Blind Spot

  “I’m guessing they wanted to disappear quickly,” Griffin said. “Driving to Canada or Mexico takes time and affords a lot of opportunity for them to be seen at motels, restaurants, traffic cameras . . . and the airport has much higher security.”

  “So what are you thinking?” Parker asked.

  “Let’s check the cruise terminal. If a ship left Saturday, they could have used fake IDs, maybe even changed their appearance before boarding the ship. The popular routes out of the Port of Baltimore take them to Canada or the Caribbean. I’d put my money on the Caribbean.”

  “Why?” Avery asked.

  “Because from there they could arrange transport to South America or Mexico,” Griffin said.

  “Perhaps even Cuba,” Jason added. “Nonextradition treaty and all.”

  Griffin nodded. “Exactly.”

  “If that’s the case, their getaway car would still be in the cruise terminal lot,” Parker said.

  “So they have been planning this for a while,” Avery said.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that’s how it’s looking.” Jason shook his head and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  “So we run every car in the cruise terminal lot?” Griffin said.

  “Not necessarily,” Parker said. “I have tire tread marks from the trailhead lot. That will help narrow the number down, and provide a match when we find the right one.”

  “We’re going to need a warrant, and we’ll need to talk to the authorities at the terminal,” Griffin said. “If we get lucky, they might have used their real names, but I expect the Markums are traveling under false identities.”

  “I just checked,” Jason said, lifting his phone. “A Carnival cruise ship headed for the Caribbean left the Port of Baltimore Saturday at noon.”

  “I bet that’s it,” Griffin said, feeling it in his gut. “Send the Markums’ pictures over to the terminal and the cruise ship, though I’m sure they have altered their appearance. They’ve taken too many careful steps to neglect an easy one like that. Let’s get started with requesting the warrant, searching the cars in the lot, and sending the Markums’ pictures to the ship’s captain—alerting him that there may be some cosmetic variations.”

  “I’ll also send out a full alert to all traffic cameras, airports, and bus terminals,” Jason said. “Just in case they went a different route. But I think you’ve nailed it with the cruise ship.”

  “It’s just the easiest way out of the country. Cruise agents are far less scrupulous about checking identification than TSA agents at the airport.” But it was good to cover all their bases. If the Markums had murdered Coach—which the facts were strongly indicating—Griffin would catch them, no matter how long it took. He wasn’t giving up until Haywood’s killers were behind bars.

  30

  Declan waited in the meeting room for the guard to bring in the former captain of the Hiram, Randal Jackson. He was thankful Tanner hadn’t accompanied him for this visit. He didn’t want Jackson anywhere near her. He did not doubt she could easily hold her own, but Jackson didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her. He was a pig.

  Finally, the guard escorted Jackson into the room in shackles. Committing treason by smuggling a known terrorist into your own country came with stiff penalties—not to mention the human trafficking charges on top of it. Jackson had copped a plea on the smuggling and human trafficking. What else could he do? They’d caught him red-handed. But he still claimed he hadn’t known who Anajay Darmadi was.

  Jackson appraised Declan with the same smug look he’d had the day of his arrest. “Agent Grey, how nice of you to visit me where you put me.”

  “I put you? You put yourself here by committing treason and human trafficking.”

  “Same old story, I see.”

  It took all the restraint Declan possessed not to lunge across the Formica table and throttle the man. “The truth doesn’t change.” He’d learned that invaluable lesson as a youngster in Miss Barb’s Sunday school class.

  Jackson laughed. “That’s a good one. Please don’t tell me that’s why you’re here. Do you think I’ll change my statement—that you’ll get something out of me?”

  “I’m here because of Steven Burke.”

  Jackson rolled his head back. “Seriously? When are you going to let this go?”

  “When I have the truth.”

  Jackson leaned forward, resting his cuffed hands on the tabletop. “When are you going to realize that isn’t going to happen?”

  “Why? Because whoever hired you to smuggle Darmadi into this country will have you killed if you talk?”

