The Doorman Page 10

  CHAPTER 25

  Port of Philadelphia

  Chuck followed the gangplank up onto the deck of a cargo freighter and was surprised that nobody was around. From Lawrence Robertson, his CIA pal, Chuck had found out that the mysterious Captain Zonana was connected with this ship. This was the same captain who Lawrence had told him about earlier. According to NSA, Delilah had talked with an international killer who went by the name of Grimes. Delilah had asked if the ship was ready to sail and mentioned a Captain Zonana, a Syrian. Lawrence had now verified that it was Syrian crew, regardless of a flag of convenience. The assassin called Grimes was now also thought to have met with the Seattle lawyer Martin Hurst although this last lead was murky and unverified.

  With any luck, Chuck might catch up with the assassin named Grimes. Chuck entered the superstructure and took the stairs up to A-Deck. He wandered around. All the rooms had little signs above the door. He saw signs for the Officer’s Day Room, the Officer’s Mess, the Galley, the Cargo Control Room, and others. When he spotted the Ship’s Office, he went inside. It was also empty. It seemed that the crew must have gone ashore. Chuck was puzzled that nobody was around to offload or onload cargo.

  He sat down at the desk in the Ship’s Office. The purser hadn’t logged out, so Chuck opened the Integrated Ship-management Software and accessed the Freight Collection Software.

  It took a few minutes, but he found the online bill of lading records. What he saw made his blood hot with anger. An ocean bill of lading is a legal document between the shipper and carrier specifying the type, quantity and destination of goods being carried. The bill of lading doubles as a receipt of shipment when the goods are delivered at the predetermined destination.

  Studying the records, Chuck realized that none of the goods on this ship were destined for the United States. They were destined for Spain, so why was the ship docked in Philadelphia? Chuck suspected that he knew the answer. The ship was here to pick up a cargo of ten billion dollars in cash destined for Spain, though cash was not listed on the manifest.

  He was leaving the Ship’s Office when he came face to face with the same two thugs he’d seen earlier at the Packer Avenue Marine Terminal.

  The big guy in the insulated brown jacket was glaring at Chuck. Just like last time, he was armed. Beneath his brown jacket, Chuck could see the bulge of a side holster. The other reprobate—the lean, rangy dude with a salamander-like face and bulgy eyes—was looking over his shoulder in the narrow hallway.

  Suddenly the rangy creep behind him took off running in the opposite direction. It seemed a cowardly act because he’d left his friend alone. Then Brown Coat pulled his gun.

  “Get in there,” he said, gesturing the Officer’s Day Room.

  Chuck wasn’t about to play games with this dude. He was probably some kind of international security expert—possibly former special forces. He was certainly not your typical deck hand with a seaman’s card. Chuck entered the room. Furnished with orange couches and matching cushioned chairs around the card table, it looked like a good place to watch movies or read a novel, furnished with orange couches and matching cushioned chairs around the card table.

  “Get down on your knees.”

  Chuck turned around and faced him.

  “I said get down!”

  “Who are you?” Chuck said. “You’re no deck hand.”

  The big man stepped closer. “I’m the last person in the world you should have messed with, Brandt. It’s time someone took you down a few pegs.” He was aiming the pistol right at Chuck’s chest.

  Chuck raised his hands to shoulder level. “Hey, be careful, man. I won’t mess with ya.”

  “Chuck Brandt, what a joke. Just a few months ago I saw you on television. They said you were dangerous. Number one of the FBI’s most wanted list. What a fraud.”

  “I can’t help what people said about me.”

  “You met your match today.”

