Derailed (38 page)

“Yo, brotha, what can I do for you?” I recognized the voice from the PA that announced the Amtrak services and rules—especially,
absolutely no smoking
—when we first got underway.

“Well, whatcha got?”

“Bunch of stuff you wouldn't want. But we got dogs and burgers, barbecue chicken sandwich, pizza—”

“No pizza. I'm from Chicago and learned my lesson the hard way tryin' to eat pizza from anyplace else. How 'bout a cheeseburger and fries?” I could see the menu on the wall behind the attendant, and it didn't include fries.

“Sorry. No fries. Chips come with it, though.”

In a few moments I was at a table by myself with a cheeseburger, chips, and a Pepsi, thinking about my next move. My first priority was making sure Grace Meredith wouldn't blow my cover. But I couldn't do that until I could speak to her alone. She and her assistant would probably be at their table for close to an hour. I could quickly finish my burger and walk to the rear of the train and back by then. In spite of my theory that the mule might be in first class, I needed to check the coaches.

I finished my meal with an Almond Joy bar, went back upstairs, and turned toward the rear of the train, walking slowly to give Corky a chance to catch the scent of any drugs.

“Okay, girl,” I said as we pressed through the junction doors. “Now the coach cars.”

Searching the lower areas in the coach cars was always awkward because I couldn't walk straight through. When I got to the last seat, I had to turn around and come back, feigning the confusion of a lost blind man. Often passengers offered to help me find my way, and I'd have to thank them but disengage as soon as possible.

I saw several passengers who fit my profile . . . kinda. But three of them had families. One was sleeping, with his girlfriend all cuddled up to him. In each instance, I reminded myself that the real mule didn't have to fit any profile. But Corky didn't respond to any of those people, and none of them exhibited any other suspicious behaviors.

We got all the way to the back of the train and turned around and came back without Corky alerting on any passenger.

In the lounge car, I took one of the observation seats near the front. I could see into the dining car from there. Grace and her assistant were still at their table. I relaxed, swaying with the rhythmic movement of the train, probably causing some people to wonder why a blind man was taking up an observation seat. I didn't care, and it was almost dark outside anyway.

My attention drifted back to my walk through the coach cars. We weren't looking for marijuana. Cocaine or heroin could be carried in a much smaller container stowed, perhaps, in the overhead luggage rack. If it were sealed tightly enough, maybe Corky would miss it. What then?

Suddenly, I noticed the two women getting up from their table. I ducked my head, but it was unlikely they'd notice me in a completely different car. Sneaking a peek, I caught my breath. They were coming my way.

I swiveled my chair away from the door as it
whooshed
open, hunching down as much as possible. Corky lay on the other side of
my chair. If she didn't move, they might not notice her on the dimly lit floor. The young black woman passed. I kept my eyes on the reflections in the dark window. No one else appeared, and Grace's assistant continued heading down the aisle of the lounge car. I glanced her way as she sat down in one of the sofa-like seats, her back toward me. Where was Grace? I turned. She wasn't anywhere in the lounge car. I looked again at the assistant. She was opening a paperback book, making herself comfortable.

Thank you, Jesus
. He was answering Estelle's prayer.

Rising quietly, I took Corky's harness handle, left the lounge car, and passed through the dining car, wishing for a moment that I could've had one of those juicy steaks other passengers were enjoying.

Moving into the first sleeper, I tapped lightly on the door of Room E.

“Yes, who is it?”

I just tapped again, not wanting to announce myself to neighbors who might overhear.

The curtain over the door window moved aside, and Grace stepped back with a start, then cautiously slid the door open.

Making sure that no one was in the hallway, I removed my shades. “Can I come in, Miss Meredith?”

“It
was
you!” It was somewhere between accusation and relief. Her dark eyes remained wide as she looked me up and down.

I put my finger to my lips and raised my eyebrows to renew my request to come in.

“Of course! Come on in. What in the world are you doing here?”

