“Please have a seat, detectives,” Peter said with a powerful voice. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee perhaps? My secretary Shelly makes a fine espresso. We have a machine right in the breakroom.”
“I’m fine,” Nguyen said.
“I would love an espresso,” Wallace said, not missing the opportunity to create rapport. It was something Nguyen would learn with time on the job. If a person-of-interest in an investigation offers you a dish of fried crickets, you did your best to choke them down.
Peter went to the entrance of his office and gave the order to Shelly from the doorway. He found his seat at his desk and looked over at his guests.
“How can I help you this morning?” Peter asked, knowing damn well what the detectives wanted.
“We want to discuss the photograph we left with you last week.”
“Ah, yes. The photograph. I apologize for not getting back to you sooner. I have been in and out of the country on business.”
“That’s what your receptionist told us,” Wallace said.
“Have to work to pay the bills.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Detective Wallace pulled out a copy of the photo and placed it on the desk. No one needed to be reminded of the photo, but Wallace did it to measure Peter’s reaction.
There wasn’t one.
“I have the copy of the photo right here in my desk,” Peter said.
“Mr. Winthrop, do you recognize the man in the photo?”
“Sure I do. He works for a business associate of mine. A garment manufacturing facility in Saipan.”
“You wouldn’t know his name would you?”
“Detective…?”
“Wallace.”
“Detective Wallace. I only met the man once. He was a new employee. I don’t remember his name. The man who runs the facility in Saipan is named Lee Chang. I can call him first thing in the morning, Saipan time.”
“That would be helpful.”
Detective Nguyen flipped to the page in his notebook from the detective’s interview with the senator. “We met Senator Day last week. He referred to the man in the photo as the ‘Mountain of Shanghai.’ Does this ring a bell?”
“Yes, I do recall the senator gave the man a nickname. He has one for everybody. Unfortunately, his geography isn’t so good. There are no mountains in Shanghai. It’s a port city. Pretty flat.”
Wallace ignored the comments. “Any idea why this man is in D.C.?”
“None. But he works for Lee Chang, and the Chang family has business interests around the world. Not unlike myself. He is probably in town on business, visiting some lobbyist on the K Street corridor.”
“Mr. Winthrop. The night that picture was taken was the night your former secretary had her accident. That photo, as I explained on the note, was taken from an ATM across the street from the Metro station where she died.”
“Are you saying this man had something to do with Marilyn’s death?”
“That is why we are here. We were hoping you could answer that question,” Detective Wallace said.
Peter didn’t flinch.
“I thought her death was ruled an accident?” Peter asked. He spent enough time with lawyers to know how to ask his own questions.
“That was the original finding.”
“Well, detectives, I have been doing business with Lee Chang and the Chang family for years. I assure you they are not interested in killing my secretary.”
Wallace didn’t have an answer for the seemingly simple statement.
“Do you know anyone who would want to harm your secretary? A boyfriend? Disgruntled employee?”
“Not that I’m aware of. She wasn’t dating anyone recently that I know of. As for a disgruntled employee, we are one big happy family here at Winthrop Enterprises.”
Shelly knocked on the edge of the doorframe and delivered the espresso to the desk for Detective Wallace.
“Are you familiar with St. Michael’s Catholic Church?”
“I hope so. I was married there. As much as I would like to forget it.”
“Are you a parishioner?”
“No, no. My ex-wife was. I was raised a Baptist. But my wife came from a strict Catholic family. It was a concession on my part. You have to pick your battles when it comes to marriage.”
Detective Wallace smiled with understanding.
“So you haven’t been to the church recently?”
“Not since my ex-wife’s funeral.”
“Let me ask another question.”
“Please, that’s why we’re here.”
“How well do you know your son?”
“Well enough. We haven’t been as close over the years as I would have liked, but he has been working here this summer. He is a good kid.”
“Your son works here?”
“Yes.”
“Can we speak with him?”
“He’s not in the office today. He has been out all week, getting ready for school to start next month. Registering for classes, whatever it is you have to do these days.”
“We would like to speak with him as well. It’s rather urgent.”
“What does my son know about all this?”
“We don’t know. We went to his apartment but his neighbor said he was out of town.”
“Out of town?”
“That’s what his neighbor said.”
“News to me.”
Wallace and Nguyen both scribbled in their notebooks.
“We have reason to believe your son may have been with your secretary the night she was killed.”
“I thought it was an accident.”
Wallace rephrased the sentence. “We have reason to believe your son was with your secretary the night she had her accident. The night she died.”
“He might have been. They were co-workers. You don’t suspect my son had anything to do with her death, do you? I thought you were suspicious of the man in the photo? Are you saying there are two suspects? Working together?”
Wallace felt like he was in the hot seat. “No sir. Your son is not a suspect. We would like to ask him a few questions about that night. Maybe he saw something that could help us get to the truth.”
“I thought the medical examiner’s office already got to the truth.”
Wallace didn’t like the way that line of questioning was going and changed topics. “Do you have a phone number for your son? A mobile phone number?”
