Derailed (24 page)

She took me to the dog run and promised to make sure I got safely back before the train departed.

Once the train was underway again, I showered and shaved—amazing how much they can tuck into these compartments—and headed off with Corky to hunt for the mule. I thought it'd be easier to make my way through the cars while most people were still asleep.

That was true. Once on the upper level, I didn't have to negotiate passing people with Corky. But I hadn't even gotten out of our sleeping car before it struck me: if the mule was traveling in one of the larger sleeping compartments, it might be impossible for Corky to catch the scent of the dope.

A dog's sense of smell is amazing, ten thousand times more sensitive than humans by some estimates. But smell still travels on air currents, and if the smell's floating the other way, even a trained dog won't catch it.

If we didn't find our mule anywhere else in the train, I might have to think how to access closed compartments. But that posed a prosecution problem. If Corky couldn't smell it from outside, I would need a warrant to enter the space, and of course there was no way to get one en route.

I pressed the panel of the connecting door to the next car and it wheezed open. We had a lot of train to explore before I needed to worry about closed compartments. When no one was around to see us, Corky and I moved forward with ease, not groping for the vertical handrails to maintain balance as we passed between cars, or trying to find the pressure plate that opened the doors. I tried to watch Corky to see if she picked up anything suspicious.

In the dining car, the waiters were putting the final preparations on the tables for breakfast.

“Sir, sir. We're not open yet. Come back at six, and it'll be first come, first served.”

“That's okay, I'm just going through.”

There were only a half dozen passengers in the observation car. Some were curled up in the seats, obviously having spent some of the night sleeping there. But a couple were awake, mesmerized by the silvery mists floating above the newly sprouted corn in the predawn fields of Iowa. Corky stopped at the “dirty” seat again. No one was sitting there this time, and I released her to continue her search.

Most people in the coach cars were still sleeping, making it easy for Corky to take her time as we made our way down the aisle. I tried to remember Sergeant Sayers's advice: “Relax, civilians won't know how a service dog would lead her handler down a train aisle. A blind person might know, but probably can't see. And how often are you likely to encounter a trainer on a train?”

I paused to let a little boy greet Corky when he insisted on petting “the doggy” while his mother, who was nursing a baby, fumbled to control him. Though I could see all this through my shades, I tried to keep my head up as though I saw nothing.

First coach car, no hits. Second coach car, Corky wanted to go down the steps to the lower level. I followed her, but when she didn't
show any interest in entering the section usually reserved for the elderly or handicapped, I hesitated for fear it might startle passengers if they awoke to find a dog's nose at their elbow.

Third coach, nothing. I was beginning to worry. Had we received a false tip from the DEA? But with the added coaches for the returning conventioneers, this was a long train, so we continued on, all the way to the front, where only a baggage car separated us from the engines.

Still no drugs . . . or at least none that I'd found.

Corky and I turned around and faced a coach
full of passengers, some beginning to wake, some already nodding in time to earbuds in their ears, kids whining, other people with hoodies and blankets pulled over their heads trying to catch a few more winks.

I held my head straight ahead as I surveyed them all through my mirrored shades. Who was the mule? Probably not the mother with three small children. And not the three elderly couples scattered in different parts of the coach. And how likely was it that one of those conventioneers with the Union Pacific Club logos on their sweatshirts or caps was carrying forty pounds of marijuana?

Admittedly, I was profiling. But every good cop does it. That's what it means to have good street instincts. You just don't do it in an obvious or offensive way.

There was a lot more of this train to search. I'd only cruised through the easy part. I needed to search the lower compartments.

When I got near the center of the front coach, I spoke out to the air. “Excuse me. Is the bathroom downstairs?”

“Yeah,” said a man nearby. “They've got some downstairs. But they're kinda small.” When I started to move tentatively forward, he said, “That's right. That's right. Just one more seat, and then the steps are on your left.” “Thank you.”

Corky and I made our way downstairs and entered the compartment with six pairs of seats, three on each side. The space was sometimes reserved for families or handicapped people because there was extra space at the front to store a wheelchair, walker, or
even a power chair. But I walked blankly down the aisle between the seats while those who were awake eyed me curiously. When I reached the back, I intentionally bumped into the wall. “Uh, are there bathrooms down here?”

“Back the other way.”

“Thank you.” I turned and passed everyone without noting a response from Corky. Crossing the vestibule, I opened the door to one of the toilets.

That was a mistake. What was I supposed to do with Corky? We couldn't both fit into that little closet, but I knew people were watching me from behind to see how I'd do it.

“Stay, Corky. Sit. Stay.”

She obeyed, and I went in and took a few minutes to do what Corky couldn't do on the train. Then I came out, retrieved my dog, and went back upstairs.

I followed the same routine in the next four cars without Corky identifying anything suspicious. But in the lower level of the last coach car, we got a hit.

As we entered, Corky immediately sat down, indicating a young man spread across two seats at the front of the compartment. Stubborn cuss—how'd he manage to keep two seats for himself on such a full train? The guy was sleeping, his head cushioned against the window by a folded-up jacket. A shaved head and a spiral tattoo snaking up his thick neck sure fit the stereotype. In the extra space at his feet—the space that might've accommodated a wheelchair or walker—were two suitcases and a backpack. Corky's nose was pointing straight at the suitcases, and they were plenty big enough to hold forty pounds of marijuana.

