After 35 minutes the lot was emptying fast. Woodle jacked the pickup truck out of its bay and followed the growing trail of exodus. Ledger restarted her engine. Woodle’s pickup drove past, tailgated by a Mazda hatchback and a Toyota Tundra before she could execute a U-turn into the roadway to follow. All three vehicles hooked a right and took off back to Maritime Parade. The problem was the main drag was busy.
She watched Woodle turn left when there was a break in the traffic. The Toyota quickly copied, then the traffic burst back to keep the Mazda, also with its left turn signal blinking, standing at the junction. A surge of frustration made Ledger rev the engine hard, but to no avail. By the time the Mazda was no longer in front of her Woodle’s pickup was long gone.
6
It was seven the next morning when Ledger drove the brown Taurus into Oyster Bay from Long Beach. It had rained overnight but morning sun now filtered through cottonwool thin threads of cloud. The blacktop was steaming to dryness. As she had hoped she spotted Dallenbach’s cruiser parked center stage in front of Captain Joe’s Seafood Bistro.
She had noted that Dallenbach didn’t wear a wedding ring. He had spoken about eating at Captain Joe’s on a regular basis. That also didn’t imply homecooked meals with a wife and family. While waiting for her takeout order, Ledger had noticed the blackboard sign stating that Captain Joe’s was open from 7:00 a.m. till 11:00 p.m. catering for breakfast, lunch and dinner customers, seven days a week during the summer season. She had taken a punt that Dallenbach might also frequent the joint for breakfast most days and her gamble had paid off.
The bell tinkled as she crossed the threshold. She was met by warm air overlaid with the soft patina of clinking silverware as a collection of silent, solitary, mostly male, diners ate their breakfasts. These were Oyster Bay regulars. The tourists turned up later in the morning.
Ledger picked Dallenbach out at the same table he’d been at for lunch. Above him banks of LED fixtures flooded the restaurant with bright light, akin to daylight. They were necessary because the restaurant’s picture windows were westerly facing and at that time of morning the sun didn’t penetrate the interior.
Ledger walked over to Dallenbach’s table and pulled out a chair.
Dallenbach wiped a slick of bacon grease off his upper lip, keeping a grip on his breakfast burger as he eyed her with wary attention.
“Are you here with news?” he asked.
“I’m here with questions,” she said.
“That’s a shame. I’d have preferred news. Enzo Garcia’s been beating my office door down demanding I do something about ICE’s high-handed tactics in detaining his wife. It would be good to be able to tell him something.”
“The Garcias are no longer my case. I can’t tell you anything.”
Dallenbach took another bite of his burger and chomped thoughtfully. “Then you must be here about the other matter we spoke of.”
“Hole in one,” Ledger responded.
“I’ll finish up and we can go for a walk.”
Ledger cast a look around. Customers were thin on the ground, serving staff even scarcer. She raised a hand to beckon the only server in sight from behind the counter.
“Unless you think the restaurant’s bugged, I think we can chat over coffee.” When the server approached Ledger let her pour coffee into an oversized cup without placing an order for food.
Dallenbach released a toothpick from a plastic holder, stuck it between his teeth and began to chew industriously. “Coffee’s better with food.”
She caught his censorious look. “I prefer to fast in the morning. It’s a childhood habit,” she said. “Also, my brain works better on an empty stomach.”
Dallenbach copied her and threw looks over his shoulder, first to the right and then to the left. “I guess it’ll be okay if we keep our voices down. I don’t want to alarm residents and I don’t want anyone hearing part of our conversation, taking it out of context to spread around the neighborhood and scare the shit out of everyone.”
“Especially when you’ve got Valentina Galliano on the prowl. I don’t imagine that’s a reporting angle that would please the mayor.”
Dallenbach’s face clouded. Ledger pressed on. “I came across Dean Woodle’s vehicle yesterday. He was in Northern Shore’s parking lot for around forty minutes and seemed to be very popular with certain workers. Any idea what might be going on there?” She handed over her phone, flicking through the photos she had taken. “Do you recognize these workers?”