  Chuck twisted his right shoulder back; at the same moment, as fast as a blinking eye, he rotated his left shoulder forward and shoved Brown Coat’s arm to the side. He simultaneously jerked his body sideways to rob Brown Coat of a target in case he got a shot off. Before Brown Coat could react, Chuck pulled the gun into his own chest, sideways so he wouldn’t get shot of it went off. Now Chuck grabbed the barrel with his right hand and violently twisted the muzzle toward the shooter’s face. The gun tore out of his hand, but Chuck was still holding it by the barrel so he slammed the pistol into Brown Coat’s bearded face. He staggered backwards. Chuck slammed the pistol into his face again—hard. Staggering backwards, Brown Coat fell back over the magazine table. He lay on the ground like a mugging victim, clearly dazed.

  Chuck ran for the door, flashed down the hallway, and crashed through the door into the stairwell. He took the steps two and three at a time. He was down to the weather deck in what felt like less than a minute. He stepped outside, looked fore and aft then jogged for the gangplank. Just as he feet touched ground he heard a ferocious yell. He broke into a sprint, but he looked back just in time to see the tall, rangy killer rush up to the rail and raise an AK-47. Chuck dove behind a forklift container handler.

  He was waiting for the shots but they didn’t come. Then he heard the sound of footsteps running down the gangplank. Chuck made a break for it. He sprinted behind a row of cargo containers, raced fifty yards and turned right for an alley between the rows. He swung his arm back around the peaked around the corner, but the rangy killer opened fire on him—full automatic.

  Chuck got off one shot, but he was outgunned. Bursts of 7.62 mm ammo straffed the metal shipping containers.

  He sprinted down another alley and ducked into a nook between container stacks. He waited for the killer. The shooter came around the corner firing, unloading bursts, but he was clearing the alley and hadn’t known Chuck was in a side nook.

  Chuck dropped him with one shot.

  Then he wasted no time leaving the area because the cops were certain to arrive soon, and he didn’t want to be in the area. Brown Coat might identify him, but probably not. Captain Zonana would probably deny any knowledge of the shooter. If he had papers, they were probably false anyway, and his records would disappear as soon as they found out what happened.

  As for Brown Coat, Chuck didn’t know if it was Grimes or not, and he’d failed to get a lead on the elusive Seattle lawyer Martin Hurst. Fortunately, he had one more move to make, even if it was an act of desperation.

  CHAPTER 26

  The Paris Wine Bar in Georgetown was a dim watering hole with gaudy red high-back chairs arranged around oak tables with dark finish. Maroon Persian rugs spread out on the shiny wood floors that matched the dark little tables. Chandeliers hung from the low ceiling. Normally, this kind of place made Congressman Rosa claustrophobic, but there were few other customers, so it was the perfect place for him to keep a low profile and have a glass of wine on the way home. He was on his third glass presently as he took stock of the mess that was his life.

  He was agitated over the ubiquitous doorman Lionel Ratlif who had been stalking him around the capital. Ratlif was a good guy, but the more that Rosa thought about the doorman’s vague claims about his friend who would “shake the cage,” the more skeptical he was becoming. Ratlif had seemed so utterly sincere and convincing at the time, but that was then. Now doubts were setting in. Questions were swilling around in Rosa’s brain like bad wine. Who was this friend? Probably a dry cleaner who’d once worked security at the Smithsonian. Rosa seriously regretted that he’d opened his big mouth back in the Capitol Crypt.

  He was about to leave when a man in a black leather jacket walked up to his table.

  He had white hair, thick black eyebrows, and a pointed white chin beard. He had a narrow nose and thin, almost cruel lips.

  “May I join you?” the man said.

  Rosa said, “Actually, sir…”

  But the man was already sitting down and he turned back to Azar the bartender. He said, “Make it two glas
ses of Sangiovese. Put them on my tab.”

  “Actually, sir…” Rosa didn’t finish his sentence. His voice trailed off again as he realized that an extra glass of Sangiovese just went on the stranger’s tab.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Rosa said, “but I’m afraid I won’t make very good company.”

  The man kneaded his white chin beard between his fingers. “I know all about it, Congressman Rosa, and I know why. I’m here to help.”

