Chapter 4: Retrospective

Detective Mike Logan sat next to Eames in the office of the dock foreman. Eames understood why Ross had insisted on this arrangement: there were still many people who didn't take a female cop seriously - she didn't like it, but she understood it. And the foreman, Joseph Kraus, looked like one of those. He was a short, pepper-haired, slack-faced man who'd greeted her with surprise when she walked in, and glanced at Logan at the end of every sentence.

"Nothing was stolen, but a lot of stuff was broken," Mr. Kraus explained. "Lots of crates were busted open. It would have costed us hundreds of dollars, but insurance is covering it. It just caused a great big hassle."

"What kind of things were being stored there?" Eames asked.

"Oh, nothing too valuable," he said condescendingly, then addressed the rest of his answer to Logan. "Mostly factory junk, cheap jeans and the like, but there were also some crates of random stuff, stuff they couldn't fit in other boats, you know. The guys probably thought there was something valuable."

"Was anything unusual coming in on that boat."

"Sugar, I just run this place. No one expects me to know every little thing that comes in or out of it."

"Well that's too bad, because if we find out drugs or weapons were being trafficked through your warehouse, it's going to cause you a slightly bigger hassle."

Logan shot her a glance. "Would you mind grabbing me a cup of coffee, Alex?" he asked.

She stood up with a soapy smile and a mental vow to make him pay for that, then left the room.

Outside, she took off her jacket and approached a couple of stevedores moving crates to the warehouse. "Hey guys."

They slowed and smiled at her. "Hey."

"It's kind of hot today, huh?" She wondered how Goren made it look so easy to strike up casual-sounding conversations with potential witnesses.

"Yeah it is." One of them wiped sweat off his forehead. "Anything we can help you with, Miss?"

"Maybe. I'm with the NYPD. I'm following up on that break-in last Saturday."

"Oh. That."

"Did you see anyone hanging around? Notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"Well...no, not that I noticed," said the shorter of the two, a black man with a Canadian accent.

The other one, a long-armed man with brown hair and a red beard, tilted his head contemplatively. "Scottie quit that afternoon. But I guess that's not really weird."

"Scottie?"

"Scott Olander," he said. "He was one of those guys who worked as little as he could get away with. We get a lot of that type here."

"I knew he hated his job, but I didn't expect him to actually quit. Last I heard he was worried he wouldn't make rent on his hole of an apartment," the other said. "Come to think of it, he was kind of acting strange that day. He watched every box that came off the boat, and he took a late lunch break, which as far as I know he'd never done before."

"And that was the day he quit?"

"That's what I heard the next day."

Logan spotted her. "There you are!" he said.

"You didn't actually expect me to get you coffee, did you?"

The two stevedores chuckled and got back to work.

"I'd hate to say it, but I think this was a waste of time," Logan said. "That guy back there really doesn't know anything."

"Took you long enough to notice. Now go back in there and get the last known address of a guy named Scott Olander."

Olander's apartment was in a run-down building with peeling pinkish-brown wallpaper and flies buzzing in the halls.

"Smell that?" Logan asked as they approached the door.

"Maryjane." Eames half-smiled. In her experience, people tended to be forthcoming while high. And the threat of a drug charge had the effect of making people slightly more cooperative. She knocked on the door.

They heard someone inside. "Who is it?" he called.

"It's us," Eames tried.

Scott Olander opened the door. He was a young man - probably mid twenties - tan, muscular, and borderline handsome. He looked at them and suddenly froze.

"'Us' being the NYPD. We just want to ask you a few questions," she finished.

"Hey, I don't know who's been talking to you, but I..." he tried to push his door shut, but Logan's foot blocked it.

"We're investigating a break-in at the dock," Logan said. "It happened the night after you quit. Know anything about it?"

"No. I didn't hear about it."

"Well good. In that case, this interview should be short. It's just standard procedure, really," Eames assured him. "And since you're going to be so accommodating, we'll know you have nothing to hide."

He sighed. "Right. Want to come in?"

