Precious Cargo

by Clyde W. Ford

  “Then why’d you have your goon squad here to keep us from asking a few questions?”

  “Because I heard Raven was coming, and he’s touchy around me because of his little brother.”

  Raven stood with his back to me, looking out toward the bay and the mountain. “You ready to go?” I asked him. He didn’t hear me. So I went over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  We walked toward the car. RB called out.

  “Hey, Holmes.”

  I spun around.

  “Next time you come on the rez, leave Mr. Watson behind.”

  I pointed at RB. “You’d better hope we don’t have to come back on the rez looking for you.”

  We drove down Smokehouse. Mount Baker grew smaller the closer we got to the bay. Raven said nothing. He just stared straight ahead.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  No reply. I turned off Smokehouse and onto Marine Drive, heading back to the marina. A turkey vulture circled overhead before landing in a tree with other vultures. Then, as if I’d just asked the question, when, in fact, several minutes had passed, Raven said, “My little brother died of a drug overdose on the rez during the time I served in Desert Storm. The police botched the investigation.”

  “And when you got back you investigated on your own?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “RB was implicated?”

  “He sold Richie the drugs.”

  I placed a hand on Raven’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”

  Raven stared out the window. “Yeah, so am I.”

  We drove the next twenty minutes in silence. I pulled up to Gate Five. Raven took off his seatbelt and placed his hand on the door lever without opening the door.

  “You think he’s telling the truth?” Raven asked.

  “RB? Hard to know if it was the pain talking or whether he recognized the woman in the photo. When I asked about Longhorn he answered quickly, as though the name rang a bell, but it could have been the pain talking there, too. You want to come by the Noble Lady?”

  Raven shook his head. “No. I need to sit quietly with my anger.” He opened the door and walked down the ramp toward his boat. I drove around the harbor to Gate Nine.

  When I got to the Noble Lady, I found that the zipper on the rear enclosure had been pulled up and the boarding gate left partially open. I slid my gun out from behind my back, then stepped aboard. A woman sitting on the fantail jumped up suddenly. I flinched.

  “Sorry to startle you,” she said.

  I slipped my gun into my pocket. She could not have been more than five feet tall. About forty years old. I looked down on her round face, short, dark gray hair, sunbaked brown skin, and intense, dark eyes.

  “Are you Charles Noble?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “Maria Delarosa,” she said. “I know the women you found in Eagle Harbor.”

  “Maybe you’d better step into my office,” I said.

  I unlocked the cabin door and held it open while Maria Delarosa stepped inside.

  nine

  On second thought, “barreled inside” might better describe Maria. She lowered her head and moved quickly, reminding me of a little bull. I stepped inside and closed the door.

  “Can I offer you anything to eat?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she whipped out three photographs and slapped them down on the galley table like a poker player revealing a winning hand.

  “Juanita Gutierrez, eighteen. Melinda Corazon, sixteen. Carmela Rodriguez, twenty-one. All Mexicanas.” She rolled the r’s in the women’s names.

  All lovely, smiling women. I recognized Melinda from the morgue photo Ben had given me, and the other two as the women Raven and I had found when we dived.

  “You must find out who has done this,” Maria said. It sounded like an order. “You must find them and bring them to justice.”

  “Have a seat, please,” I said.

  Maria reluctantly sat.

  “First, how did you even know I was investigating this case?”

  “Janet Paulsen.”

  “Yes, and. . . .” I urged her on with a roll of my hand in the air.

  “Is this necessary? We need to talk about the women, not about me.”

  “Please, indulge me.”

  Maria huffed. “All right. I’m an activist. A labor organizer for migrant farm workers in Whatcom and Skagit counties. Janet’s an environmental activist here in Bellingham. I saw her yesterday at a meeting of groups opposed to the development of Chuckanut Ridge.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t get the connection between developing Chuckanut Ridge and migrant farm workers.”

  Maria shook her head. “You’re obviously not an activist.”

  “Obviously I’m not.”

  “Housing,” she said. “Supporting the development of medium- and high-income homes on the ridge pulls precious resources away from low-income housing. Those migrant laborers who manage to get visas and stay, who manage to work their way off the farms, need decent places to live here, as do many people who can’t afford the high price of real estate here.” Maria spoke in rapid-fire English.

  “Got it.”

  “But beyond that, Janet usually supports farm-worker issues, so I support the environmental issues she’s concerned about.”

  “An activist’s quid pro quo.”

  Maria winced. “Something like that.”

  I pulled a pen and pad from underneath a stack of books. I looked at Maria. “Notes,” I said. “Now tell me about these three women.”

  “Each young woman is the daughter of a migrant family. Each went missing about three weeks ago.”

  “Missing? Did the families report this to the police?”

  Maria lowered her head and shook it. “You don’t know much about migrant labor either, do you?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “First, these women were not living with their families. Second, my families don’t trust the police and they don’t go to the police . . . for anything. Period. Third, some of them are here illegally. Going to the police risks deportation. So they suffer mistreatment and abuse in silence.”

  “If their daughters weren’t living with them, how did the families know they were missing?”

  “The migrant worker community is close, well-knit. News travels fast.”