Beside the suitcases was a pile of trash from at least two large McDonald's bags.
Hmm
. Looked like the guy hadn't been eating food from the diner or snack bar. Probably didn't want to leave his seat . . . or more likely, the treasure at his feet.

It all fit. I had my mule!

Above his seat, secured with a small clip on the wall was a blue
card with “Naperville” written on it in black marker by the conductor to indicate the passenger's destination so he wouldn't let him sleep through his stop.

“Free, Corky,” I muttered, and then in a slightly louder voice, but not one intended to wake my mark, I said, “Is the bathroom down here?”

Another helpful passenger directed me back beyond the stairs.

It was tempting to forget the ruse and go up the stairs and back to my compartment. But I carried it through.

Ten minutes later, back in my own room, I flopped down in my seat and gave Corky a pat. “We did it, girl. We got him. We got him!” I took off my shades and looked out the window at the Iowa countryside zipping by. “We got him!”

I pulled out my cell, checked whether I had a signal, and called Gilson. “Hey, Captain. Wasn't sure you'd be in the office yet.”

“Whaddaya mean? It's almost ten o'clock. How's it goin'?”

“Got my man. Or at least I've got him identified. He's getting off in Naperville.”

“Naperville? Why Naperville?”

“Business is probably better out there in the 'burbs with all those rich kids.”

“But you're sure it's him.”

“Sure as I can be without actually arresting him. So, how you want to play this?”

“Your cover still good?”

“Well, he sure doesn't know me. He was sleeping when I identified him.”

“How 'bout everyone else?”

“I think I'm good.'

“Great! See, it's workin', Bentley. You were the skeptic, but now you proved it's possible. We're gonna make a hero of you yet. Hold on.”

The phone went silent for a few moments, and then Gilson came back on the line. “I'm gonna have to call you back with the plan. A lot of different agencies probably want to stick their finger in this pie. But we got some time. Just make sure he doesn't detrain early.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Ha! Just tackle him if he tries to jump the train! I'll be back to you.”

I'll admit, I was kind of geeked myself. I'd already spent twenty hours on this trip as a blind man, and as far as I could tell, no one suspected that Corky and I weren't authentic. Maybe Gilson was right. If they played it right and didn't apprehend the guy until after he'd gotten off the train, there was a good chance no one would know they'd been riding with a drug dealer. It was a good plan: get your man without frightening the citizens.

I thought about Grace Meredith and the awful experience she'd had with airport security. She'd have been comfortable on this trip, I was sure of it, even if law enforcement collared a bad guy right under her nose. I tried to recall the conversation following the meal she'd had with us in our home. I didn't think I'd actually told her I was a cop, just that I worked for Amtrak. I couldn't mention that I worked undercover, but I might let her know sometime that I was an Amtrak police officer and ask if she'd felt safe traveling by train.

I got out my phone and dialed. “Estelle, hey did you ever talk to that young woman across the street after she went to St. Louis? Did she take the train like I suggested?”

“Yeah, she took it.”

“How'd it go?”

“Actually, she came over to thank you for suggesting it. Said it was very restful.”

“She gonna do it again?”

“Harry, how should I know? I'm at work. You okay? What's goin' on?”

“Nothin'. Everything's fine. Be home this evening, early I hope.”

“That'll be nice. Missing you.”

“Me too. Did you visit Mom yet?”

“No, Harry. I told you. I plan to go today right after work.”

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Corky growled—the first time I'd ever heard her do that.

“Hey, gotta go. Someone's at the door.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I'd ended the call and was reaching for my shades before I realized I hadn't told Estelle I loved her. Never wanted to miss that.

“Yeah,” I called toward the door as I put on my shades and glanced at Corky. She was standing stiff-legged in the middle of the room, facing the door with her hackles up. “It's okay, girl.”

The door opened slowly, and there stood the drug mule . . . with what looked like a Ruger SR9 in his hand.

I arrested my reflex to grab my service weapon,
and apparently the guy didn't notice my flinch, because his gun remained aimed more at Corky than me. “Call off your dog.” His voice was low and threatening as he glanced quickly around my compartment.

A low growl rumbled in Corky's throat.

“I said, call your dog off.”

“Corky, down. It's okay, girl.” I reached out slowly and patted her head, intentionally missing with the first wave of my fingers. “You don't have to worry 'bout her none. She's just my guide dog. She won't hurt nobody.” I was trying to think fast. “What's the matter, anyway?” I swung my head back and forth a few degrees as if trying to fix my intruder's position. “You the conductor?”

The guy just stood there trying, I hoped, to decide whether I was a threat. “Were you just in my compartment?”

“Well, I . . . I don't know.” I kept watching for an opportunity to take him out. But in all my years as a cop I'd never had to kill anyone, and didn't want this idiot to be my first. “I . . . I don't know. I went for a walk, but . . .” I tried to sound bewildered while keeping all the fear out of my voice.

“Your dog. They said you came down into my compartment, and your dog was sniffing my stuff.”

“
Down
? Oh, yeah. We were takin' a walk and I had to use the bathroom. Went downstairs, but guess I kinda got turned around a little. Easy to do, ya know, when you're going 'round those spiral stairs.”

I could see he was weighing whether to believe me or not. “Yeah, well I was asleep.”

“Ah gee, man, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to wake you up.”

“You didn't, but what was your dog doin'?”