  The truth of it washed over Jackson’s face, but he continued his oppostion. “What does Darmadi have to do with Burke?”

  “Burke knew about Darmadi—at least that he was extremely dangerous—and he tried to get the word out.”

  Jackson shook his head. “No, he didn’t.”

  “Let me guess, you monitored everyone’s correspondence?”

  Jackson didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. Once again, his face said it all.

  “Well, he got a message out,” Declan said.

  Jackson snorted. “A lot of good it did him.”

  “Let me ask you a question . . .” Declan leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. “When did you figure out Burke was a federal agent?”

  Jackson leaned in, looked around, and then lowered his voice. “You really think I’m going to admit to knowing anything of the sort?”

  “You might not, but Burke’s bunkmate probably knows a lot more than what he said when we first questioned him. And guess what? He’s living in Baltimore. Seems after your crew was dissembled, several decided to make Baltimore their home port.”

  Upon Malcolm’s wise suggestion, Declan had checked up on the whereabouts of the Hiram’s crew, and it turned out to be a great one. He’d found Burke’s bunkmate, Carlos Santali, and a number of other crew members to be quite within his reach.

  A small vein in Jackson’s right temple flickered. “Carlos won’t tell you anything.”

  Declan sat back with a smile. He’d hit a nerve. “We’ll see about that.”

  Panic flashed across Jackson’s face.

  Now he just needed to get to Carlos Santali before any of the men Jackson was working with got a warning call from Jackson.

  “Make sure Jackson doesn’t make any calls out,” he said to the guard as he stood.

  “You can’t do that. It’s my right.” Jackson tugged against the guard’s hold as he hauled Jackson to his feet.

  “You’ll have to take that up with the warden,” the guard said to Declan, wrangling Jackson back under firm control and out of the room, letting the door close behind them.

  Declan rushed to speak with the warden, who agreed to suspend Jackson’s phone rights for an hour. Just long enough for him to reach Carlos Santali.

  Carlos Santali lived in a run-down apartment building owned by none other than Max Stallings. Max really was a piece of work, and the knowledge that the man housed crewmen who had smuggled Stallings’ “refugees” gave Declan even more leverage on him.

  A guy smoking out on the stoop directed Declan to Carlos’s door. A lean, short, dark-haired Carlos Santali opened the door, took one look at Declan, and tried to shut it fast.

  “Not gonna happen,” Declan said, jamming his foot in the opening and shoving inward. Santali’s small frame was no match for Declan’s sturdy build.

  “They’ll kill me just for you being here,” Carlos said, his eyes as panicked as his tone.

  “Then get your stuff. Let’s go.”

  Hesitation and anxiety mingled in Carlos’s dark eyes. “Go where?”

  “Someplace safe. You have my word.”

  Carlos hesitated, and then moved to pack a duffel. He flung it over his shoulder, and they headed for the door.

  Lennie Wilcox was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, no doubt tipped off by the guy on the stoop. Carlos turned to run, but Declan
grabbed ahold of his arm. “I’ve got you,” he said firmly under his breath, and Carlos stilled in his hold.

  Lennie’s eyes narrowed. “Where you taking him?”

  “In for questioning.”

  Carlos wisely remained silent.

  Lennie’s jaw shifted slightly to the right, his piercing gaze darting to Carlos, who looked down at his feet.

  Declan boldly moved forward, leading a trembling Carlos past Lennie and his thugs, out to his SUV, praying no one shot at his vehicle or passenger.

  He’d lost one witness, Jari Youssef, from the Islamic Cultural Institute, two months ago. He wasn’t about to lose another one. He’d taken measures to ensure that.

  He loaded Carlos into the backseat and climbed into the driver’s seat. Locking the doors, he started the engine and pulled away.

  “It’s going to be okay—I promise,” Declan said, reassuring Carlos.

  “Why are you taking me in for questioning? I didn’t do nothing.”

  Declan glanced in the rearview mirror. “I need to ask you about your last bunkmate aboard the Hiram—Steven Burke.”

