Thirty-Six —
Meanwhile, Back at the Station

Duncan had been very busy putting pieces together. He held a report in his hand that conveniently fit the puzzle:

Authorities had found the van, abandoned, in a stand of mangroves near Tampa. In the back of it were women’s shoes, both size five, one string sandal and the other a tennis shoe. The footwear was traced to Haasi and Blanche. The van was dusted for fingerprints and those findings were on the way to be matched with Blanche’s cellophane wrapper.

Haasi appeared in the doorway to Duncan’s office. She smiled at the chief and curled herself into a padded metal chair in front of his desk.

“You need more information. I went to that meeting in the town hall and I saw something was not right with that man. I was tracking him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I am around. You know I overheard the man in the motel room, and I have seen him in many places.”

Duncan produced Langstrom’s photo, and Haasi nodded. “That is him. And, yes, he is very bad. His language, too. Not so good.”

“Hmmm. He was at the Sun and Fun Resort here. Well, you know where he was staying.”

“Yes, I overheard talk of where they put Blanche. And, oh, he wanted money put in a Swiss bank account.”

“Now, isn’t that interesting?” He was leaning back in his chair, the springs creaking under his weight. “Money. Keeps turning up.”

“Yes, it is a bad root.”

The chief sprang forward. “We are going to need more information, Haasi.”

She uncurled herself from the chair and put both very small hands on his desk. “Oh, chief, you need much information, and help.” Her dark eyes gleamed at him. He sat back and tented his fingers.

“We’ll be in touch. We’re closer. Not there yet, but definitely closer. You give that Blanche a big hug from her police chief.”

Haasi produced a rare grin.

Duncan did not mention that Sergi had disappeared, and that Brecksall-Lam had taken no responsibility for the actions of a lawyer they hired to represent them. The latest comment from a spokesperson at the firm boiled down to this: “People may make odd decisions over which we have no control, nor liability.”

Duncan told the person at Brecksall-Lam: “We’ll see about that.”

I

DEA was fully on board now, based on Jack’s disclosure that the trucking division for Brecksall was into drug-running. A peremptory raid of a delivery of unbelievably heavy leather hassocks to the Chicago warehouse confirmed it, and the sordid route was still being untangled. The company of Brecksall and Lam was circling the drain, for all Duncan could figure, but officially nothing had been proven. Their dealings were on hold while their books and employees were under investigation. And that included Jack and his newly acquired trucking division.

“Jack, what are you going to do now? What’s the plan?” He sat in Duncan’s office, his hands between his knees, looking somewhat like he’d been run over by one of his own trucks.

“They told me to hold tight, for now.”

“Who?”

“DEA. I’m an informant, Dunc. Remember? Local island boy makes good.” He didn’t look good; he looked greyish instead of tannish. “We’ll talk to the agent soon. Think you know him, Hank Miles.”

“Sure do. Like him. But I prefer to go fishing with him—for fish, not drugs.” Dunc sighed.

The chief got up and came around the desk to Jack. They were the only ones in the office, but he still whispered. “What the hell is happening, Jack? How? Just how did all this happen?”

“It’s a long story. No, actually, a pretty short one. I took a long walk off a short pier. I thought I could cut corners; I needed a trucking division so bad for that new business, and, bingo, there it was. I can just hear Gran. You don’t get somethin’ for nuttin’, and there really are no good short cuts.”

“You got that right, son. We’ll figure this out somehow. I’m not sure how, but we will. I’ll keep you informed. Oh. But that’s you, isn’t it. The informant.”

Jack gave him a rueful smile. “That’s me.”