A/N: One more chapter to go. I hope you are still reading. Thank you. Sheila
Chapter 4
"A 16 oz. can of these tomatoes is produced for .67 cents, sold to Paul for $2.31, and shipped for .79 cents. It then costs .21 cents to transport to groceries and delis where they purchase it from him for $5.43. Paul makes a profit of $2.12 on each can. He distributes 1687 cans to 57 delis or groceries a week for a total of $3576.44 profit. It's decent, but not by much. Paul says they are looking to expand into other products, but with labor and warehouse costs, he has to be barely breaking even. That's pretty interesting don't you think, Tony?"
Tony looked up from his magazine. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch all that. There was some paint drying on the other side of the room that stole all my attention."
"Come on. I downloaded everything on their computers. Inventory lists. Client list. Shipping information. Everything. There has to be a clue in here somewhere. You know- the devil is in the details."
"Okay. I have to say I am interested in the 57 places they deliver to each week."
"Exactly! It would be a great way to distribute guns. We should look at all of these places. Make sure they're legitimate. Plus, I found something else out that was interesting."
Tony sat up. "What?"
"The manifest of the shipping container is on average 278-376 lbs. heavier than what it should be for number of crates being shipped."
Tony shrugged. "Are you sure that's a big deal? Maybe, that's a common mistake in shipping? Are you figuring in the weight of the crates?"
"Think about this. Each crate weighs 39.3 lbs and carries 24 cans of tomatoes. Each can weighs 1.24 lbs. and the crate weighs 9.54 lbs. If the ship manifest is right, then that means that approximately 8-10 crates are not being counted in the warehouse. Now if guns were broken down and fit into crates that measured 32" by 18" by 24", I wonder how many guns could be transported in 8-10 crates every week."
Tony nodded. "Now that is some interesting math. Good work. How many crates do they move every week? What's the ratio of real crates to contraband?"
"70-75, depending on the week when the manifest is showing weight for 78-85 crates."
Tony shook his head. "Seems like a risky ratio. 1 out of 7 crates being contraband."
"Maybe, the crates carry both tomatoes and guns. Maybe, they are hiding the guns under the tomatoes. The crates they use are recycled. Still, a few break and I see them tossed outside the back of the warehouse. It might be worth taking a look at a few of the broken ones."
"Okay. Sounds like something. Try to grab a few tomorrow when you visit."
McGee sat back in his chair, brows furrowed. "We should compare the weight of guns versus cans of tomatoes. I wish we knew what kind of guns he was smuggling."
"From that part of the world, it's probably Russian made. A Saiga semi-automatic is only 7.9 lbs., illegal as all hell, and sells for maybe $1200 on the U.S. black market."
"Let's subtract the weight of 9 crates from the 300 average extra lbs. showing up on the manifest. The weight of 9 crates puts us at about 85 lbs. Subtract that from 300 and you have 215 lbs. for weapons. Divide by 8 lbs. per rifle and that puts us at about 27 rifles."
Tony was out of his seat and pacing. "Okay. Let's imagine that they bought the rifles at $400 each out of an arms dealer in Italy that deals in Russian weapons, and they sell them at $1200 each here in the U.S. That's $800 profit on each weapon. Multiply that by 27 rifles per week and you have?"
"$21,600 per week. $80-90,000 per month in profits."
"Now the import business makes sense. But it still doesn't put him in the big leagues."
Tim was on his feet, hands in his pockets. "He's still new at this. Growing his business. He's on the FBI radar because of his family name. Now, it makes more sense why he wants me around."
"Yeah," Tony nodded. "There is no easy way to see all of this. If you're a plant, then you go back to the FBI after a couple of months, and you say that there's nothing here. You have to be a freak for minutiae to put this together."
"I guess that's my thing."
"Are you kidding!" Tony slapped him on the back. "You are the king of the tiny detail. No one is better than building a case out of a small discrepancy in the numbers. You are a freak for details! You are McMinutiae!"