“Sure, I can get that for you. Is there anything else I can help you with? I have to meet someone at the airport, and if I get going now, I should be right on time.”
“No, that’s it. If you think of anything that may help us, please contact either me or my partner here.”
“Certainly. And if you need to reach me, here is my direct number. Either Shelly or I will answer the call. She will get you my son’s phone number on the way out.”
“His mobile phone number. We have his home number,” Detective Nguyen said for clarification.
“Yes, she will provide you with whatever you want.”
Detective Wallace checked his notes. “And we will be waiting for the name of the man in the photo.”
“Yes, detective. I will get that to you as soon as possible.”
Peter Winthrop picked Hasad up at Reagan National Airport with Shawn, his driver, behind the wheel. Shawn, dressed in his usual black suit with a white shirt and blue tie, put the bags in the trunk as Hasad gave Peter his over-the-top greeting. Handshake, half-hug, followed by another handshake.
“So good to see you again, Mr. Winthrop. So good.”
“How was your flight?”
“Long. As you know. Istanbul to New York was non-stop. Zipped into Manhattan to visit a friend for lunch and caught the Delta shuttle here.”
“Well, I hope you can survive for another hour or so.”
“Where are we going?”
“Baltimore.”
“I love Baltimore,” Hasad said. “They have the best Hooters restaurant, right there on the harbor. Maybe we can stop there for a late dinner.”
“I think we can work it into the schedule.”
“Where is Jake?”
“He’s not going to make it.”
“That’s too bad. I enjoyed our night out in D.C. on my last visit.”
“So did Jake. He would be here but has been busy preparing for school. He’s been out of the classroom for almost two years and said he needs to re-register, talk to some professors, see what classes he needs to take.”
“I understand,” Hasad answered, no longer listening.
Baltimore Harbor is home to the third largest port on the eastern seaboard after Newport News and Charleston. Its larger siblings accounted for most of the steel and commodities coming into the U.S., the continued strength of a hundred plus years of post-slave imports. Baltimore, in contrast, had a little bit of everything. Located at the foot of the Northeast Corridor, the container ships lined up five miles out for their turn to load and unload.
Life on the docks never stopped. A stench of dead fish and diesel fuel was as consistent as the flow of the brackish waters where the river met the bay. A massive conglomeration of warehouses, docks, and miles of cracked pavement—work went on twenty-four hours a day, performed by some of the hardest men ever put on God’s green earth. U.S. Customs resided in the main facilities building on the west side of the complex, overlooking the forklifts that milled about like ants. Cranes swung back and forth, delivering cargo to the decks of ships that stood sixty feet out of the water. Pneumatic conveyors blew powdered goods from the ship hulls to waiting railcars at the far end of the yard.
The strip of warehouses and storage facilities that began near the water stretched as far as the unaided eye could see, running south like a retired couple from northern Michigan. Each building was an unofficial standard size—ninety feet by a hundred twenty. Each one was three stories, a sea of metal boxes holding priceless valuables and crates of worthless crap. Over the years the warehouses had yielded numerous front-page-worthy finds, including a stolen Picasso and a mummified family of five dating back to the Great Depression.
Warehouse 21-C was the third building down from the main access road that ran through the middle of the field of storage. Some of the smaller warehouses were divided into two multiple storage facilities, separated by a wall of plyboard and chicken wire, each side large enough for a full basketball court. Warehouse 21-C was undivided, Winthrop Enterprises its lone resident.
Dark clouds formed a front to the west as Shawn pulled into the Baltimore Harbor Warehouse and Storage facilities. A passkey combination started the gate in motion with a thud, followed by the silence of well-greased wheels on their tracks.
“Looks like storms are coming, sir.”
“Yes it does. What’s July in the D.C. area without a few afternoon boomers?”
“Yes, sir. Just letting you know the forecast.”
“Thanks, Shawn,” Peter said. “Pull the car over to the right.”
The black sedan-for-hire parked next to a roll-up door on the warehouse across from number 21-C. On cue, the rain started falling in a light pitter-patter. Peter and his Turkish client got out of opposite sides of the car. Peter pointed in the direction of the warehouse with an open hand extending from the cuff of his suit. Hasad followed as the rain picked up in intensity, larger drops, cold to the touch.
“Is this your main warehouse?” Hasad asked, unable to keep silent, even when there was nothing to say.
“I don’t own it. Winthrop Enterprises leases it on a semi-permanent basis.”
Peter opened the side door with a key and a nudge from his right shoulder. The warehouse was pitch black and Peter fumbled his hand along the right side wall until he found the oversized power switch. With a pull on the lever, the floor of the warehouse illuminated.
Boxes filled the back half of the floor space, each box neatly labeled and stacked in separate piles, some twenty feet high. The concrete floor was swept and clean. A lone forklift was parked in the back, near an emergency exit with an intermittently flashing sign.
“What’s in all the boxes?” Hasad asked.