Corky and I stepped in, and I slid the door closed behind us. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem. Here . . .” She quickly zipped a brush and small cosmetic bag into the teal-blue piece of luggage that was open on the sofa and put it on the floor. “Sorry. Have a seat.” With a nervous gesture, she brushed her long, dark hair away from her face and sat down in the opposing seat.

I released Corky, who immediately began nosing around the room.

“Didn't mean to ignore you in the dining car, Miss Grace, but you almost gave away my cover.” A bewildered look flashed over her face, so I hurried on. “You know I do security for Amtrak. Right now I'm riding some of the trains as an Amtrak detective, and this is my cover. I need to ask you not to speak to me or acknowledge me in any way. Or your friend either. She . . . doesn't know who I am, does she?”

Grace shook her head. “She knows your wife, but I don't think she's ever seen you. And she thinks I was totally off thinking you were on the train.”

I nodded. “Good. Keep it that way. Wish I could stay and talk, but I should move on. I'm two cars ahead in the handicapped compartment.”

Corky, who'd been investigating everything in the room, came up to her. “You mind?” I asked.

“Not at all. Such a sweet dog.” She reached out her hand, and Corky licked it.

I stood up. “Yeah. Corky's my partner. But please don't interact with her out in the train.” I put my shades back on. “Well, I'll be seeing you around.” I emphasized the word
seeing
with a grin. “Just don't be offended if I don't speak to you during the rest of the trip.”

“Of course.”

“Come on, Corky.” We left, and I slid the heavy door shut behind me.

Whew! Over one hurdle . . . I hoped.

As I started to leave the car, I recalled my speculations that the mule might travel first class. Corky hadn't picked up any scent as we'd passed through the upper levels of all three first-class sleepers, but we hadn't checked the lower levels except for my car. “Let's go back, Corky.”

We returned to the center of Grace's car and clambered down the circular stairs. The door to the accessible bedroom was open. I stepped in there first. It was clearly unoccupied. We were headed to the other end to check the lower roomettes and the family room
when Corky sat down so firmly she nearly jerked her harness handle from my hand. “What is it, girl?”

She was alerting into the common luggage area, a space nearly as large as a roomette with seven or eight large suitcases lined up on edge on the floor and as many more stacked like bricks on the two sturdy shelves above.

“Which one, Corky?” I whispered, glancing around. If there was anyone else on the lower level, they were behind closed doors in their roomettes or in the toilets. With a quick glance, I saw that none of the little amber “occupied” lights glowed above the shower and toilet doors, and one door even flapped open and shut a few inches with the sway of the train.

Corky pointed to a large teal-blue rolling case. I pulled it out—it must have weighed close to fifty pounds—and Corky followed it with her nose. And then I saw the name on the tag: “Grace Meredith, 7333 Beecham St., Chicago, Illinois.”

I straightened up, dumbfounded. Grace? How could that be?

There was no question what Corky thought. I tried to redirect her back to the bags remaining in the compartment. She obliged for a moment, sniffing here and there, but gave it up to return to the big blue travel bag.

A knot formed in my stomach. I had to confirm whether this suitcase was dirty, but no way did I want to find out that Grace Meredith was the mule. O God . . . please no! How could she be?

Okay, okay. Calm down, Harry. First things first. Check it out all the way.

I looked again to be sure I was alone and then rolled the heavy bag into the empty shower room. “Come on, Corky. Get in here.” I slid the curtain back and pushed Corky into the still-dry shower stall while I sat on the small changing bench, staring at the case. It was definitely the mate to the smaller case that had been open on Grace's sofa.

Hearing someone outside, I slid the lock closed with a click and waited. Whoever it was entered one of the three toilets. I heard water running.

There was nothing to do but open Grace's suitcase. I unzipped it and began running my hands through layers of dressy clothes, a coat, three pair of high heels—the obvious attire of a concert performer—and a couple of books, then felt the heat of embarrassment creep up my neck as I checked a bag of underwear, probably headed for the laundry. Nothing there . . . or there . . . nothing in the shoes. I checked all the zippered pockets. Nothing.

“You gotta help me, Corky. If it's in here, I can't find it.”