Dallenbach’s tongue protruded. The toothpick rose and fell, before being shoved firmly to the side. “Sure do. Woodle’s targeting the immigrant labor workers. They all live locally now, but they weren’t born and bred here. You witnessed them involved in quick transactions with Woodle? It takes only a minute to hand over a few bills and pick up a baggie. Then the workers go home to enjoy themselves and Woodle takes off with their money. Of course your images don’t capture exactly what’s happening on the other side of the vehicle. Woodle’s defense could argue he was simply being a friendly fellow exchanging greetings.”
“What can I say? The guy drives a tank. I wasn’t at the right angle to capture the actual exchange. Let’s say for now, that he was simply selling baggies, then Woodle’s not the Mr Big you think he is. A Mr Big wouldn’t sell baggies to individuals for a few dollars each. He’d leave that to his dealers.” Ledger pulled up a second series of photos to show him. “One thing that I noticed was that on several occasions he had young women hop in the car and spend a longer time with him. I still can’t decide whether that was special business going on, or he just gave pretty women special treatment. Can you confirm these girls all live in Oyster Bay?”
Dallenbach considered the photos while Ledger sipped her coffee. “That’s Salma Sanchez, Rosie del Castillo, the Vega girl and I think that last image is Sofia Martinez or maybe her sister Ana. Rosie del Castillo was last year’s Miss Pearl of the Seas.”
“Every one of those girls is beautiful enough to be a Miss Universe contestant. That’s what makes me think Woodle’s targeting them especially for their looks.”
“You think they might have traded favors inside the car for their cut of drugs?”
“No I don’t, unless Woodle’s got the stamina and timing of a jack rabbit. I have a different theory. What if those quick transactions I witnessed weren’t cash changing hands for a baggie, but stock being provided to dealers? I counted 8 workers stopping by his side, plus the women who got in the car with him. That makes 12 dealers he talked to in under an hour.”
Dallenbach managed a breathy whistle around the protruding wooden splinter. “If that’s true then you’re saying Oyster Bay’s in big trouble?”
“I don’t think so. You said you hadn’t noticed any increase in drug-related incidents in the town. With a population under two thousand and a tourist influx only for a couple of summer months, Woodle wouldn’t be making much of a profit by selling in Oyster Bay. I’m standing by my guess that these illegal workers act as a conduit for him. My thought is that the drugs are only passing through Oyster Bay on their way to being sold elsewhere. Can you call in your police contacts in other towns up and down the coast and the neighboring states to the east to confirm if they’ve noticed an increase in drugs for sale on the street or drug-related crimes? It could be that Woodle hands out the drugs and his dealers then drive away to distribute them or hand them over to other networks he’s set up.”
Dallenbach scratched his chin and tugged the toothpick from between his teeth, settling it on the edge of his empty plate. “I’ve got a good relationship with the other county sheriffs and we’re all on board in doing what we can to mitigate the drug plague, but you know once it starts crossing state lines there’s only so much me and my deputy can do.”
“I’m not asking you to set up roadblocks or put a tail on all twelve suspects. If the best you can do is provide evidence to back up there’s been increased drug sales or crime that’s still useful to support the hypoth
esis that Woodle’s set up a network of illegal aliens for drug distribution. You mentioned Maria Garcia might be involved. Do you think she’s part of this chain of transmission?”
“The trouble is no one’s talking in Oyster Bay. The Hispanic community has closed ranks. I was hoping ICE might use their Homeland Security techniques to extract information from Garcia.”
“I can’t tell you squat. I’m not part of her investigation.”
Dallenbach gave a disgusted snort. “Now I feel like you’re playing me! I’m being cooperative and it sure feels like you’re two-stepping around the edges.”