  Sweat beaded on Carlos’s brow. “They’ll kill me for talking.”

  “That’s why we’re going to set you up someplace nice where they can’t find you. Give you a fresh start—a far better job and a decent home.”

  “You mean like that witness program?”

  “Yes. Witness protection. You tell me what you can about Burke, and I’ll call the U.S. Marshals. You’ll be on a plane to a secure location before the night’s out.”

  “And Jackson, Stallings, Lennie . . . and the man in charge won’t find me?”

  “The man in charge?”

  “The Egyptian dude who comes to meet with Stallings—or did before Stallings went to prison.”

  “He came to your apartment building to speak with Stallings?”

  “Yeah. I overheard Lennie saying it was a secure place for them to speak. There were multiple entrances in and out of the building and a soundproof room in the basement. I know because it’s my job to clean the lower level daily when I’m not out to sea.”

  “And when you are at sea?”

  “I’m a crew member. I do whatever the captain orders. Some trips I’m on the ship. Other ones I’m here.”

  “Which captain are you working for now?”

  “Captain Jose Augero of the Bainbridge.”

  So Max had corrupted another captain. Sad, but not surprising. “What about Augero? Is he from Baltimore?”

  “No. South America, but I think he’s an American citizen.”

  “Is the ship’s home port Baltimore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me guess—it primarily runs between southeast Asia and Baltimore?”

  He nodded. “And sometimes Galveston.”

  “Galveston?” Declan sat forward, adrenaline sparking inside. So they were connected.

  Carlos nodded.

  “And does he smuggle refugees and terrorists in?”

  Carlos hesitated. “You promise you will get me away from here?”

  “Yes, Carlos, you have my word. Just tell me everything you know.”

  He shuddered, as if forcing himself to speak. “It’s different based on location.”

  “How so?”

  “Galveston gets people and drugs. Baltimore the same, but also the higher-ups and merchandise.”

  “The higher-ups?”

  “Men like Darmadi.”

  Terrorists. “And the merchandise?”

  “Weapons.”

  Declan’s chest squeezed, though he shouldn’t have been surprised, given the men they were dealing with. “Weapons?”

  “I helped load crates of them last time.”

  “What kind of weapons are we talking about?”

  “IEDs and line charges in the crate I packed. There was also a different kind of weapon I didn’t recognize that went into the last two crates—or maybe it was just parts to something. I didn’t get a good look.”

  “How many crates total?”

  “Six on that trip.”

  Declan’s jaw tightened. “And the weapons only come to Baltimore?”

  “On all the trips I’ve been on, yes.”

  Declan swallowed. A local growing extremist cell armed with extensive weapons—beyond terrifying.

  They needed to locate the terrorists and weapons, or at the very least determine their target or targets and their planned deployment date and time. Otherwise they were mice waiting for a cat to pounce. “How does the ship pass customs with that sort of cargo?” It didn’t make sense unless they were dealing with corrupt MPA officers, and he prayed that wasn’t the case.

  “I don’t know, but it always does. They’re good at hiding the cargo.”

  No one was that good if the ship was thoroughly checked.

  He pulled into the Bureau’s garage, thankful for a trip without incident. Either Lennie wasn’t worried about Carlos talking, or Max didn’t order hits on federal agents’ cars. He guessed the Egyptian whom Carlos mentioned was Dr. Khaled Ebeid, head of the Islamic Cultural Institute of the Mid-Atlantic. He, on the other hand, would have no qualms about trying to take out Carlos.

  But apparently Ebeid was not aware Declan had Carlos—or hadn’t had time to accomplish an ambush attempt. It was possible they believed he had nothing worrisome to tell, but Declan suspected otherwise.

  The question was, were Stallings and Ebeid working together or simply side by side?

  He’d have a great conversation starter for Max Stallings when he visited him at prison later today or tomorrow, depending on when he and Carlos wrapped up.