  “How could you know about it? Who are you?”

  “I’m an undercover federal agent. I’ve been investigating a con man for several years. That’s why I’m here, sir. You’re one of his latest victims.”

  “I am not a victim of anyone,” Rosa said. “I think we’ve talked long enough.”

  The barkeep delivered two glasses of Sangiovese, and Rosa took a sip from his glass before he remembered that the stranger had paid for it.

  “I know about your tenant, Congressman. I know that he is blackmailing you. I know that he has been dating your ex-wife for several months. I can make your problem go away.”

  Rosa stared at him for a moment then sipped his wine. “If you’ve got something to say, get to the point because I’m about to leave.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend that. You’re having your blood drained by this scumbag. I am the cure to your problem. I can make him go away.”

  “You said you’re a cop, right?”

  “That’s right, Sergeant Gavin Grimes. Federal agent, but I retired last year.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because somebody has to stop this creep, and none of the feds have time for him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s good, and they don’t have any evidence. Like I said, somebody has to stop this creep, or he will bleed out countless more victims.”

  “I said I’m not a victim.”

  “If you brush the dog, he ain’t leaving.”

  “I’m not combing any—”

  “Call it what you want, Congressman. I can make your problem go away, but I’ll need a little help. We can turn the table on this lowlife.”

  Rosa sipped his wine. “What are you proposing?”

  “It’s simple. Your tenant has a black book with dates, transaction numbers, identity of witnesses, etc. All his information about your corruption is in this black book.”

  “I’m not guilty of anything,” Rosa said.

  “Nobody’s perfect, Congressman. Whatever you did or didn’t do is not my concern. I simply don’t care. My only objective is rain on your tenant. After I make his life miserable, I plan to go down to Florida and spend a year fishing—but not until I know this scumbag has taken some licks.”

  “Like I said, I’m innocent, but he’s been making some wild claims and trying to frame me. I think he may have some fake evidence in that book you’re talking about. Him and my ex-wife have been plotting because they want me to fund their high and mighty lifestyle.”

  “Whatever. I’ll take great pleasure in knocking this dirt-bag off his perch. All we have to do is show up early on Saturday morning and evict him from your condo. I will go with you to make it seem official.” He flashed what looked like a US Marshal’s badge, but Rosa was tired. “It’s an off-the-books, highly-illegal eviction, but I know this scumbag, and he knows me. Once he sees me, I guarantee he’ll never bother you again.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because he knows that I’m still investigating him for a series of scams he’s pulled on divorced women. He targets lonely women and then drains them of all their cash—including retirement accounts and investments. He’s a good looking guy and very persuasive. Until I know this piece of trash is on the run, I won’t be able to sleep at night.”

  “Why do you care so much about him?”

  “Because he did the same thing to my brother. He ruined my brother’s life and bankrupted his ex-wife. I wanna put fear into him. I want him distressed and on the run. What do you say, Rosa? Do we have a deal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s your call, but if you think things are bad now, they’re about to get a lot worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your tenant is just getting warmed up. He’s going to squeeze all the blood out of you, Congressman, but he fears me. He will run and never look back when he sees me show up at his place on Saturday. We do things differently, but the effect will be about the same.” The cop waved to the bartender. He said, “Azar, bring two more glasses over here, will you?”

  CHAPTER 27

  The town of Elkton, Maryland was located at the head of navigation on the Elk River, which flowed into the nearby Chesapeake Bay. Driving there, Chuck was brooding over what happened at the Port of Philadelphia. He was having a bad day, and he seemed to be getting nowhere. He’d learned that the ship was delivering its cargo to Spain, but that was all. Now he was on a mission of desperation. Elkton was a relatively small town, and Chuck pulled his rental car into a small run-down apartment complex.

  Frustrated with his slow progress in the case, he was going back to the beginning. After tracking Hurst to DC, he’d gotten caught up in the investigation of the Senator Skorman’s floundering case.