Tim smiled at Tony's excitement. "Okay, but we don't know anything for sure yet. Probably better study some of those broken crates. I can grab some in the next week or so."
"Do that but be careful. Write down the numbers and I'll run them by Gibbs and Fornell."
Tim cocked his head. "Yeah, where is the boss today?"
…
Gibbs sat in the well-manicured lobby and looked up at the author photos on the wall. He stopped at Lyndi Crawshaw's photo and frowned. She had been the book editor who had faked the crazy fan letters on Tim's book. The distraction had cost them valuable time in looking for Tim's stalker. He remembered what a haughty, self-involved woman she was. He was glad that they'd been able to get the federal tampering charges to stick. He seemed to recall that she got 1-3 years in the pen.
A middle-aged man wearing a suit coat and an argyle sweater visit opened his door. "Mr Gibbs?"
Gibbs nodded.
"I'm Mitchell Graham." The man extended a hand and then ushered him into the office.
The man peered at him over a pair of reading glasses as he rounded the desk and gestured for Gibbs to sit. "Is your name really L.J. Gibbs?"
"Yes."
The man softly chuckled. "If I had been Tim's editor, I would've urged him to create a more subtle pseudonym for you."
Gibbs said nothing as he scanned the room, wall to wall with books.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Gibbs?"
"Lyndi Crawshaw still works here? I saw her picture on the wall."
"No, actually we fired her. Now she's here as an author. We've recently published a book that she wrote."
Gibbs frowned. "Any good?"
"She wrote about her time in the penitentiary," He said with a shrug. "Her prose is solid, and there is a market for prison memoirs right now, but, frankly, she doesn't have much of an emotional connection to her experience or the people she met. It reads a little dry."
"Will it sell?"
"Probably, but not as strongly as she thinks it will. Are you really here to talk about Lyndi?"
"Timothy McGee works for me. I understand your company has won a judgment against him for $100,000."
"Yes, we did. We had to appeal, but we won, and the judgment is binding."
Gibbs narrowed his eyes. "He doesn't have that kind of money. Was this was really necessary?"
Graham sighed. "He had a contract and that's not a small thing. Publishing is a very particular business. We are at the mercy of talented writers who are hot one minute and cold the next. I can't tell you how many of our writers turn out 2-3 books, accept an advance on a 4th, and then go blank when it comes time to write. We do everything we can to motivate and support them, but, in the end, they have to write the book or return the money."
"The advance you gave him was for $20,000, but he has to pay you for $100,000."
"We start adding interest to un-returned advances. Plus, there were the court costs. We don't ignore contracts. It's no way to run a business."
Gibbs took a deep breath. "Tim works incredibly long hours as a Navy law enforcement officer. He does good, honest work, and is integral in our efforts to catch murderers, traitors, terrorists. I can't really express the importance his efforts have had in keeping not just Navy personnel safe but all Americans."
"I appreciate that."
"Do you? The stress of this enormous debt has really hurt him and is affecting his work. It's put him in a really tenuous position- all because he couldn't finish a book."
"We're a small publishing house. Deep six was a big seller for us, Mr. Gibbs. We had a lot riding on the sequel, Rock Hollow."
"You must know the story. A very dangerous stalker got a hold of the book and used it to kill people. There is no way he could return to that book. He has too much integrity to try and profit from a book that caused so much pain."
"Yes and Lyndi Crawshaw's actions made it worse."
"Exactly!"
"Mr. Gibbs, if I give him a pass, I have to give them all a pass. There will always be circumstances that impede a writer's work."
"Mr. Graham, this is not a writer who was lazy or irresponsible. He got caught in a dangerous game that was triggered by this book."
"Can I ask you a question?"
Gibbs nodded.
"I understand that you and the rest of the team were really troubled when characters in the book were based off of them."
"Yeah. We weren't happy about that."
"Why?"
"It felt like an invasion of privacy."
"So every part of L.J. Tibbs was you."
"No. Not exactly. There were several departures from my life, but there were also many similarities."
"And the other characters? Were they exact representations?"
Gibbs sighed. "No."
