Chapter 19
LUKE
Rico calls while I'm lacing up my boots, ready to head out for dinner.
I need to find Hannah and feel her out. Not for a second do I think that she's involved with Dorsey's plot to mask his illegal shipping through the festival, but the more she knows about his shady dealings, the more danger she could be in if he even gets a hint that anyone knows anything. I put Rico on speaker and answer.
"Hey, Rico, what do you have for me?" The boots lace up tight, but they don't feel the same as the ones I've worked in every day for twelve years. Being back in civilian clothes has its perks when you want to be comfortable, but some things, like my footwear, just aren't as comfortable.
"Well, you're not going to like this." Rico sounds tense, like he's got more bad news, though I'm not shocked. I already know what I'm probably dealing with, so I'm bracing for the worst hoping it's just not that bad. It'd be a relief if it weren't, but I'm ready if it is.
"The shell company Dorsey is running things through traces back to a freight outfit in Panama," he says. "They move cargo through small ports up and down the Pacific Coast. Fishing towns, mostly. Places where customs presence is thin and nobody looks twice at a boat coming in after dark."
"Sounds familiar," I grumble, straightening up.
It makes sense, though it doesn't mean I have to like it or approve.
Dorsey probably leaves his carrier ships in international waters and ships things in on smaller boats to avoid detection too.
It's a trick pirates use in the Middle East to avoid having full shipments confiscated by local authorities when they get caught in port.
"He's known for running this scheme in other places, so I'm not shocked that your small town has become a target.
They wait for something to distract locals and then they move as quickly as possible…
Or they create a distraction." Rico's words are making my nervous system fire.
It's like he's reading right out of Dorsey's playbook here in Bandon.
"So he's using the festival, which he offered to fund, as a distraction to move his contraband?
" Tension laces across my shoulders into my chest as I spin in the chair and pick up my wallet, keys, and phone.
There still isn't anything more than speculation, but I'm drawing very strong conclusions from Rico's intelligence.
"I'm saying it fits the profile. A town event that requires a lot of supplies coming in from outside, a benefactor bankrolling the whole thing, shipments arriving by water instead of by road… Kinda sounds textbook."
Now my mind is whirring to life. To men like Dorsey, a few hundred grand is pocket change.
Of course he'd drop the dime on a festival.
He couldn't buy the marina because I won't sell, and the festival presents a much cheaper option, anyway.
It means that maybe this is a singular event, or maybe it means that he's planning other things if this goes well—more "distractions" during which he can move his illegal merchandise right under our noses.
And Hannah trusts this asshole. I scowl, letting my body relax a bit. If I get too uptight about all of this, I'll end up snapping when I see Hannah.
"I still need proof," I say.
"You do, and you need to be careful how you get it.
If this guy's connected to the people I think he's connected to, you're dealing with more than a white-collar hustle.
These sorts of operations aren't small time, Luke.
There could be governments involved, outside agencies…
Terrorist cells." Rico's giving me a warning which I intend to heed.
No way I can take down these bastards on my own.
"Understood."
"Luke." He pauses. "I mean it—be smart. You're a civilian now."
"I hear you," I grumble. "Look, just keep digging.
I have to have absolute proof of what Dorsey is doing, here and abroad.
I need a concrete tie somewhere. He might be hiding himself and his business partners through shell companies, but there is a tie somewhere.
We have to find it if I'm gonna get anyone to believe me.
And in the meantime, I'm gonna try to find out what it is he's shipping.”
"Be careful," Rico warns again, and then he hangs up.
It really pisses me off that all of this is happening right under people's noses.
It makes me wonder what other sketchy shit has been happening over the years.
Dorsey isn't a lone wolf, and if this kind of thing is going on now, there's a chance he heard Bandon is an easy target somehow, and that's why he chose this place.
Well, not on my watch. Dad might've been so lackadaisical that things slipped past him, but I won't be that person.
When I head out, the docks are quiet. Most of the charter captains are either out on the water or finished hours ago, and the evening crowd is still trickling in.