  “What news?”

  Maria frowned. “You’re frustrating.”

  “I’ve been told that.”

  “I don’t know what news. Whatever news alerted them to the fact that their daughters were missing.

  “Are any of the families of these three women illegal immigrants?”

  Maria shrugged. “Some I’m sure are. Maybe all. I have a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy on the farms.”

  “What else do you know about these women?”

  “All three had mothers and fathers who came here first and worked hard in the fields for several years to send money home for their children to come and join them.”

  “Let me guess. That money wasn’t for the services of an immigration lawyer?”

  Maria let go a small laugh. “Maybe you do know something after all. That money was to pay the coyotes. Five to ten thousand dollars, maybe even more. That’s what a coyote charges to smuggle a person out of Mexico or South America into the States.” She sneered. “Most families cannot save anywhere near that amount. So they give the coyotes their life savings and work the rest of their lives to pay the bastards off.”

  “Only some of that work is less than dignified.”

  Maria cut her eyes at me. “Most of the work migrant laborers do is less than dignified, but some young women are forced into prostitution to pay off the coyotes.”

  “Like these three women?”

  “A family usually says their daughter works in the ‘hospitality industry. ’” Tears formed at the corners of Maria’s eyes. “But everyone knows it’s a polite way of saying she works as a prostitute.”

  “Works wher
e?”

  Maria sighed. “I organize farm workers, not sex-trade workers,” she said. “But I’ve heard they work in communities near the farms. Maybe here in Bellingham as well.”

  “They must have pimps, places they stay when they’re not working, ways of contacting their families on the farm.”

  Maria sucked her teeth. “I organize. You investigate. If I knew all of this I wouldn’t be here talking with you now.”

  “Is it possible that the families of any of the three women would allow me to question them?”

  Maria nodded. “Maybe. That’s all I can say. Maybe if they know you are not the police and that you are trying to bring those responsible for the death of their daughter to justice. Maybe I can convince a family to speak with you.”

  I reached for the pictures of the young women, but Maria grabbed my wrist.

  “Only if you promise not to show these pictures to the police and not to speak a word of this to any authorities.”

  “You know it’s possible the police could make the search for the women’s killers a lot easier.”

  Maria gathered the photos from the table with a sweep of her hand and stood up. “Then I will find someone willing to respect the lives of the poor people I work with.” She reached for the doorknob.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I promise not to go to the authorities with this.”

  Maria spun around, grinning. “You’re easy.”

  I held up a finger. “On one condition.”

  Her grin dissolved into an intense stare. “Maybe not so easy,” she said.

  “That you promise to find a family of one of the dead women that will talk to me.”

  “I said, ‘Maybe.’”

  “Not good enough,” I said. “I need your promise that you will find me a family.”

  Maria smiled. “I like you.” She extended her hand and we shook. “You’ve got a deal. I promise.” She slapped the photos on the table. She reached for the door again, then twirled around with a twinkle in her eyes. “If you ever get tired of being an investigator, I’ll get you a job as a labor negotiator.”

  I winked. “Don’t know that I’m as tough as you.”

  “Tough? You want tough, try negotiating with a Dutch farmer from Skagit Valley or Lynden.”

  Maria handed me her business card. She walked out the cabin door and stepped off the boat. I slipped her card into my wallet. When I opened the refrigerator door, I just held it, staring. I didn’t have the energy to fix myself food. So I pushed it closed and snapped open my cell phone. I called my favorite Thai restaurant and ordered garlic shrimps in black bean sauce to go.

  Every community, like every person, harbors a dark side—a shadow part that most would prefer to keep hidden. The dark side of larger cities is often flaunted in displays of neon and flesh. In smaller towns, the dark side isn’t always as visible. I had yet to venture into the shadows of Bellingham, though it looked like that’s where this investigation would lead me. Buddhists say that within the light one finds darkness, and within the darkness one finds light. I had a pretty good idea where to find the dark side of this city. But once I found it, would I also manage to find the light?

  LATE THAT NIGHT, I sat alone, sipping a cup of coffee at a booth in the Horseshoe Café. Opened in 1886, the café boasts that it’s one of the oldest continuously operating eateries west of the Mississippi. If you listen closely, you can still hear the tinny sounds of an out-of-tune piano, where a guy with a handlebar moustache, wearing a bowler hat and a shirt with black armbands, plays cowboy medleys from the 1800s. If you squint, you can still see the twirling, puffy white petticoat of a dance-hall madam hustling drunk cowboys into the saddles of her fillies upstairs.

  The truth is that the Horseshoe Café serves good food, has Inter-net access, and best of all it’s open 24/7. It’s also just around the corner from Railroad Avenue, which is Bellingham’s street of darkness and light.

  Along the avenue during the day, people sip lattes at Starbucks, eat bagels at the Bagelry, and sweat their way to perfect bodies at the hot yoga studio.

  At night, after the curtain drops on the legitimate businesses along the avenue, it rises on a new cast of characters, who deal drugs from doorways, begin brawls at bars, and sell sex from the street. The avenue’s the perfect place to step through the looking glass into the topsyturvy world of Bellingham’s underbelly.