"Are you aware that almost every successful writer has used either their own life experience or people from their own lives as inspirations for the characters they create?"
"It took a long time for McGee to admit that he was doing that."
"And that bothered you?"
Gibbs frowned. "I don't understand these questions."
"He may have taken from your lives, but he treated you all with care in the books. Well, almost all of you. If there is a real Pimmy Jalmer, I am sure he isn't into necrophilia."
"What is your point?"
"He doesn't have to finish Rock Hollow. I had this conversation with him several times. I told him I would forgive the debt if he starts from scratch and writes any L.J. Tibbs book. People want a follow up to Deep Six. Only he won't because he has promised all of you never to use characters that resemble you again. Do you know how many novelists there are that would never have created amazing books if they had to stand by that kind of promise?"
Gibbs stared at him for a moment. "Is he a good writer?"
Graham smiled. "He's no Hemingway, but he writes a clean, straightforward, and honest book. The descriptions are good and the characters are balanced. His plotting is careful and thoughtful. I really enjoyed Deep Six, and I was really looking forward to Rock Hollow. I know he would never allow this, but you can't imagine the kind of publicity we would get if we marketed another L.J. Tibbs book with the story about how Rock Hollow was sunk. It would be amazing."
"That's not going to happen," Gibbs said in a low voice.
"No. It's good to have limits, but I am wondering really what it costs you to have a character styled after yourself. Most people would find it flattering."
"I'm a private man."
"Yes, well, people are well aware that they are reading fiction, and I am sure that McGee didn't use the most private details of your life. Food for thought, Mr. Gibbs."
Gibbs got up to go.
"Before you go, you should know that Tim's biggest struggle has always been the title for his books. He figures that out before he ever decides on the story. Weird but that's writers for you. You wouldn't believe the some of the quirks I come across. Lyndi told me once that all he needs is for someone to give him a title and he starts working the story from there. Just wanted you to know that."
…
"I think our theory is good." Tony unwrapped deli sandwiches and reached for plates in the cupboard.
"I agree," Gibbs said. He stood at the lone window in McGee's small living room and sipped on a hot coffee. "Now, we need evidence."
"I got agents on the 57 delis and groceries. They're going to vet every one of them. Find out which ones are dirty. Plus, tomorrow, we have a three car tail on the delivery truck. Let's see if that truck makes another stops."
"That's a lot of stops. I hope they don't get made."
"Trust me. These guys didn't learn their craft watching Starsky and Hutch reruns, DiNozzo."
"McGee is going to see if he can grab a few of the broken packing crates," Tony said as he placed plates of sandwiches on the table.
Gibbs looked up sharply. "He needs to be careful."
"He will be. Plus, even if they think he's a fed, it would be dumb to hurt him."
Fornell sighed. "DiNozzo, I get that you're an guy with Italian roots, and you feel like you have some sort of insight into who they are, but you never grew up in a neighborhood, you know."
Tony frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"
"You probably grew up in a house with a driveway so long, you had to take a cab to get to the mailbox. I am a Jersey guy, born and bred. I was an Irish kid in an Italian/Sicilian neighborhood. There were gangs and there was mafia, and when a hit went down, people knew who did it, and the mafia didn't care. The hits had two purposes: one was to get rid of a guy for some reason and the other was to send a message to the community about the consequences of crossing them. There were rarely arrests made. You gotta understand that. McGee isn't safe if they believe he's a fed and they think he stumbled onto something. They would have no qualms about disappearing him. They'd do it hard and fast, and everyone on Lombardozzi's crew is an expert at disposing a body and becoming a statue in interrogation."
Tony looked at Gibbs. "Remind me again why we thought this was a good idea."
"We didn't," he growled staring down at a meatball sub with distaste. "We were presented with a bunch of shit options, and we picked the best of the worst."
"He's been doing this a month now, and I have to say that he's handling it better than I ever imagined," Tony mumbled, more for himself than anyone else.