I walk past my office and Tank's slip, toward the east end of the pier where Dorsey's crew have been stacking crates in the open storage area near the boat ramp.
There are dozens of wooden crates and heavy-duty plastic containers, stacked three and four high, covered with tarps tied down with bungee cords.
I look around but there's no one out here right now.
Being dinner time, I assume most people are eating dinner somewhere, leaving me a bit of privacy to snoop around a little bit, but I check over my shoulder every few seconds just in case.
I walk along the row and start reading the shipping labels stapled and adhered to the sides under layers of shrink wrap.
The first few are what I expect—generic descriptions like Event Supplies and Stage Materials with Dorsey's storage unit on Route 42 listed as the delivery address.
But the origin labels tell a different story, and they appear to be hidden under random stickers that say Fragile.
One crate shipped from Colón, Panama, another from Buenaventura, Colombia.
A third came all the way from Guayaquil, Ecuador.
Hannah told me Dorsey was sourcing supplies from vendors up the coast, Portland, maybe Seattle—domestic suppliers who could get bulk orders to a small town on a reasonable timeline.
But these crates came from three different countries in Central and South America, and they came by sea.
After what Rico just told me, I'm getting a really bad feeling about this.
I crouch next to one of the Colombian crates and run my hand along the seam.
The lid is screwed down with heavy-gauge hardware, and there's a customs seal on one corner that would be destroyed if I opened it.
I've got tools in my office that would do the job of prying it open in thirty seconds, but this is Dorsey's property.
Opening sealed cargo that belongs to someone else crosses a line I can't uncross.
If Dorsey finds out I've been tampering with his shipments, it tips him off that someone's watching. I'm not just dealing with a snake of a man who calls himself an American. I'm dealing with very powerful people. I need proof, but I need to get it clean, or it's worthless.
Maybe I just need to bring Hannah in on this before it gets too dangerous for her.
She's the one who gave Dorsey the supply lists.
She would know what was actually ordered and where it was supposed to come from.
If the shipping origins on those crates are different from what she requested, that's a discrepancy worth taking the risk over.
And if she can confirm she only approved domestic vendors, then Dorsey's been making his own arrangements, and those crates could contain anything.
I drive across town, chewing on the fat of this recent discovery and wondering how I'm supposed to bring this up to Hannah.
Her avoidance makes it difficult to even catch her for a sit-down, let alone bring up difficult topics.
And the last thing I want is to stress her out more.
The last time I was even close enough to speak with her, she almost passed out.
It's hard to know what she can handle and what she can't, though I'd never tell her she wasn't strong enough to deal with this. I just want to protect her.
When I see that Hannah is, in fact, at the diner seated at a table with the mayor, I pause and run a hand through my hair. I know she hangs out here a lot, and I had hoped to intercept her, but I also hoped for privacy. Not an audience.
I'm standing on the sidewalk deciding whether to go in or wait when Mayor Grant spots me through the window and waves me over.
She's grinning and gesturing toward the empty side of the booth.
I can see Hannah's face shift as she follows Evelyn's gaze and finds me out there on the sidewalk.
Hannah doesn't look thrilled, but I won't refuse the invitation.
I know the mayor thinks I'm the whole reason this festival is taking place, all because I offered my property to host it.
I push through the diner door and walk over stiffly, noticing how every time I get tense, my leg seems to throb. And not knowing what the hell is even going on between me and Hannah makes me tense every time I see her. "Evening, Mayor. Hannah," I say, nodding.
"Luke, sit down and join us," Evelyn says, scooting her water glass over. "We just ordered. We could ask them to hold it and you can get yourself something too."
"I appreciate that," I tell her, sliding into the booth next to Hannah, leaving a gap between us.
Hannah keeps her eyes down on her glass of soda and her jaw works tensely.
My appearance seems to have caused her the same tension it causes me, though she doesn't have a limp to make it so obvious as I do.
"We were just talking about the festival preparations," Evelyn says, flagging down the waitress. "Hannah has been doing such wonderful work. This town is lucky to have her."