Chapter 20
TWENTY
DANIEL
By early afternoon, we still hadn’t found the stern of the drug runner’s vessel.
But the scene had been secured. Additional parcels had been recovered along the beach as far as two miles up the length of the island.
A team would remain in place for a while, as we expected more to turn up with the changing of the tides.
Hopefully, some part of the boat with the HIN or other identifier would be found and give us a lead on who the boat actually belonged to.
Given the evidence we had, it was unclear whether the drug runners had actually been attempting to make a run during the hurricane, or if the vessel had gotten loose and damaged.
We might never know for sure, unless a body or an owner turned up to connect to it.
I’d handed over incident command to Bradley so I could get to the Sutter’s Ferry Police Station for Mickey Doyle’s interrogation. Maybe he’d have more light to shed on the situation. Assuming we motivated him to talk.
Police Chief Bill Carson was waiting for me.
A weathered guy who might’ve been anywhere from fifty to late sixties, his face was set in lines of grim irritation.
“Shame this asshole couldn’t have waited for a better time to do this.
We got bigger things to worry about after this hurricane than the likes of some opportunistic tweaker. ”
That attitude was likely what had allowed Doyle to make it this far. But I knew my role here. “That’s the damned truth. But our intelligence suggests he may be more than that. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me assist with the interrogation.”
He fixed me with a narrow-eyed glare. “You one of Hayes’?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “Reckon you can be there, then. But let me take the lead.”
“Understood.”
I followed him into the interrogation room.
Mickey was already seated at the lone table, his hands cuffed to the table.
Given his extreme look of boredom and annoyance, I wondered how long he’d been there.
I didn’t expect this station to have much in the way of holding facilities.
Probably not more than a couple of cells.
Mickey's eyes fixed on me, his expression darkening. "You again."
Carson settled into the chair across from Mickey. His weathered hands folded on the scratched metal table, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades in law enforcement. "So. You want to tell me what you were doing at the clinic during a hurricane?"
Mickey slouched deeper in his seat, the metal chair creaking under his weight. His clothes were still damp from the storm, and he smelled like wet concrete and desperation. "Man, I was just looking for shelter from the storm."
I remained standing against the concrete block wall, arms crossed, studying his body language. The guy was nervous—leg bouncing, eyes darting everywhere except at us. "By jimmying the back door?"
"Look, I ain't talking to you, Coast Guard." Mickey's voice carried a defiant edge, but I heard the underlying tremor of fear.
Carson's weathered face cracked into something that might have been a smile if you squinted, but looked more like the expression a shark makes before it bites.
"Son, you're already looking at breaking and entering during a state of emergency.
That's a felony in North Carolina. Add attempted theft of controlled substances, plus this handy list of outstanding warrants we've got for you on other drug charges from three different counties, and you're facing some serious time.
We're talking fifteen to twenty years if you draw the wrong judge. "
Mickey's face went pale, the color draining out of his cheeks like someone had pulled a plug. "How'd you—"
"We found your previous attempts to get in. Left some nice prints on the door frame and window sill. Real considerate of you." Carson's tone remained conversational, almost friendly.
"Can't prove that was from before and not last night."
"Doesn't matter." I pushed off the wall, taking a step closer to the table. "We both heard you muttering to yourself when you figured out you couldn't get into the drug room without the power being up. Your bosses know you're this sloppy?"
Mickey's shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His cuffed hands twisted against the metal restraints. "They ain't my bosses no more."
"No?" Carson's voice stayed casual, but I caught the sharp interest in his eyes. "What happened there?"
Mickey's leg bounced faster under the table, his gaze ping-ponging between the one-way mirror, the ceiling tiles, the corner of the room—anywhere but at us.
The silence stretched out for nearly a minute before he finally cracked.
"Lost a shipment. Twenty-five grand worth. They said I had to pay it back."
"By when?" I kept my tone neutral.
"End of the month." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Hurricane was coming. Figured everyone would be distracted or evacuated. Clinic's got painkillers, other stuff I could sell fast. OxyContin, Percocet, maybe some Adderall. Would've covered most of what I owed."
Carson leaned forward slightly, his elbows on the table. "And who exactly were you planning to sell to?"
"Same guys I owed. Figured they'd take it as payment and give me another chance." Mickey's laugh was hollow and bitter. "Stupid plan, right? But I was desperate. They ain't the forgiving type. You don't pay what you owe, bad things happen. Real bad things."
So the break-in wasn't directly related to the trafficking operation we were investigating.
It really had been a crime of opportunity, born from desperation and poor judgment.
That made me feel a little bit better about the whole situation.
Gabi hadn't been targeted specifically, and the clinic itself would probably be fine going forward.
But that didn't mean this was all Mickey knew. A guy like him, running product for organized dealers, had to have picked up useful intelligence along the way.
Carson apparently had the same thought. He drummed his fingers on the table in a slow, methodical rhythm.
"Seeing as you're not getting back in with them, doesn't seem like you owe them much allegiance anymore.
You could trade information for a reduced sentence.
You give us something useful about their operation, we help you out with the DA.
Get those charges knocked down to simple B&E, time served. "
"Information like what?" Mickey's voice was cautious now, calculating.
"What can you tell us about your bosses' operation?" I moved to lean against the wall where he could see me clearly. "How big is it? Who's running it? How does the product move?"
Mickey's eyes darted between Carson and me, weighing his options.
I practically saw the gears turning in his head—fear of his former associates versus the very real prospect of serious prison time.
Finally, he slumped further in his chair, resignation settling over his features like a heavy blanket.
"Started with the Lowe brothers about two years ago.
They got me running small packages up and down the coast. Nothing major at first—an ounce or two of blow, some pills.
Then they introduced me to Heneghan. Big Irish guy, arms like tree trunks.
He's the one handles most of the local distribution—splitting bigger shipments into smaller ones, getting them out to street dealers. "
Carson made a note on his pad. "And Ortiz?"
"Man, I never met him, and I don't want to.
" Mickey shuddered visibly. "That son of a bitch is scary as hell.
Shows up every couple of months to check on things, make sure nobody's skimming.
Works with some guy they call the Skipper—he's the one who actually moves most of the product around the coast. Then there's this dude, the Shell Man, who handles the money side of things. "
I kept my expression carefully neutral. Code names weren't surprising in an operation like this, and while they weren't immediately helpful for identification, they gave us a clearer picture of the organizational structure. "Where do they usually make the transfers?"
"Changes all the time. Security, you know?
Sometimes it's the old fish processing plant down in Wilmington.
Other times they use these fishing boats—make it look like they're just bringing in the day's catch.
There are a couple of marinas they like, places where the Coast Guard doesn't patrol as heavy. "
"How much product are we talking about?" Carson asked.
Mickey shrugged, the metal cuffs clinking against the table. "Used to be twenty, thirty grand worth per run when I started. Now? Man, last month they moved half a million through here in one go. Big white bricks of powder, pills by the thousands."
Half a million dollars. That was significantly more than the task force's initial estimates suggested. This operation was bigger and more sophisticated than we'd thought, which meant it was also more dangerous.
"And where exactly are they storing all this before distribution?" Carson's tone stayed casual, but I watched his interest sharpen like a blade.
"Dunno for sure. I wasn't involved in any of that upper-level stuff. Seems like it probably moves around for security. But lately there's been talk about setting up something more permanent. Something about having protection from higher up, whatever that means."
That last bit made my blood run cold. Protection from higher up might mean corrupted local officials, possibly even federal agents. It definitely bore further investigation, and it meant this case was about to get a lot more complicated.