Chapter 12

Well, I now knew what Reginald (call me Reggie) Angstrom was up to. Smuggling a deadly, lethally potent, drug called Ghost from Mexico into the States. And maybe other countries. The Globe is headed for Buenos Aires, so maybe Argentina too. Shit, maybe Europe, maybe Asia.

What I also didn’t know was what to do about it.

I owed Phillip Montgomery a full explanation. He had brought me into this square dance in the first place. And his hedge fund owned 30% of The Globe.

I can imagine how pleased he’d be to see DEA helicopters, SWAT teams, probably Navy fucking Seals descend on the ship. Strip search everyone. Seize the ship like they seize drug dealers’ Maseratis.

When in doubt ... Daddy.

It was a little after two and he said he could get away to grab a sandwich. I said, “My treat,” knowing full well that he’d pay. It’s a father-daughter thing.

We met at the Milwaukee Deli, downtown, 9th Street. Convenient for Captain Jennings and not that far from my office. He ordered corned beef and I went with pastrami. Not to sound NYC-snooty, but a pastrami sandwich from a delicatessen named after a Wisconsin city ... well, never mind.

No, do mind. A decent deli sandwich should be about the size of your head. This one though. Well it was like a grilled cheese sandwich with some meat added in. Funny thing? It was tasty as hell.

Daddy and I had missed the lunch crowd so no one could overhear us. I told him, in shorthand form, the Angstrom tale. Picking the lock, stealing those three sheets. Bulldog. Dr. Myers. Potency. Street value. My concern about Phillip.

Daddy ate as he did most things, neatly, precisely, intently.

He waited until I ran down, then simplified life for me. “Get those fucking drugs off the fucking boat.”

As he walked back to his department-issued plain wrap, he said, “Call Phillip too.”

We’d had some Wrigley excitement the evening before. Pilar is teaching Walker to cook Columbian. Mostly nothing fancy, just regular dishes she remembered from her childhood.

Last night, under Pilar’s casual supervision, he was comparison-cooking empanadas. Pilar’s version was fried. Countries neighboring Colombia bake theirs.

Walker had missed the oven mitt that had been stored in the ... well, oven.

The kids took a bedroom break, Vanessa and I no longer glance at each other when Pilar leads him back to their bed. Vanessa and I were on side-by-side ellipticals when four different smoke alarms went off serially. That’ll get your attention.

We rushed back into the open loft. A nude Walker was sprinting toward the kitchen, Pilar right behind him struggling into a tee. Smoke was pouring out of the creases around the oven door.

Walker opened it with a towel and snagged the smoldering mitt. Pilar had the sink faucet running full speed. Smoke engulfed the kitchen area and was spreading.

Vanessa and I threw open those large Main Street windows and wheeled in fans.

The fire department was there in minutes. They have their own protocols for apartment buildings, office buildings, hotels. Speed is at the top of the list.

There were 10 or 12 fully uniformed and geared-up men, along with one woman. Pilar and Walker were still dousing the now-soggy remnants of the mitt. She whispered in his ear. Blushing he looked down at his nudity and scooted back to remedy the situation.

I knew the guy in charge of the Locust Street station through my time on the Job. Joe Mooney asked after my father, more bemused than worried about the smoky little incident.

I apologized, but didn’t really feel that bad. Firemen live to roll, and even a silly little event like this gets the adrenaline pumping.

Joe checked me out, top to bottom. Didn’t hide his interest, it didn’t matter that he knew my father. He checked out Vanessa with equal interest, no surprise there.

Pilar noticed the way his eyes raked her tee-shirted body. It didn’t seem to bother her. Few things seemed to, but I sometimes wondered what went on behind that unperturbed face.

Mooney had also checked out my son’s nude, embarrassed scramble back to get dressed.

Joe Mooney likes pussy, that’s just part of his makeup.

After we were alone, Walker and Pilar apologized to Vanessa and me, promising to scrub the smoke smell away.

I wouldn’t phone in the Angstrom mess to Phillip Montgomery. That felt cowardly. And wrong. I did call his office, he would be in the next day. I didn’t ask for an appointment, just told one of his assistants that I’d be there first thing in the morning.

I flew to Newark that night, didn’t have much appetite for dinner. Then around one in the morning called down for Sheraton room service. Just a cheeseburger. With bacon. Plus fries. And two Heineken darks. There, that’s better.

Phillip found me waiting in his reception area at 6:30 in the morning. I don’t know his hours, but I wasn’t going to miss him.

He took one look at me and told his male assistant, Gordon, “Hold everything.”