  NTSB and FAA investigators determined the cause of the plane crash to be an explosion. Skorman’s plane had been blown out of the sky in an act of probable terrorism or assassination, but the authorities would say little—even to Lawrence Robertson. The FBI had run out of leads. Bomb material had been traced back to Albania, which was a dead end.

  Chuck had hired an old associate named Jesse, who’d fallen on hard times, to do surveillance on a former US ambassador to Albania, who had been questioned and cleared by the FBI. During surveillance, Jesse had taken some major risks and made a fatal mistake. He’d gotten himself killed. And Chuck got no help from the authorities in the death of his friend. The case was closed and Jesse’s house was sold to satisfy creditors. Now Chuck was following up on a cold lead.

  The apartment complex featured eight identical rectangular buildings. Each building featured eight doors leading into eight townhouses. A number of cars were lined up in front of each building. One was up on blocks. Another was covered with tarp.

  Chuck sat in his car for a minute, watching a group of punks down by the next building. They were standing around and looked like gang-bangers. Chuck thought about his deceased friend. They had done surveillance work together in St. Petersburg, Russia, so Jesse had come to mind when Chuck needed a surveillance man in Maryland. His background was a sad story. He’d fallen into gambling and booze and hard times followed soon after the Russia operation. He’d been more than happy to do surveillance and earn some fast cash.

  According to the murky facts that Chuck had read, he’d surmised a few probabilities about his death. The way Chuck figured it, Jesse broke into the house he was supposed to be watching. A bodyguard had been in the house and followed Jesse home. Jesse had left his garage open. The killer had entered through garage, but things hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d probably expected. There was a struggle. A window was broken. A neighbor heard noise and wrote down the license plate number of an unfamiliar car down the street. The hit man shot Jesse with silenced gun and fled. The car was later torched and abandoned. Police had given records to Lawrence after determining that the owner was in prison and his girlfriend had reported his car stolen. The case was supposedly another dead end. The cops left it open, but had clearly put it on the backburner.

  Chuck got out of his car and knocked on the door of the townhome, occupied by the girlfriend of the owner of the torched car. The young woman looked at him with tough and distrustful eyes. Her face was not hostile, but far from welcoming. She probably thought he was a bill collector. Her brown hair was wet from a shower and she was dressed in old sweats. Chuck heard kids arguing in the back room, and Oprah’s voice on television filled the nearest room.

  “Yes,” she said. “What do you want?”

  “M
y name is Chuck Brandt. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the Jesse White case.”

  “What? Are you a cop? I already told them everything I know.”

  “I’m not a cop, Ma’am. Jesse was a friend of mine. It means a lot to me. It’ll just take a minute.”

  She sighed. “I guess, but I have company. Make it fast.”

  “Okay. Look, as I understand it, your boyfriend’s car was stolen, right?”

  “Yes, I told the cops that.”

  The sound of kids arguing in the back room was getting louder. Something fell over. It was loud, but the mother didn’t even flinch.

  “Any idea who might have stolen the car?” Chuck asked. “Any rumors or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything you could tell me that might be helpful? Anything at all. I owe it to my friend to … I mean, the cops have dropped the ball.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  In the background, Oprah was talking about the health risks of leaving meat out on the counter too long. Probably an old re-run.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. You were my last hope. I just was hoping …” Chuck shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  She shrugged and shut the door. Chuck turned and started for the car. He heard the door open and looked back.

  “There might be something,” she said.

  Chuck walked back to her. “What is it?”

  “I didn’t mention it to the cops because I was scared.”

  “Anything you could tell me, I’d appreciate.”

  “You can’t tell anyone that I said this.”

  “I’ll keep you safe. You can depend on it.”

  She stood for a moment with turmoil in her hard eyes. Then she said, “My boyfriend’s cellmate had recently gotten out. My boyfriend he owed him money. That’s all I know.”