  He needed to show Carlos Dr. Ebeid’s picture. See if Carlos could identify him as the Egyptian man who visited Stallings. Even if he did, it didn’t necessarily prove anything illegal, but at least he would know if Stallings and Ebeid were in business together. Then he could determine which way to move forward with the investigation. If Carlos identified Ebeid, he’d be paying Dr. Ebeid another visit. He could only imagine how much Dr. Ebeid would love that. Declan was the thorn in the man’s side, and he couldn’t have been prouder of the fact. He’d be as much of a nuisance as he could until he had Ebeid behind bars.

  Declan moved around and opened Carlos’s door, but Carlos hesitated, his gaze darting about the parking structure. He must believe Stallings’ or Ebeid’s reach was extremely far if he was worried they’d get him inside the Bureau’s garage. “It’s okay,” he said.

  Carlos swallowed and stepped out.

  “Carlos, how many ‘higher-ups’ were transported on your last voyage into Baltimore?”

  Carlos thought for a few seconds. “Five that I saw.”

  Declan’s stomach dropped. Five more terrorists in Baltimore.

  Father in heaven, what are they planning? I desperately need your help. Equip me to solve these cases and protect this city. Amen.

  31

  It took less time than anticipated to check the cars in the cruise terminal lot. The cruise personnel had permits in their windows, which eliminated a fair number of vehicles, and the majority of passengers had been dropped off by taxis or hotel shuttles, which left only a few dozen cars of non-cruise personnel in the lot. Based on tire treads recovered from the trailhead, they knew they were looking for a medium-size car, not a large truck or SUV.

  Beginning at one end of the lot, Parker worked his way systematically through, while Griffin and Jason ran the plates.

  An hour later, Parker stood by a silver Toyota Corolla. “I think we have a winner. The tire tread is a match for one taken at the Merryman trailhead.”

  “Well, I think we all know why the divers came up empty-handed,” Griffin said, having received a call that the search had been discontinued.

  Jason checked his notes for the vehicle plates they’d run. “Let’s see . . . that one was registered to Lyle Manning at AutoSource.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Griffin said. While AutoSource appeared to be a legitimate
auto dealer on the surface, it had a reputation for being a chop shop.

  “I’ll pay Lyle a visit. Show him the Markums’ photos, and see if he recalls selling them a vehicle,” Jason said.

  Griffin nodded. “Keep me posted.”

  “Same,” Jason said with a lift of his chin.

  An hour later, Parker and Avery finished processing the car. They had fingerprints and several hair samples, the lower four inches of each were synthetic—all of them dark, unlike Elizabeth’s shoulder-length blond hair. If any portion of them were identified as Elizabeth’s, it would prove that she’d dyed her hair and added extensions, as Griffin surmised.

  Returning to CCI, Parker was able to confirm a strand taken from the car matched DNA in the hair strands found in Elizabeth’s brush at the resort. He also matched fingerprint sets in the car as both John and Elizabeth Markum’s. Now knowing the new color and length of Elizabeth’s hair, they could alter the photo they’d sent to the ship. And after Jason assured Lyle Manning that he was at AutoSource only to find out who purchased the Corolla, the man ID’d Elizabeth Markum as the woman he’d sold the car to for cash.

  Carlos had already provided Declan with more than enough vital information in the case—he not only needed to be in witness protection, he deserved to be. Upon entering the office and after getting Carlos settled in an interrogation room, Declan contacted the U.S. Marshal’s office, and then headed to grab them both a cup of coffee. The Marshals were processing the transfer and would send a team over to take possession of Carlos as soon as Declan was finished questioning him.

  He passed Tanner in the hall, his hands full of steaming mugs.

  “Hey.” She smiled. “Saw you brought a suspect in.”

  “More like a witness. You want to join me?” Tanner would be a soothing element for the remainder of the questioning. Plus, she had a gentle way of garnering answers that highly impressed him.

  “Absolutely. I’ve about had all the paperwork I can handle.”

  “How’d it go with Alan?”

  “Surprisingly well. He said to just keep him posted.”

  “Awesome. I knew you’d do a great job.” He longed to lean in and kiss her, but the Bureau office was most certainly not the place.