Derailed (39 page)

The more I reviewed my theory, the more certain I became that I'd figured out the method. But the biggest question still eluded me: Who was the mule? I had to catch him
with
the drugs or I'd do no more than confiscate a delivery. I had bigger plans.

I looked down at Corky. “We gotta move, girl.” She jumped up, ready for anything. “We need to be where I can watch that luggage, night and day. We gotta switch to the handicapped compartment in car four thirty-three.”

There was a knock at my door. I sat down and put my shades back on. “Yes?”

Carl poked his head in. “Mr. Bentley, I was wondering if you wanted me to make up your bed now.”

I almost looked at my watch. Only at the last moment did I feel the top as if it were a Braille watch—I'd have to get a real one before someone caught me and blew my cover.

“No thanks, Carl. But I have a different favor to ask of you. I need to move to another car.”

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“Well . . .” The train whistle accommodated by blowing at just that moment, something it did three times before every crossing. “You hear that?”

“Hear what, sir?”

“The whistle. You're probably so used to it that you don't even notice. But with my . . .” I raised my hands to my shades. “I've become very sensitive to sounds. I'm just sayin' . . . I don't think I could possibly go to sleep this close to the engine with the whistle blaring like that all night. Would it be possible to transfer me to the last sleeper car?”

“The last?”

“Yeah, car four thirty-three's the last sleeper, right?”

“That's right, but I don't know, Mr. Bentley. I don't have any authority to do that.” I knew he didn't, but I just waited for him to figure out something. “Even if there's an open room, it might be reserved for someone getting on later. It's all computerized.” Again, I waited, leaning forward expectantly. “But . . . well, I guess I could check with the conductor. He's the only one who could make such a switch.”

“That'd be great.” I reached for my wallet and pulled out a ten for his trouble.

“Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Bentley,” he said as I handed him the bill. “I'll get right on it.” He started to leave and then turned back. “Say, if you don't mind me askin', how'd you know what to give me?”

I laughed. “I don't mind, Carl. I know in what order I put the bills in my wallet. I gave you a ten . . . right?”

“Ah, yes, a ten. You're right, it's a ten, and thank you again, sir.”

That ten must have greased the wheels, because forty-five minutes later I was settled in my new handicapped-accessible compartment waiting for my mule to come to his bait, almost giddy with my progress on the case.

When Sylvia, the African American attendant in my new car, came in to make up my berth, I said, “The top one, please.”

“Are you sure? We usually only make up the top berth for a passenger's assistant. It's safer if you're not trying to climb up there.”

“Yeah, I know. But I don't have an assistant, and I'm not gonna fall. Thing is, I'm not ready to go to bed yet, so I'd like my seat down here to remain functional.”

“Okay. But don't blame me if you have trouble getting up there.”

“I won't.”

As soon as she left, I fed Corky and got her settled on the floor. After turning out my lights, I jammed a magazine in the track of the door to keep it open about four inches and went to my seat to see if I had a clear line of sight to the common luggage area. Perfect. No one would be able to mess with Grace Meredith's suitcase without me seeing them.

A few people came down the stairs to use the toilets or shower, but no one bothered Grace's luggage as the train ventured into the Mojave Desert. Lights from the Marine Corps supply depot flicked past my window as we got going again after a brief stop in Barstow. It'd be two and a half hours before the next stop in Needles, and I was getting sleepy.

This was
not
going to work. I couldn't stay on watch for the next forty hours. I needed help.

I called Gilson's cell phone, and when he answered, I tried to explain my predicament. All he heard was the good news that I'd found the drugs. “That's absolutely phenomenal, Bentley! I'm gonna put you in for a commendation.”

“Thanks, Captain.” Maybe this time I'd get some credit. “But we gotta catch this guy
with
the drugs or we got no case.”

“You're losing perspective here, Bentley. You've got the drugs, you know who the luggage belongs to. Let's set up an arrest in
Albuquerque. We got a cracker-jack detective there. I think I told you about Brian Conway, covers the whole Southwest. He's as good as they get . . . like you. Look, you won't get there until noon tomorrow. That'll give him plenty of time to coordinate with the DEA. We can arrange a targeted interdiction that won't scare any of the passengers. It'll be—”

“Captain, it's not her!”

“Whaddaya mean?”

It took me thirty minutes to convince him that I couldn't arrest Grace Meredith without more evidence. He still thought she was my mule, but he finally agreed to continue surveillance.

“And that's what I need your help with. You keep telling me about the guy in Albuquerque. You think he could get me some high-tech hardware by the time we get there tomorrow? I need to set up some kind of an alarm system. Can't stay awake for the next forty hours like an owl watching a gopher hole.”

“Hey, you're the one who wants to drag this out.”

“Come on, Captain, work with me here.”

He finally gave me the cell phone number for Detective Brian Conway.

I called Conway as soon as I got off the phone with Gilson and told him exactly what I needed—a wireless motion detector I could set up in the luggage compartment that would send a radio signal to a receiver in my room if someone reached in. The receiver needed to have an audible alarm to wake me up. Conway promised to see what he could do and meet me in Albuquerque.

“But if you're undercover,” he asked, “how'll I recognize you?”

“Ha! I'm the blind guy with a guide dog. You got an animal relief area, don't ya?”

“Blind detective, huh? That's a new one. Yeah, we got a relief area, little grassy yard on the north end of the main building. Meet you there.”