“It’s simple truth. I can’t share what I don’t know with you. I can share some other information. ICE officers have access to a number of digital avenues that state law enforcement can’t touch. One of them is a database run by a private company that lets deportation staff map when and where vehicles of interest have been spotted. I ran Woodle’s plates through the system. Both his driver’s license and his number plates are registered to a Green Bay, Wisconsin address. I discovered the pickup truck he uses was purchased six months ago in Seattle, not Wisconsin, yet he registered it to the address on his driver’s license. And the vehicle hasn’t been driven outside of Washington. It’s never made it back east. It’s done several loops up and down the Washington coast, going as far north as Seattle, but no further.”
“All a defense attorney will tell you is Woodle’s moved but not yet changed his address. It’s not that uncommon. If I had a dollar for the number of people I’ve pulled over during my tenure in policing who never register a change of address I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you.”
“And you’ve never pulled Woodle over for a traffic infringement?”
“The man drives like my ninety-year old grandmother with one foot on the brake at all times.”
“But you have seen him and you’d recognize him, right? Because you told me his nationality didn’t match his name. You said you thought he was an illegal, which means you think he’s Mexican.”
Dallenbach squirmed in his seat, avoiding eye contact. He scratched the back of his head again in short, aggressive swipes.
“Please tell me you could pick him out of a line up, Sheriff.”
“Let’s just say I’ve seen him from a distance.”
Ledger shoved her phone under Dallenbach’s nose. It showed Woodle’s driver’s license photo. “Is this the man you saw?”
Dallenbach closed one eye and squinted at the screen. Woodle’s pale skin and light brown hair filled the display. Ledger tapped an impatient finger on the table next to the phone. “Well?”
Dallenbach moved the phone to arm’s length and opened both eyes to take another good look. Finally he shook his head. Ledger had the feeling he was putting on a show.
“This isn’t the guy I would’ve picked from the line up. Like I said, you need to talk to his dealers. All those girls who got in the car with him. They saw him close up. They could ID him for you.”
“Except you said none of them were talking to law enforcement.” With an abrupt movement, Ledger snatched her phone from Dallenbach’s hand. “All the signs point to Woodle not being his real name. He’s just plucked an innocent guy’s identity out of the ether and he’s using it to rent a home, buy a car, live his life here. If I could get a photo of his face I could input it into our database and run facial recognition on it to get a real identity.”
“What do you want me to do? Next time I see his car in town, bust him for a broken tail light and take an unauthorized photo?”
“And have him sue the town for unlawful detention?” Ledger raised a mocking eyebrow. “I’m sure I can figure out a better solution.”
Dallenbach raised no objections. She sensed relief rising from him like steam off dung. She wasn’t surprised. The reason Dallenbach had unloaded the case onto her in the first place was because of his limited resources and desire not to bring the mayor down on his case. Keeping a town of two thousand mainly compliant residents under control was vastly different to controlling the country’s entire borders.
“What do you have in mind?”
Ledger shrugged. She had no specific plan. “Maybe I can exploit Woodle’s weakness for pretty girls.”
7
“If you want a break from your paperwork, there’s someone here to see you, Ledger. He’s waiting downstairs in the lobby for you.”
Ledger raised tired eyes to CC, who had paused his bulk beside her desk to give her the message.
“Who is it?” Ledger stretched her arms above her head, almost dislodging a mound of files beside her laptop. She had been on the go since before seven that morning and it was now hitting traditional knock off hour, not that time mattered when officers were onto a target.
After putting in eight hours of surveillance in Oyster Bay, she had driven back to Portland to prepare a Field Operations Worksheet on Dean Woodle. While she had no intention of submitting it until she could fully identify Woodle as a person of interest to ICE, she was playing by the book in case she needed to deflect another attack from Bogel. It also meant by completing the paperwork to identify Woodle as a potential ICE target she could use the digital tools at ICE’s disposal to investigate him without breaking any rules. If she was going to leave ICE she wanted it to be on her own terms, not by giving Bogel ammunition to remove her from her job.
“Some gray-haired dude who says he’s your dad.”
Ledger shot to her feet. “And you left him downstairs?!”
