More acidic seawater has become a serious problem for marine critters with shells, such as clams, mussels, and oysters. As a result, some marine industries, including oyster aquaculture on the west coast, are in big trouble because seawater pumped into the hatcheries is so corrosive it eats away the young oyster shells as they form. Ocean acidification is also degrading corals around the world. Corals are nicknamed the “rainforests of the sea” because they support an astounding diversity of marine animals including fish, sponges, sea turtles, shrimp, and much more. Since humans gather many tons of fish every year from coral habitats, acidification of the oceans has direct, severe impact on millions of people around the world.
Ted lowered his computer screen and stood. “I guess that’s it. What’s our flight schedule again?”
Harvey checked the schedule on her phone. “Um, we leave Boston at two and the plane lands in South Carolina around four. If we catch the bus tomorrow morning at eight, that should leave us plenty of time down at Logan. The taxi in South Carolina will be expensive, but I’d rather take it than worry about meeting the ship on time.”
“Good,” I said. “We’re all set.”
But in the spirit of best-laid plans, it didn’t quite work out that way.
9
On the way home, I picked up enough coffee beans to keep me in caffeine for a day or two after the cruise. The phone’s blinking answering machine greeted me when I walked into the kitchen. Expecting the usual hang-ups and new credit card pitches, Sergeant Purdy’s voice surprised me.
“Dr. Tusconi—Mara—this is Sergeant Purdy from the Ellsworth P.D. I know you’re heading to South Carolina tomorrow, which is why I’m calling. The folks with Operation Broken Glass would like to talk to you. I told them you were flying down that way, and they’d very much like to speak with you in person. It’s about Nelson and Jack. I can’t say more than that. Would you please call Lieutenant Roger Dunn, as soon as you can? His number is—”
I stopped the recorder, found some paper and a pen, and scribbled the telephone number Purdy dictated. Within minutes, I was speaking to Broken Glass’s Lieutenant Dunn who wasted no time getting down to business.
“Dr. Tusconi, thank you for calling me so quickly. I need to speak with you in confidence.”
I glanced around, which was silly, and said, “Go ahead, Lieutenant. I’m alone here at home. Nobody can hear us.”
“Good. We’ve had a serious breach in security, something highly unusual for Operation Broken Glass. While I can’t go into details, I can tell you that the breach is probably responsible for Nelson Ives’s death.”
I pulled out a kitchen chair and fell into it. “Nelson was involved—?”
Dunn cut me off. “I can’t say more on the phone, and it’s urgent we speak in person. I understand that you are flying to South Carolina tomorrow. Is that right?”
“Yes, with two colleagues here at Maine Oceanographic.”
“We can meet you at the Charleston airport. Charleston County Aviation Authority provides us with an interview room when we need it.”
“But I—we—must be at South Carolina University’s dock by two p.m.”
“We’ll transport the three of you from the airport. Be assured, you will board your ship on time.”
I called Harvey and briefly explained the change of plans.
After a beat, she said, “So we fly to the South Carolina airport where you’ll speak with someone from this Operation Broken Glass, while Ted and I wait. Did I get that right?”
“Yeah, but I’m pretty much in the dark here. All I can say is that it’s really important and has to do with eel trafficking. I’ll briefly talk with this official who absolutely promised me we’d meet the ship on time. They’ll provide private transportation.”
“Well,” she said, “that’ll save some money. And it sounds pretty important.”
I glanced up at my old schoolhouse wall clock. “I wouldn’t agree to meet with them otherwise. Um, could you call Ted and tell him what’s up? I’m due at Angelo’s for dinner in twenty minutes.”
Harvey signed off with a cheery, “Will do and see you in the morning.” Once more, my best friend and brilliant colleague accepted my chaotic existence with hardly a blink. How Ted would react was another question, but that was an issue for later.
I had just enough time to change and drive back to Spruce Harbor for dinner with someone I loved dearly: my godfather, Angelo DeLuca. After splashing some water on my face, I ran a brush through my shoulder-length hair a couple of times, changed into a long-sleeved cashmere sweater, and was good to go.