  I finished my coffee near midnight and sauntered out the door of the Horseshoe Café. I took a left at Railroad Avenue and strolled down the street past Wonderland Herbs & Spices, Avenue Bread, the Bagelry, and Avellino.

  I’d started across Magnolia Street when a tall woman coming my way bumped into me and stumbled partway to the ground. I reached down to help her up.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  She smiled, and a hint of her fruity perfume drifted my way. She held onto my arm as she regained her balance. Then she leaned into me and whispered in a low, sultry voice, “Would you like a companion tonight?”

  I flashed a smile. “I would.”

  “Hi, I’m Monique.”

  Monique, if that was really her name, hooked her arm in mine. She pivoted around and walked me across the street.

  “If you have a car nearby, we can go there,” she said. “If you want more privacy, I have a room we can use. That’ll cost you extra. Do you need a menu, or do you already know what you want?”

  “Maybe you can tell me about your specials,” I said.

  Monique hit my arm playfully. “A man with a sense of humor. I like that.”

  “My car’s in the middle of the next block,” I said.

  “A man who’s prepared, no less.”

  She squeezed my arm tightly and leaned her head on my shoulder. Then she placed her hand on my back and rubbed me. Her hand wandered over my shoulder blades, dropping to my waist and below, before she hooked her arm in mine again. Smart woman. Forget the soft touch of seduction. Monique had just frisked me for weapons.

  When we got to my car, I opened the passenger door. Monique turned to me. Her face registered surprise. “And a gentleman, too,” she said.

  Her short, dark skirt rode up high on her bare white thighs as she slowly and deliberately slipped one leg inside the car, then the other. She pulled the cascading tresses of her blonde hair out of the way as I closed the door. I walked around to the driver’s side.

  Across the street, in front of the bus depot, a plain white van glowed orange under the sodium streetlamps. Damn. That van had “police stakeout” written all over it. Once behind the wheel, I turned to see Monique looking over her shoulder at the van. She turned back to me.

  “Honey, let’s get this over with now. You’re not packing. You’re not nervous. And you treat me like a lady instead of a whore.” She motioned with her head over her shoulder toward the van. “So what is it? Fuck me or arrest me?”

  “Guys in the van, police?”

  “Here once or twice a week.”

  “Vice or drugs?”

  “The word is it’s drugs. You’re not with ’em?”

  “If I was would I be asking you to drive with me?”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “I am.”

  “Let’s drive,” she said.

  “Got a favorite place?” I asked.

  “Small parking lot between the railroad crossings down by the old Georgia-Pacific plant. It’s quiet, private, and you can look out on the bay.”

  I started my car and reached down under my seat as we drove to check that my pistol still lay where I’d left it. Several blocks later, I pulled into the shadowed gravel parking lot, stopped the engine, and turned off the lights.

  Starlight illuminated the dark waters of the bay and silhouetted the jagged tops of rotting wooden pilings. To our right, the marina lights cast an orange glow over a large freighter at dock. In the confined space of the car, Monique’s perfume mixed with the smell of cigarette smoke that emanated from her hair. She pulled her legs up under her on the car seat and looked
around the car.

  “Kind of cramped in here,” she said. “But we can manage.” Then she leaned into me and whispered. “What’ll it be? Oral’s easy, and I take you for an oral guy. Am I right?”

  “No,” I said. “I want something else.”

  Monique chuckled. “You weren’t kidding about my specials.” She leaned away from me. “Okay, here they are. Anal. Breasts. Like I said, it’s tight in here, but I’ve done tighter. Kinky’s fine. Feet. Underwear. Underarms. If smelling them gets you off, no problem. Nothing risky. Bondage. Inserting foreign objects. Don’t do that. You want that rocket in your pocket in my silo, you’ve got to wear protection. I’ve got condoms on me. Now, for the prices—”

  I unrolled a wad of bills from my shirt pocket. Monique stopped talking.

  “Information,” I said.

  She shrieked. “Information? You bastard. You lied. You’re a cop.” Monique shouldered her door open and sprang from the car, storming away in her high heels, headed back toward Railroad Avenue. I started my car and pulled out of the parking lot. I drove on the wrong side of the street. Monique cast a glance at me and sped up. I sped up to match her. She slowed down. So did I. We danced this way along the darkened street, past the hulking behemoth buildings that had once processed paper. I rolled down my window and shouted.

  “Three Mexican women were found at the bottom of Eagle Harbor. They may have been working the street. Do you know anything about them?”

  “Fuck you,” Monique said. She kept walking.

  “I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator working for the families of the victims. They want to know what happened to their daughters. Regardless of how you made a living, if I’d brought you up from the bottom of the ocean, maybe someone who loved you would want to know who did it, and why.”

  Monique stopped suddenly. She turned to me and sneered. “What makes you think anyone would care about a hooker like me?” Then she marched off.

  Several blocks ahead of us, a black van turned the corner and headed our way. Its headlights flashed twice. Monique’s head snapped up. She ran around to the passenger’s side of my car and banged on the window. I slowed to a crawl. She walked in the street alongside me.