Stepping gingerly out of the shower as if she understood my problem exactly, Corky began sniffing at the backside of the suitcase. Then she sat down in the alert position again.

“Back here? There's no pouch back here.” I rubbed my hands up and down the flat back of the case and could feel several lumps within. Was that just clothes and shoes pressing through? But the lumps seemed too smooth and even.

I snapped my fingers and pointed into the shower stall. “Get back in here, girl. There's not enough room out here.” She obeyed, head drooping as if she thought I was disappointed with her.

I stood up, took off my hat, and wiped my shaved head. I was sweating. I couldn't stay forever in this shower. Was I going to have to empty the whole bag? And then it struck me. The telescopic handle retracted into a thin pocket down the back of the case. It had to be protected from the clothes or the handle could snag items and become tangled, unable to extend or retract. The divider protecting the handle created a virtual false bottom in the case.

Forcing my hand down through the opening designed for the handle, I found there was room for my whole arm to go in. I reached deeper and felt several smooth tubes, like flattened sausages. I pulled one out through the hole. Fifteen inches long and weighing perhaps two pounds, it certainly wasn't sausage encased in that black, shrink-wrap plastic. I made a tiny hole in one end with my pocketknife. A lab would have to confirm it, but from all my years of experience, I'd bet my career it was pure cocaine.

I blew out a long breath. “We got 'em, Corky. Good dog.”

Feeling inside the back of Grace's suitcase again, I counted five more tubes. At a kilo each, the haul could have a street value over a million and a half. Those DEA guys were right. This bust was worth all the trouble we'd gone to, especially if the cartel was just opening up this pipeline.

But Grace . . . ? I carefully slid the tube I'd examined back into her suitcase and adjusted its position so it wouldn't be noticeable to any casual viewer. Surely she wasn't involved in a scheme like this!

I sat in my compartment, head in my hands,
unwilling—unable—to believe Grace Meredith was a drug runner for the Sinaloa cartel. Corky hadn't detected anything suspicious about her or in her compartment, not even that piece of matching luggage. But the scent had been strong coming from the big suitcase, and Grace had been handling her luggage less than two hours ago. Surely it would've contaminated her enough for Corky to detect something. No, she couldn't be the mule.

Despite my attempts at profiling, I had calculated that a mule might be sophisticated, professional—someone who appeared above suspicion. Well, who would attract less attention moving drugs around the country than an upstanding, white, contemporary Christian singer? No one would suspect her, and she traveled regularly. I coughed a laugh at myself. She had a better cover than I did! I considered myself good at detecting guilt in a person's eyes, their body language, and evasive comments, but she hadn't exhibited any of those signs.

No, it didn't make sense! She couldn't be the mule. But . . . how had the drugs gotten into her luggage?

I needed to cast the net wider. Maybe it was her assistant. I pulled a pen and small notebook out of my jacket pocket and made a list of everyone who might've had a chance to hide drugs in her luggage. Grace was at the top of my list, but I added her assistant—Sam, I think her name was. Who else? Uh . . . the limo driver in LA would've handled the bags. Could he have slipped something into Grace's bag? Maybe if he'd moved fast while they were getting seated and he was
loading the luggage in the back. But he'd have to know where she was going before picking her up. And if they could arrange for another driver to pick her up on the other end, the mule wouldn't even have to be on the train. Let an innocent citizen do their dirty work.

Another possibility was an Amtrak employee. They handled people's luggage all the time without question.

But I kept coming back to the obvious. A wily drug runner had hidden the drugs in Grace's luggage for the duration of the trip to be retrieved at the other end. He'd gambled—probably accurately—that her cosmetics, overnight items, travel clothes, and everything she'd need for the trip would all be in the smaller suitcase so she'd have little reason to get into her big case down there on the lower level. But how and when would he retrieve the drugs? And how could I catch him?

My mind churned. Perhaps just before she detrained. The train attendant would be distracted helping people, collecting pillows, emptying trash, cleaning and straightening up the train for the next run. The mule could come down to the luggage compartment and retrieve his packets without suspicion. No harder than a pickpocket lifting a wallet.