As he often did the night before a research cruise, Angelo had invited me for an Italian meal. A retired marine engineer, Angelo knew I would rather spend time getting ready for the trip than making dinner. While that was true, I looked forward to an evening with Angelo no matter what. He was a terrific cook, great company, and he knew my soul in ways nobody else did.
At the age of nineteen, I faced the worst possible tragedy. I lost my loving, smart, charismatic oceanographer parents, Bridget and Carlos Tusconi, in a freak submarine accident. Angelo was a close friend of my parents who lived alone, and he immediately welcomed me into his home and his life. I became the daughter he never had. An only child, I relished learning about all things Italian, his sea adventures, and his memories of Bridget and Carlos. Angelo was the most kind, engaging, generous stand-in parent a young woman could ever want.
Visit a Mainer’s “cottage” and you might arrive at a house much larger than you expected. Angelo’s is no exception. His two-storied cottage boasts a good-sized kitchen with a gas range, black granite sink, and wood table big enough for a dinner party. In the living room there’s a large fireplace, and the den has shelves filled with all manner of marine books. Upstairs, I still have clothes in one of the bedrooms, and Angelo uses the biggest one, but there’s plenty of room in the other two for visiting scientists, writers, and his many old friends.
It was dusk as my Subaru rolled to a stop on the pebbled driveway, and I walked around to the back patio in time to catch the sun sliding down into a watery horizon. Angelo sited his home high on the tip of Seal Point, one of Spruce Harbor’s dual headlands, and from the living room there’s a killer view of the open ocean beyond Juniper Ledge’s clanging bell buoy. My godfather reads the water better than anyone I know. Rolling seas? Beware of an imminent storm, he would say, but regular swells tell you the storm has passed. Steep waves form as wind blows against currents, shallower waves when it follows them. Naturally, I had learned a lot about the ocean as a marine scientist, but Angelo taught me to look at and listen to her. As an avid ocean kayaker, I know his instruction saves sea-traveler’s lives, because it did mine.
The patio door opens into the kitchen, which is where I found Angelo at the counter chopping onions. Tiptoeing—he has a good eight inches on me—I pecked him on the cheek.
Nodding at the onions, he said, “Don’t think you’d want a hug from me at the moment. Help yourself to the wine on the table. It’s white so no chance of headaches tomorrow morning. I’ll add these onions to the sauce and be right there.”
I poured a half-glass of Gavi, my favorite Italian white, tasted it, and settled back into one of the oak chairs. Closing my eyes, I took in the rich aroma of simmering tomatoes and garlic.
In what seemed like an instant, Angelo patted my hand. “Tired?”
Blinking, I answered, “More than I knew. A lot’s happened since our dinner last week.”
“Dimmi di più—tell me more,” he said.
“This will take a while.”
“I’ll put the sauce on low and enjoy the wine. Go ahead.”
Between sips, it all came out in a tumble—the delicate little glass eels in Nelson’s bucket, his shooting, my interview with Purdy in the Ellsworth station, Jack’s disappearance, and what I could say about the surprise call from Operation Broken Glass.
Eyebrows raised, Angelo said, “My goodness. Are you okay?”
“I know a little about this Operation Broken Glass,” Angelo said.
Given Angelo’s many connections, I wasn’t surprised.
“First of all,” he began, “the list of enforcement agencies reads like a fisheries management phone book. Besides the Justice Department’s Environmental Crimes Section, there’s Fish and Game from all the Atlantic coast states plus the Marine Fisheries Commission. The guys I know are from U.S. Fish and Wildlife. Working together, they’ve nailed major traffickers trying to sell illegal eels worth millions.”
“How do they get them?”
“Mostly it’s undercover agents in South Carolina who pose as fishermen selling illegal eels or dealers buying them.”
“A sting,” I said.
“That’s right. And a dangerous one. Chinese eel traffickers are said to be especially ruthless. An undercover agent in their hands would be a dead man.”