"Smart man," Logan said as he walked past him.

"Let's start with why you quit, Scottie," said Eames.

"I hated it there. What can I say? Long hours, hard labor, lousy pay."

"Any reason you decided to quit that day in particular? One of your coworkers mentioned you'd been having money problems," Eames plied.

"Yeah, well, I came into some money lately."

"How much money?" Alex asked.

"$2,300."

"What was it for?" Logan pressed.

"Nothing illegal."

"Unlike what you blew it on?"

Olander panicked for a second over that comment.

"Let's make this simple," Alex said. "You were paid to do something with the cargo you unloaded on Saturday. If you tell us what you were hired to do, we'll consider not arresting you for recieving stolen goods, selling stolen goods, obstructing a criminal investigation, or even possession of illegal drugs."

Olander stood up suddenly. "Hey, I didn't do anything illegal. She swore to me it was all legal!"

"That's what the guys who e-mail me from Nigeria keep saying," Logan said.

"Just tell us who hired you, and why."

"I didn't know her name. It was a girl who came around the docks one day, watched us for a while, and then asked me if I wanted to make some extra money. All I had to do was make sure that crate number U-419 got onto truck number 7."

"And you didn't think that was illegal?" Logan asked incredulously.

Olander lowered his head sheepishly. "Well, I thought maybe something was going on. But she told me it was just to make sure it got to where it was supposed to go, and...come on, two-thousand bucks!"

"What was on the crate?" Alex inquired.

"I don't know. They never tell us, and I didn't ask. I know it was labelled to go to Kraus's warehouse. I thought that was kind of weird, but..."

"But two-thousand bucks," Alex finished. She took out a photo of Xochilt Ortiz. "Is this the woman?"

He started when he saw the bandaged head lying on a hospital bed. "Yeah. That's her. God. What happened?"

"We can't comment on an ongoing investigation. Where was truck number 7 going?"

"I don't know. I was just told to put the crate on the truck. She met me that afternoon on my lunch break and gave me the money. That's it."

As the two cops walked out of the apartment, having gleaned all there was to glean from their witness, Eames glanced at her watch. "I want you to make some phone calls and find out where that truck was heading."

"Okay. What will you be doing?"

"I have a funeral to get to."

The funeral service had already started when Goren heard someone else enter St. Agatha's Church. He didn't look at her until she sat down beside him and lightly touched his arm. She wore a black pantsuit, and carried a bouquet of white tulips. He knew she would be coming, but somehow he was still surprised to see her.

"You're late," he whispered barely loud enough for her to hear him.

"I'm sorry." Eames wanted to explain that she was working on the case, but of course he already knew. She tried to pay attention do the service, but her focus was on Goren. He looked like he hadn't slept. He looked numb.

They didn't speak again until the funeral procession reached the cemetery. "It's nice here," Goren commented.

"Lovely."

Pine trees and rose bushes lined the cemetery. Crocuses speckled the lawn, and their delicate scent joined that of the grass, trees, and dirt, and the slightest sour-sweet whiff of decay. Goren hoped his mother somehow knew how peaceful it was here, and how many people came. Mostly residents and staff from Carmel Ridge, but also a handful of relatives and old friends of the family.

As the casket was lowered into the ground, Goren spoke unexpectedly, in a whisper meant only for Eames, or possibly for his mother. "I owe everything I am to her. Everything I've accomplished, I owe to her." His eyes were dry, but Eames could see him quivering.

With the burial service over, the attendees began drifting away, offering Goren condolences he didn't seem to hear as they walked past.

Eames didn't offer condolences. She didn't say anything. She just stood by him, by the grave, until they were the only ones left in the cemetery. Then Goren dropped to his knees beside the headstone and took a handful of fresh dirt, which he rolled around in his palm before letting it fall back to its place. Then he stared at his dirt-stained hand.

"Bobby," Eames said gently, "let's go."

He looked up at her, then glanced around as though he was trying to remember how he got there, then he nodded and stood up. Eames linked her arm with his as they walked away.