Drago #3. Art Spinella
spare?”
“Sure Chief. What’s up?”
“Get down to the docks. I’ve got a small problem.”
“On the way.”
Sal raised his hand. “Don’t tell me. Forte has another puzzle for Drago.”
“To the Batmobile, Robin.”
“Who you calling Robin?”
We refilled the travel mugs with a new blend of Sumatran coffee I’d found on line and took the Crown Vic to town.
The Bandon boat basin has been part and parcel of the town almost since its founding. Not until the late 1800, however, did the waterfront become a commercial success. Once the treacherous bar was at least somewhat tamed – thanks to the efforts of one Judah Parker – shipbuilding thrived. The first was a two-masted schooner named the Ralph J. Long, an 85-footer with a 27-foot beam and 7 and a half foot draft.
Today, the basin has two long piers and docking for around 60 small craft and a few for the occasional yacht. While the fishing fleet has been decimated because of ever tightening regulations on catch size, most slips are filled during the spring and summer with casual boats.
Parking the Crown Vic, Sal and I walked down the basin ramp. Forte and Port Manager Clarence Tiller were standing on one of the slips next to what I guessed was a 70-foot fiberglass cruiser. A light southeastern breeze put a chill in the air.
Forte waved us over.
“Hey Clarence.” To Forte, “What’s up, Chief?”
Waving an arm at the cruiser, “Just showed up this morning. No one aboard.”
I walked to the stern and read the boat’s name. “Alley Cat” and port city, “Long Beach.”
“Long way from home, especially in February,” I said.
Clarence nodded. “Funny thing, we got a call yesterday from the harbor master in Long Beach who asked what the docking fees were for a 70-footer for six days. Told him the amount. That was the end of it. No mention of a boat coming or its name or anything.”
Forte interrupted, “Then, this morning, I get a call from Clarence and he tells me he has a boat in the basin that no one saw arrive and had no one on board.”
Sal had been walking the length of the cruiser and rejoined us. “I’d guess about 20 years old. A Hatteras. Maintained pretty well and recently had its bottom cleaned. Not carrying much in the way of cargo or anything. Sitting well above the waterline.”
Clarence nodded. “I checked with the Coast Guard and its papers are up to date. Owned by a small company in Long Beach, but I couldn’t get an answer when I called.”
“Company name?” I asked.
“Vector Atlas Partners, LLC.”
“That’s innocuous, enough,” I said. “Tells us nothing.”
Sal pulled his iPhone and punched the name into Google.
“No web site. Just a quick mention of its location in Long Beach but nothing about its business.”
“Have you been aboard?” I asked.
Forte and Clarence shook their heads.
“Waiting for you, Nick.”
“Shall we, then?”
The Hatteras is a bold statement of a yacht. And the owner of this one went all out. The rear deck was walled in a spotless clear Sumbrella enclosure. A cherry-wood bar with a granite top, stainless steel sink and refrigerator/icemaker butted up against the rear wall. I ran a hand over the wood. Smooth as silk and varnished so meticulously there wasn’t a single dust spec. The reflection was mirror-like.
Taped to the double leaded-glass doors leading to the salon, an envelope with “Port Manager” printed in large block letters.
Clarence removed and opened it. Forte, Sal and I watched as he pulled out a stack of hundred dollar bills and a small note reading, “For six days moorage.” No signature.
Counting the bills, he said, “Fifteen hundred-dollar bills, a fifty and two twenties. Exactly right.”
“Should we go inside?” Forte asked.
Curiosity was overwhelming. It’s not every day a Hatteras pulls into town.
Through the double doors into the main salon, the furnishings were as good as in a high-end home. Light blue fabrics covered an L-shaped couch and a pair of barrel chairs surrounded a teak coffee table. On the table, a remote with a dozen buttons. I lifted it and pressed the top left. From a cherry cabinet against the port wall the sound of an electric motor and a 52 inch flat screen LCD television rose from its innards.
“Quite the place,” Sal whistled.
Forte turned to Clarence. “And they left you no idea of who they are or when they’ll be back or anything?”
The Port Manager shook his head.
“Well, as much as I’d like to take the grand tour, and as odd as it might seem, we have no cause to do a search. We should go.”
From the dining area, Sal called out, “Uh, I wouldn’t leave just yet.”
Sal was standing next to the china cabinet, one door open. Inside some plates, saucers, cups and an assortment of other dinnerware. Sal pulled on one of the cups and the shelves swung out.
“Seems we have a few interesting accoutrements hidden away,” he said.
In the false cabinet were rifles. Some familiar, two totally unfamiliar.
“I recognize the Remington XM2010. That’s pure U.S. military. But what the heck are those?” I asked, pointing to a pair of black long-barrel weapons that looked both functional and highly lethal.
Sal was about to pull it out of the case when Forte told him to stop. “They all look like military hardware. We don’t know who we’re dealing with here. Could be your friends at Langley or your buddy Artemus or Tatiana’s employer, whoever the hell that is. Could be a terrorist cell for all we know. So for the time being, let’s just leave it all alone and get the Feds in on this.”
Sal pulled his hand back, removed his cell phone from his pocket and quickly took a half-dozen photos of the rifles. He leaned close to the unidentifiable pair and glared at the markings.
“Looks Cyrillic to me,” he said.
I moved close and could clearly see Russian letters on the trigger guard. “What time is it in Moscow?”
Sal looked at his watch. “8:45 a.m. here makes it 7:45 p.m. there.” The light bulb went off. “Of course.” He tapped out an email, attached one of the photos of the Russian rifle and sent it to Tatiana.
“While we’re waiting, should we continue looking around?” I asked.
Forte still hesitated. “I’m not about to blow a case, if there is a case, on a technicality. Listen guys, the Feds are going to want to do this by the book. Assuming there’s a reason to read the book. Let’s just back out of here and pretend we’ve never been. Call in ATF and dump it on their doorstep.”
I’d never seen the chief unwilling to jump into a puzzle. A willingness to cross jurisdictional boundaries is one of the reasons I like the former L.A. cop. This attitude was not only odd and uncharacteristic, he truly appeared on the edge of a frantic worry. The lines in his face seemed to deepen with every passing minute. He clearly knew more than he was letting on.
To Clarence, “Why don’t you give me the cash and envelope, just in case the Feds want to trace the bills or check them for fingerprints or whatever. I’ll give you a receipt.”
The