I slapped my hand on the table. “My god. That’s what he was saying!” I leaned in. “When we got back to Nelson after he’d been shot, he was mumbling something. Thinking back, I wondered if he said ‘He was Siamese,’ but that made no sense. But ‘He was Chinese’ does if Nelson was trying to describe the guy who shot him.”
“So Nelson might have been involved in a sting?”
I fell back into my chair again. “Why he’d do that, I have no clue. But it would explain why the Operation Broken Glass folks want to talk with me.”
After that, Angelo and I put all talk of eel trafficking aside and just enjoyed being together and a fabulous shrimp marinara.
10
On the way to the bus station the next morning, I tried to explain to Ted why he and Harvey would wait in the airport while I spoke with folks from Operation Broken Glass. Since I was in Harvey’s passenger seat and Ted sat in the back, it was hard to read his expression as he looked out the window.
Ted said, “I got the gist of the situation from what Harvey told me last night, and Operation Broken Glass has been in the newspaper. Do you know why they want to talk with you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Guess you’ll find out.”
I had hoped for a little more in the way of curiosity, support—something. Harvey turned on the radio, and I focused on other people’s problems rather than my own.
Stepping aside as passengers departing our flight streamed by me, I scanned the crowd at our gate. There was only one guy with a tie, starched shirt, and crew cut, but he wasn’t quite what I expected to see.
Lieutenant Dunn was African American.
In my defense, I live in one of the least diverse places in the country. Maine, along with some other New England states, is about ninety-five percent white. That’s slowly changing, as cities like Portland welcome immigrants from Mexico, Africa, and elsewhere. But go farther north or inland and you’ll rarely see a person of color except on television.
As I approached Dunn, he said, “Dr. Tusconi?”
“Mara, please.” Harvey and Ted had caught up with me. “These are my colleagues, Harvina Allison and Ted McNight.”
Addressing them both, Dunn said, “I apologize for delaying the drive to your ship, but it’s critical that I briefly speak with, um, Mara. Just beyond the security entrance, there’s a restaurant that serves excellent grits, crab cakes, and hot biscuits. You can’t miss it. We’ll be forty-five minutes at most and then Mara can join you there. Our driver will meet you outside the luggage area.”
I pointed to three duffel bags at my feet. “We stuffed the bags into the plane’s overhead compartment, so we’ve got our luggage.”
Perhaps seeing Dunn in person impressed Ted, because he said, “The delay is not a problem, Lieutenant. Your work is obviously important. But we will appreciate the ride to our ship.”
Dunn gestured toward a door labeled SECURITY. “Let me get your bag. The interview room is in there.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s the red one.”
Saying he’d see me soon, Ted took his bag in one hand, Harvey’s in the other, and left.
I was now in a position to appraise such rooms, and Dunn’s got high marks. Instead of hard plastic furniture, the chairs were well cushioned and the large table made of polished oak. I guessed the expensive, single-serve brewing system on the counter had hot coffee, teas, cocoa, and sodas.
Pointing to one of the chairs, the lieutenant said, “Why don’t you pull that closer to the table? I’m making myself some coffee. Would you like some, or maybe a cold drink?”
“Lemonade, if there is any.”
I barely had time to inspect the oversized military nautical painting on the wall when Dunn slid a can of lemonade across the table and took the chair opposite me, coffee in hand. He slipped a small notebook from his coat jacket and placed it on the table. No tape recorder was in sight, thank goodness.
Dunn opened the notebook, removed the attached pen, and looked at me. His eyes, a dark velvety brown, signaled a shrewd intellect. This was a man you definitely wanted on your side.
“Again, I’m very grateful for your time, Mara. Let’s start with Operation Broken Glass. Do you know much about who we are and what we do?”
“I’ve read about your recent successes in the Maine newspapers. As a biologist, of course I know about eel trafficking and why it’s so lucrative. Um, many agencies are involved including Fish and Wildlife. That’s probably it.”