Gordon nodded. He gave out a limp-wrist vibe, but I’d seen him checking out my rack.

Phillip said, “Tell me, Winter.”

I told him.

Unflappable. I hear that description, but most people aren’t, not really. Phillip, like Daddy, listened until I finished. Looked at the photos of the three Angstrom sheets. Ghost sheets. The picture I’d taken of the open file drawer. Reached for his cell. I got up to leave, but he held up his hand. I sat back down.

“Morgan, can you see Winter Jennings and me?” Morgan Fleetwood. State Department. But probably connected elsewhere.

Listened.

“Right away. Immediately.”

He handed me the phone and I recited the sorry little tale for the fourth time. Bulldog, Daddy, Phillip.

I could get used to a corporate helicopter. East 34th Street heliport. Teterboro Airport. Corporate jet, another perk I could live with. Reagan National. Black town car.

I’m not that familiar with DC. Nor sure where the State Department is. Nor what it looks like. And I wouldn’t find out this trip. We met Mr. Fleetwood in an undistinguished three-story office building in a mixed-use neighborhood in an area I later learned was called Adams Morgan. Northwest part of town.

Morgan Fleetwood was as I’d remembered him in the Hotel Phillips in Kansas City. He’d blend in almost anywhere. My height, balding, horn-rimmed glasses.

He smiled noncommittally and offered his hand to both of us.

Mr. Fleetwood said, “Where are those three sheets?”

“In a doctor’s safe, University of Kansas Medical Center. Dr. Harriet Myers.”

“Address?”

He murmured into a cell for a moment. I guessed that Dr. Myers would soon be entertaining visitors.

Knock at the door. Two men, one woman. Homeland Security. I understood, vaguely, that they were above the FBI, above the DEA. Could be above the President for all I knew.

They didn’t introduce themselves, weren’t introduced. The woman seemed to be in charge. “Two options. This is preferred. The Globe is docked in Bridgeport.”

One of the men said, “Barbados.”

If I had to describe the three of them later, I wouldn’t have much luck.

The no-name woman said, “We have two people on board.”

Shit, they move fast.

“By Friday we can switch the contents of the file drawer. Our own brochure sheets with placebo blotter papers inserted. Follow Angstrom, ID his contacts. We’ll follow Rosales too, going back to the source.”

Rosales. Linda Rosales. Vanessa and I had identified her from the Sullivan files. The woman I had seen pass the accordion folder to Angstrom.

Morgan Fleetwood frowned, “What’s the second option?”

“Arrest Angstrom. His wife too. Natalie. Onshore if possible. We’ll have a warrant for their apartment tomorrow morning. Seize all the files, secure the dope. Ghost. In a couple of days we’ll have warrants for their other homes.”

Fleetwood said, “Faster. Simpler.”

But it wasn’t an order. I sensed he wasn’t in charge, not in this room. Phillip remained as quiet as I was. He’d be hoping for the first option. Less noise, less commotion, less connection to The Globe. And to Envoy Assets.

I agreed with Daddy, get the fucking dope off the fucking boat.

In a courtesy so typical of him, Phillip had the Envoy jet make a stop in Kansas City to let me off. Particularly sweet since my nosiness now has his Globe investment involved in what policy professionals call deep shit.

And KC is a little out of the way from DC to NYC. I could get used to the cosseted life though.

Actually, no I probably couldn’t. I enjoyed the helicopter, noisy, the visuals were terrific. Fast and convenient. But I didn’t really feel all that comfortable on the corporate jet. It probably sensed a parvenu was on board.

That night, alone in bed, Vanessa at Euforia, Pilar keeping Walker to herself, my thoughts drifted to my Irish-Swedish friend, Eamon Nilsson. My right hand drifted a little too.

Does Eamon’s post-eruption oral enthusiasm signal a latent homosexuality? Or a fervent form of self-love? Following a Memory Lane visit and appropriate consideration, I decided it absolutely does not matter to me. I resolved to just lie back and enjoy it.

I need to see if anyone flies nonstop, KC to Gothenburg.

Homeland Security decided on a hybrid course of action. A mixture of their original two options. Their shipboard operatives waited until Reggie and Natalie Angstrom were out of the apartment. They picked locks, hearts probably not racing -- hey, I didn’t pee myself -- and removed the entire contents of that bottom file cabinet drawer.

They didn’t wait until they had placebo versions to substitute.

I learned this and what few other details Morgan Fairchild shared with Phillip long after the acton had gone down.

The Feds decided what Daddy had known instinctively -- get the fucking dope off the fucking boat.

