shawl and think that it might possibly be shahtoosh.”

  Connie pointed to a ring on my right hand that had originally belonged to my grandmother.

  “Take your ring off, and see if you can pull
the shawl through it,” she suggested.

  “An entire shawl?” I skeptically asked.

  “Uh-huh. There shouldn’t be a problem if it’s the real thing. Shahtoosh wool is about seven times finer than human hair. The fibers are so soft that they’ll collapse into nothing. That’s why a six-foot shawl can easily pass through a woman’s ring without getting snagged.”

  “Thanks for your help,” I said, and headed straight back to Hogan’s office.

  He sat picking at a sad-looking doughnut on his desk.

  “Here, why don’t you try one of these?” I offered. “I bought them fresh this morning on the Lower East Side.”

  He gazed at me through a haze of red, and I wondered whether he’d drunk too much or just couldn’t fall asleep last night.

  “Thanks, Grasshopper,” he said, and plucked out a plump garlic bagel.

  Perhaps Connie was right. Maybe Hogan wasn’t such a bad guy, after all. But now wasn’t the time to find out. I decided, rather than tell the truth, to play it safe and lie.

  “An express shipping company just called from their office at the airport. They received a package containing snakeskin boots that don’t have the proper permit. They asked if I’d drive by and pick them up. Do you mind?”

  Hogan hesitated, and I knew that I had only one shot.

  “What do you think of the bagel?” I asked.

  “It’s terrific. I can’t get ’em like this in Jersey,” Hogan replied.

  My fingers slid the paper sack across his desk. “Here. Why don’t you keep the whole bag? I’ll be happy to bring in more whenever you like.”

  Hogan slowly blinked and, for one brief moment, I wasn’t certain what his decision would be. Then his stomach rumbled and a muscle twitched under his eye.

  “Sure. Go ahead,” he said, and took the bribe.

  Five

  I got into my Trailblazer, turned on the heat, and pulled out onto Fleet Street. But rather than head for the airport, I went in search of Magda. The feeling that had been eating away at me since yesterday had only grown stronger. If Bitsy von Falken had been wearing a shahtoosh shawl, I was determined to know about it.