He nodded. “Good. Let’s get to why you are here. I understand that you and”—he looked down at his notebook—“Gordon Maloy were with Nelson Ives the night Ives was shot, and that Jack Ives was also present. Why don’t you tell me what happened and what you saw?”
Once more, I described the evening’s events from when I first met Nelson to Purdy’s arrival after the shooting.
Dunn jotted some notes as I spoke, but mostly he just listened.
“Good, that’s helpful. Just now you emphasized two things—that you saw the bucket full of eels when you ran back, which contradicts Jack’s claim that the shooter took the bucket, and that Nelson was mumbling something that sounded like, ‘He was Siamese.’ Did I get that right?”
“Yes. But now I think Nelson was saying, ‘He was Chinese.’”
“We’ll get there. Is there anything else?”
Looking to the side, I reran the movie of that fateful night in my mind and caught an image I hadn’t recalled earlier. “Actually, yes. I just remembered something about Jack when he ran back after Nelson was shot. Um, that’s when Gordy was trying to stop the bleeding.”
“What about Jack?”
“It’s probably not important, but Jack was brushing twigs and leaves off his shoulders. It looked like he’d fallen into the shrubs.” I shrugged. “I can’t imagine why that’d be important.”
The flicker in Dunn’s eyes told me otherwise. “Why do you think Jack may have fallen into the shrubs?”
“If you crush bayberry leaves, they give off a strong, distinctive odor. Like bayberry candles, you know? When he got to us, Jack smelled like that.”
“Hmm, very interesting.”
I waited for Dunn to tell me more, but he was frustratingly silent. Finally I said, “Except for Nelson’s mumbles, that’s all I remember.”
“My guess is that Nelson was saying, ‘He was Chinese.’ When I explain the situation, that will make sense.” Dunn sat back in his chair. “First off, thanks. You’ve been very helpful. Now I’ll tell you what I think happened that night, so you understand why you are here. Nelson Ives was one of our agents.” Dunn pressed his lips together and shook his head. “A damn good one too. The last sting we did together down here was a few weeks ago.”
11
The news shocked and surprised me. “I don’t understand why someone, especially a man Nelson’s age, would do such a thing. It’s so dangerous.”
“It certainly is. I can’t tell you exactly why Nelson helped us out, but it has to do with Jack.�
� Both hands on the table, Dunn leaned toward me. “Unless he’s already dead, Jack is in terrible danger, Mara. We want to find him, and I hope you can help us.”
I shook my head. “The last time I saw Jack was when he climbed into the back of the ambulance to be with his dad.”
“And Jack hasn’t tried to contact you—phone, email, anything?”
Surprised again, I said, “No. Why would he? Besides, Jack doesn’t have any of my contact information.”
“Well, if he does reach you, I want you to call me right away.”
I shrugged. “All right.”
“Let’s go back to that evening. It is possible Nelson was mumbling, ‘Chinese.’ One of the stings he participated in targeted a Chinese trafficker. That guy is in custody, but someone else in his gang could have retaliated against Nelson.”
“It’s like a gangster movie,” I said.
Lieutenant Dunn looked down at his hands and said, “Yes, but this time the guy who got shot was our colleague and friend. As to your thought that Jack fell into the shrubs? It could be he jumped, not fell, to hide from the guy who’d just shot his father.”
As promised, a driver picked us up outside the baggage claim for the trip down to Georgetown. As we rode along, I stared out the window and sifted through all that Dunn had told me.
Seated beside me, Harvey touched my arm. “Mara, are you okay?”
Startled, I said, “What? Yes, sorry. Just preoccupied. Tell you what I can later.”
I stayed “preoccupied” until we approached the marine station. Then, as always, just seeing royal blue Research Vessel Intrepid at the pier, her mooring lines slack over the pilings and gangway waiting, made my spirits soar.
We had just unloaded our bags when my graduate student, Alise, met us in the pier’s parking lot. “I recognize the red duffel, Mara. You’ve got enough to carry. Let me get that.”
Glass Eels, Shattered Sea Page 4