CC gave her a cheesy grin. “Just yanking your chain, Ledger. He’s waiting in the hallway outside your door to surprise you. Here’s a hint, you might want to tidy up your desk first. You’ve got so much paper on board you look like you’re trying to build a privacy screen between you and the world.”
“That’s what happens when Bogel sends me to do on site surveillance. The paperwork never stops, it just keeps piling up.”
But she took CC’s hint to move a stack of papers from the single plastic visitor chair to an empty shelf in the narrow hutch beside her desk.
Each team member had their own cubicle as a patch of turf they had staked out. The free-standing office partitions surrounded her desk on three sides, leaving one side open to enter and exit. The screens were made of pine timber frames and solid MDF paneling shielded in an acoustic egg shell system to deaden voices. Her partitions were covered in dark gray fabric. She had nothing pinned to her walls, but she knew Wyche pinned vacation snaps showing him and his wife in exotic locations, while CC rotated a collection of his favorite muscle cars. The portable walls provided an illusion of privacy when she was seated. That all faded when she rose to her feet as the partitions stopped at shoulder height. As she straightened from the hutch, CC ushered her father into the cubicle.
She was stunned. Her last sight of him had been at Christmas before heading off for Homeland Security training. They hadn’t even caught up before her posting to Portland.
Gene Ledger had always epitomized strength to her. Now, suddenly he was looking every inch of his 69 years. During their few months of separation, his hair had turned completely white, not just at the sides as she remembered. A fit 190 pounds all his life, she could tell he had now lost more than twenty pounds. His short-sleeved shirt bared stringy forearms and hung lose over his frame. She noticed new notches on his belt to keep up a pair of baggy chinos. His face was still tanned, but it was gaunt with new lines gouged beside his mouth and his eyes looked sunken.
“What? No hug for the old man?” He held his arms open.
Ledger overcame her shock to step close and wrap her arms around him, merely confirming that he was now bare skin and bones. Questions bubbled to her lips.
“What the hell are you doing in Portland? What’s happened to you? Why are you losing weight? What’s wrong?”
He chuckled. “A man’s entitled to take a drive if he feels like it, isn’t he? The weather was good. I had nothing else on, so I headed west. Isn’t that what they say? Go west, y
oung man, go west.”
“All the way from Indiana?”
Gene had retired to Indianapolis because he loved fast American muscle cars, sleek international racing machines and death-defying motosports. In fact he craved getting his hands on anything with an engine. The Speedway gave him access to all his dreams. He loved the jostling and bullying as the drivers jockeyed for position in the famous NASCAR race. He also admired the complexity and delicate precision of the Indy cars. And the rough and tumble that ensued whenever the motorcycle Grand Prix took place.
With his mechanical expertise Gene had even pulled stints working at the Speedway for various race teams. Ledger joked he could find a job anywhere in the world, that’s what the army equipped him for, but her mother could only be happy working on Wall Street.
“Perfect weather for a long drive. What’s not to enjoy about a road trip? Besides, I finally finished the 750 GT and it was a good opportunity to test her capabilities.”
“The Ducati is finally road worthy?”
“You say that like you doubt me.”
“It’s been a long time coming to fruition,” she said simply.
The 1973 748 CC V-twin motorbike had been a project he had worked on ever since moving to Indianapolis. He had obtained the Ducati as little more than a rusted shell. Bit by bit he had worked to restore the famous round case engine with its 90-degree L twin layout and its Desmodromic valve operation, five speed gearbox. Gene had dedicated his garage to the project and even enlisted his daughter’s help. “Knowing your way around an engine is a good thing,” he had told her countless times whenever she complained about oil-stained clothes, grease-engrimed hands and nails that never seemed to come completely clean. Ledger had recognized it as his way of bonding with her in the absence of her mother. Only she was too busy to do more than devote odd hours after work and on weekends to helping him.
“Had it professionally painted. Got the stripes perfect,” he said. His eyes misted and she recognized the signs he was thinking of Autumn. Ledger felt her own eyes well and quickly buried the hurt.
One Way Out: Scout Ledger Thriller Page 6