“Let’s see,” Peter answered, walking among the stacks. He looked at the labels and started the tour. “I believe we have some Civil War memorabilia going to a collector in India. The collection includes a set of rare cavalier sabers, and a few cannon remains. Not a big shipment, but we are still finalizing some documentation before it can be exported. We keep most of our large shipments in another location. Heavy items that can’t be moved as easily by forklift.”
“Things like Hummers.”
“Exactly. Your Hummers were retrofitted not too far from here.”
“They are great vehicles.”
“I am glad you enjoy them.”
“I do, I do. My friends and I enjoy them very much.”
Shawn looked through the window of the parked car, rain cascading down the windshield in sheets. He saw a figure in front of the car and hit the wipers. The swipe of rubber across the glass brought the leveled gun into perfect focus. The door was yanked open from the outside and Shawn looked out of the corner of his eye to see another gun—very real and very close.
“FBI. Don’t move,” Special Agent Ann Cahill said with glee. “Keep your hands on the wheel where I can see them.” The agent had fire-red hair and a personality to match.
The rain on the roof of the warehouse drowned out the pounding of heavy feet, fit bodies weighed down by thick bulletproof vests and rifles. Two teams in standard cover formation closed in on the warehouse exits, one team going through the front door, another team with a door-ram coming in the back.
Inside the warehouse, Hasad was enjoying the conversation, marveling at the breadth of interest of Winthrop Enterprises’ clients. It was Hasad’s turn to grease the wheels of politeness. A little business before his business. The tour was winding down and Hasad knew the neatly stacked boxes near the large rolling door were his shipment. It was the only section of the warehouse Peter hadn’t shown him. Hasad knew the American was saving the best for last.
The front door swung open a split second before the back door flew onto the floor, torn from its hinges.
“Don’t move motherfucker,” Agent John Tulloch screamed with six months of pent up anger. Six months of wasted time. Six months of the runaround. Six months of chasing leads that were nothing more than dead ends. Six months of putting up with his partner.
Peter Winthrop looked at Agent Tulloch, a five-foot-five Napoleon complex with a gun, and raised his hands. “Don’t you move,” Agent Tulloch repeated, dropping the vulgarity.
Hasad looked at Peter and put his arms straight up like a kid playing cops-and-robbers.
Federal Agents from the FBI and the Office of Export Controls swept the warehouse with guns drawn, each man covered by another as they made their way through the maze of boxes. Shouts of “clear,” echoed through the air as every corner of the warehouse was secured. Agent Cahill joined her partner in the warehouse, hair dripping on her FBI windbreaker, her pants soaked. Agent Tulloch was quick to notice the positive effect the wet outfit had on the little beauty his partner did possess.
“Peter Winthrop, we are placing you under arrest for the purchase of controlled goods with the intent to export,” Agent Cahill said, a large drop of water falling off her nose as she spoke.
“What goods would that be?” Peter asked.
“One thousand military-grade night vision goggles, for starters. They are illegal to own without a permit and they sure as hell are illegal to sell to foreign nationals.”
Hasad visibly squirmed.
“Without a search warrant, this arrest, and anything confiscated during a search, is illegal and invalid in a court of law.” Peter looked at the agents with the same smug smile he flashed when he last cleaned up at the high roller table in Vegas.
Agent Tulloch reached into his jacket, pulled out the warrant, and handed it to Peter. Peter quickly flipped the warrant to the back page and looked at the judge’s signature. Elizabeth Rubin. “Elizabeth Rubin,” he said quietly to himself, committing the name to memory.
“Something wrong, Peter?” Agent Cahill asked with sarcasm.
Peter shrugged his shoulders and ignored the agent’s comment, focusing his thoughts forty miles south to the Nation’s Capitol.
Peter and Hasad, now handcuffed, sat on the edge of the dirty desk near the door as the federal agents tore the warehouse and its contents to shreds. The cursing by the agents started immediately and didn’t stop until the last box was on the floor, opened. Two hundred and fifty boxes labeled with night-vision goggle tags were reduced to cardboard scraps. Two hundred and fifty boxes filled with over a thousand household items ranging from tea kettles to cookie sheets. All bought at Walmart. All paid for with a Winthrop Enterprises corporate American Express card.
Agent Cahill stood next to the CEO and Hasad, working over the piece of gum in her mouth like a beaver on a log. Her face had passed flush half an hour ago and now teetered on the verge of white, drained by anger and embarrassment.
Agent Tulloch called Agent Cahill over, pulling her gently by the sleeve of her jacket, turning her back toward their suspects.
“There is nothing here. No goggles, no guns, nothing illegal. He has paperwork for everything in the warehouse. Nothing in the boxes labeled ‘goggles’ but a household clearance sale from Walmart—the price stickers still attached.”
“How did he know?”
“I don’t know. Maybe his son had second thoughts and let his old man know we were coming.”
“But why?”
“Because he is his father.”
On the other side of the room, Hasad looked confused. “Peter, what happened? Where are my hunting goggles?”
“They are due to arrive in Istanbul this evening,” Peter said in a whisper.
But how? How did you know they were coming?”
“Because my son is just like his mother.”