A couple of days later they lock-picked their way back in and replaced the missing Ghost sheets. Without the Ghost. Angstrom hadn’t checked on them during the two days the drawer had been empty. Not a surprise, when I thought about it. The drawer was locked, no one else knew what was in there, no need to open it up until it was time to sneak a $250,000 sheet through customs.

The Globe was now heading for Buenos Aries, so probably Argentina would be the first drop-off site.

The Feds, thanks to an enthusiastically compliant Captain Ernie Huffstedder, now had six agents on board and had eyes on Reggie 24 / 7. What could go wrong?

Despite his probable annoyance with me -- Little Miss Nosy had overdone her Globe assignment -- Phillip Montgomery insisted that I keep my promise to Lina and Pilar Paloma. That the three of us enjoy a long carefree weekend on The Globe.

Later, and this is how classy he is, Phillip told me, “I’m glad you uncovered the drug smuggling, Winter. Chances are it would have come apart sooner or later. And it could have been a very loud, very public explosion on The Globe.”

Actually, that was exactly my own thinking. Almost always, it’s better to know than not to know. But it delighted me to hear Phillip say it.

Vanessa had taken Lina and Paloma shopping for cruise wear. She and I were almost as excited as they were. Lina worked so hard at Euphoria and could use, deserved, a break.

And Pilar was such a treasure. Walker would miss his girlfriend. I wondered if Vanessa would have him sleep with her. Hoped so.

If Lina and Pilar were stunned by the splendor of the residential yacht, they didn’t show it. They both were naturally reserved, didn’t wear their hearts on their sleeves. Nor on any pieces of garment.

But boy, were they noticed. There were several South American apartment owners on The Globe so it wasn’t their Latina-ness. No, it was that they made an extraordinarily striking twosome. They could be mother and daughter, more likely sisters.

Coal black hair, erect posture, confident stride. Large luminous black eyes, lush lashes. Cinnamon skin that contrasted with the white swimwear that Vanessa had bought them.

Both went topless at the large swimming pool. A lot of women did, especially the Europeans. Men noticed them, noticed both of them. Lina and I were sipping champagne grapefruit Mojitos and I watched her watching the guys -- passengers and crew -- eyeballing Pilar.

Pilar wore a white thong so skimpy that it drew the eyes to her pussy. Of course she was aware of the attention. Didn’t seem to revel in it, didn’t do anything blatant to draw it. But obviously didn’t mind it.

Her mother had a small smile on her face, her eyes behind dark sunglasses.

Pilar was making a slow circuit of the pool, walking between the lounge chairs and the water, those impossibly long legs leading up to that tiny white rectangle, that taut, bare butt whose muscles flexed with every step.

And that golden, cinnamon-like glow to her skin. From those wide shoulders down past those tiny nipples, down further to ... shit, I didn’t blame the boys for checking her out. If I liked girls ... wait a minute!

Lina rested a palm on my thigh, winked at me. She had read my momentarily vagrant thoughts.

Reggie Angstrom was a puzzle. The Feds had more agents on the ground so it was easy to follow him. Teams of two and three switched off and on. A needless precaution as he was paying zero attention to his back-trail.

And carrying nothing with him that could conceal even one sheet of thick paper.

After the fourth day in Buenos Aires, one of the agents stood guard while another examined that fucking bottom drawer. There were 16 missing sheets. At $250,000 per that came to ... a ton.

The Homeland Security team, the two men and a woman that I had met in DC, flew a government jet down that day. It was more than the money, it was that the operation had been carried out under the noses of Homeland Security elites. Fuck.

Unless the faux Ghost sheets were somewhere else on the ship. Unlikely, but they searched the Angstrom apartment and also the little cabin where Linda Morales slept. The housekeeper who passed the accordion files to Reggie.

Nada.

Had I been involved in this stage of the case, I would have spotted the solution a lot sooner than the Feds. Right.

They now taped Reginald Angstrom everywhere he went. Investigated everyone he talked to, on The Globe and off.

The woman now taking over the case, using the name Helen Morgan, said, “Shit. Natalie.”

I didn’t go topless on The Globe. Not with Lina and Pilar there. I’ve been told, by my mirror, that my boobs are extraordinary. Largish for my slender frame. Full, not a gram of sag. Perky, and pink, upturned nipples.

No, I wanted this trip to be about the Palomas. Let them enjoy their time in the spotlight.

And they seemed to be.

Lina was hit on, subtly and not so, several times a day. Pilar too, although those approaches were more discreet because of her 14 year old age.