I sighed with relief when I'd hung up. If I could set it up correctly, I could get some sleep. In the meantime, all I had to do was to remain awake for the next twelve or thirteen hours.

Did I dare call Estelle this late at night? She was two hours ahead, one thirty in the morning her time. I punched her number.

“Hey, babe. Everything's okay, just wanted to—”

“What's the matter? You safe?”

“Yeah. I'm fine. I'm really sorry to be callin' in the middle of the night, but you know how sometimes you can't go to sleep and just need to talk to me?”

“Sure, sure . . . What's this about? What's happening, Harry?”

“Well, I just need to talk. You mind?”

I told her about finding the drugs but didn't tell her they were in Grace Meredith's suitcase. Just said I had reason to think the owner of the suitcase wasn't the real mule so I needed to continue surveillance until I caught the perp red-handed. “But I'm fallin' asleep on the job, so I just needed to talk for a while . . . could use some prayer about this too.”

After we hung up, I felt much better, but Gilson's doubts about Grace Meredith's innocence troubled me.

As my nighttime vigil progressed, I couldn't help
dozing off for a minute or two here and there. Worried that I might miss my mule, the memory of the Naperville bust for which I got no credit stirred in my foggy mind. This fish was much, much bigger, but if I didn't stay awake, it would be my fault we didn't catch him. I looked down at Corky. “It's just you and me, girl. And we can't let 'em get away.

I went for some low-tech reassurance. All had been quiet out in the hallway for hours, so I told Corky to stay and went out to the luggage compartment. Reaching in across Grace's suitcase, I set a small paper cup on the back edge, leaning against the wall. If anyone moved her luggage, the cup would fall off. It appeared to be nothing more than a piece of trash; I doubted the mule would even notice it.

Comforted by my partial trap, I dozed a bit more. When we stopped for a few minutes at Flagstaff, Arizona, at four thirty in the morning, I took Corky out to relieve herself in the dog run. It was a risk leaving my post, but I hoped the cool air would wake me up.

By morning, the cup was still in place.

Shortly after six, I heard movement upstairs. Probably Sylvia making fresh coffee. Soon, the passengers would be up and about, and it'd be even less likely for the mule to touch his cargo.

I cocked my ear. Someone was coming down the stairs. I put on my shades and stood just inside the partially open door as Grace Meredith, dressed in a dark green lounging outfit, stepped off the stairs and turned my way without even glancing at her luggage. She was carrying toiletries and clothes and after she passed through the vestibule, she reached for the handle of the shower-room door.

Perfect. A good chance to get more background information from her.

I slid my door open farther. “Hello? Who's there?”—deciding to stay in character. Her eyes got big, and it took her a few seconds to respond. She blushed, maybe embarrassed at being caught with a bedhead and not yet dressed for the day. I smiled and gave a little wave to assure her everything was okay.

“It's Grace Meredith from Room E,” she said, playing along with my cover.

“Uh, miss, would you mind getting me a cup of coffee? I'd ask the attendant but I don't know where she is.”

She smiled, seemingly enjoying her role-playing. “Of course. Give me a minute.”

She walked back down the little hallway and put her things on the luggage compartment shelf before bustling up the stairs. When she returned a couple minutes later with a cup in each hand, I motioned her into my compartment and closed the door.

I took off my shades and we sat down in the opposing seats underneath my unused bunk—how was I going to explain that to Sylvia?

“You caught me by surprise,” she said quietly, sipping her hot coffee. “I thought you were in a different car.”

I shrugged. “Asked if I could move. The train whistle was just too loud in that first sleeper.”

I needed to explore my other theories, especially how she engaged her limo drivers. Was there any chance the cartel had known enough about her trip to mark her for their carrier? I decided to begin on ground that was a little closer to home. “My son said he gave you a ride to the train. Did you ask for him?”

She tentatively shook her head. “I think he saw my name on that day's list of pickups and asked for the assignment. Nice of him. Said he'd pick us up when we got back too.”

Hadn't expected that. If limo drivers were involved, then the cartel would likely need a dirty driver in Chicago to retrieve the drugs. But . . . my son?

Grace was still talking. “I really appreciate Estelle, Mr. Bentley. Your wife . . .” Grace hesitated. “She has really helped me face some things spiritually.”

I chuckled and gazed out the train window, arrested by the dazzling brilliance of the sun shining on the towering red cliffs as we crossed the Arizona–New Mexico border. “Yeah. That sounds like Estelle. She's a rock, that woman.” As solid and beautiful as the sculpted cliff I was gazing at. But my thoughts spun to the news that Rodney had arranged to pick Grace up in Chicago.

“Mr. Bentley,” Grace said suddenly, bringing me back to the conversation at hand. “How'd you know Estelle was the one—you know, the person you were supposed to marry? The two of you seem to have a very special relationship.”

I didn't have to think long on Grace's question. I smiled and looked back at her, the vision of Estelle's strong character fresh in my mind. “Because when I'm with Estelle, she makes me feel like a complete person. Like I can be who God wants me to be. She believes in me, even when I don't believe in myself.”

I almost missed the tears glistening in Grace's eyes as she finished her coffee and stood up. “I should probably get my shower. Thanks, Mr. Bentley.”

I rose and let her out, more certain than ever that Grace was innocent. No conspirator in a high-rolling drug deal could talk so personally about love and life with a police officer if she were guilty.

But as I slid the door nearly closed, I felt like my legs had been knocked out from under me. Had I been so off in reading Rodney? The idea of my own son arranging to pick up Grace in Chicago made me quake.