"Enough with the long faces," Fornell said as he bit into his eggplant parmesan sandwich. "He's brought us a lot of good information. I bet you we can pull something off this list of deliveries. We'll set up surveillance and pull McGee out of there in no time at all."
Gibbs took a fork and cut into a meatball. "If we don't find something in a week, we're going to take a good, hard look at what we're doing. And we're going to do that whether or not we find out where the guns are being delivered."
There was such a sense of finality to his words that no one responded.
…
McGee got into his car and let out air. It had been another long afternoon at the warehouse. They seemed more and more comfortable with him. No one hung over his shoulder. The guys seemed to like him. They teased him. Made him an honorary Italian. Called him McGio. Still, none of that relieved the tension that ate at his gut. Every time he got in his car, it felt like he'd been holding his breath for hours.
He backed out of the narrow cobblestone spot next to the old warehouse, and headed up the narrow path to the street. As he passed the warehouse, he saw a pile near the back door. He stopped his car and leaned over. It looked like remnants of broken crates- just what he needed to look at to see if there was evidence of a false bottom for carrying contraband.
He looked in his rearview mirror and saw no one. He felt something in the pit of his stomach. It was nothing new. He felt it every time they approached a home with a potential suspect inside. He felt it when he and Gibbs entered a building with a live bomb five years earlier. He felt for weeks when they were searching for Ziva in Somalia. It was part of the work, the risk he choose when he accepted the badge.
He took a deep breath like he always did, and pushed the fear to the back. Then he put the car in park and got out. 'Stay casual' he breathed to himself as he hiked up the small hill to the back door of the warehouse. He reached the pile of broken crates, and studied them. There was no way to take all of them. There was no way to take them all so he had to pick the right pieces. He focused on corner pieces and ones with extra nails. Then he spotted a corner piece with the fragments of two boards nailed parallel to one another at the bottom. Evidence of a possible false bottom. His breath caught and he reached for it.
"Hey! What you doing?!"
McGee froze for a moment. Then he looked up. One of Paul's crew, Stevie, was glaring at him.
"I said, what you doing?!"
McGee straightened. "Damn, you scared me. I was looking for lumber. I want to build a new bookcase in my apartment. Just looking for loose pieces. I mean, I thought these crates were being thrown."
The beefy man shook his head. "Da' boss likes to use dese crates for his fireplace. They ain't yours to take."
"Okay. Man, I didn't realize. I just thought they were being thrown."
"Da' boss wants to talk to you."
"Ah, come on, Stevie. I gotta be somewhere. Tell Paul I'm sorry. I'll explain everything tomorrow."
"Naw. I think you better explain it now."
"I got an appointment, man."
"Hey! It'all just take a minute."
McGee gestured at this car. "My ride is blocking the drive."
"Ain't no one leaving right now. Come on."
McGee looked into the man's face but couldn't see anything other than determination. He knew he could make it to the car ahead of the man, but wasn't sure he could get in. Stevie opened the back door and gestured to him impatiently.
McGee could feel his heart as he walked through the stacks of crates to the front. Paul had all of his guys assembled, and there was a tension in the air. Stevie pushed past him. "I found him, Boss. He was going through the broken crates."
Paul's eyebrows went up. "Why are you trying to steal my firewood?"
"I didn't know, Paul," McGee said in a carefully measured tone. "I've been thinking about building a bookcase, and I thought I could find some loose boards."
"Bookcase!" Paul and his guys started laughing. "Tim, that kind of wood would be terrible for a bookcase. It's just some cheap, soft pine. What were you thinking?"
"I guess I don't know anything about woodworking." Tim struggled to stay even.
"I guess not," Paul said shaking his head. The guys around him chuckled.
"Listen, I apologized. I'm really sorry I made an assumption and didn't ask. I really got to be somewhere."
Paula shook his head. "Nobody is going anywhere until I find out who the snitch is."
McGee couldn't control the color rising in his cheeks.
Paul looked around the room. "I'm starting an empire here. I've worked my fingers to the bone the last two years building this business. You guys are on the ground floor of something that's going to be big, and now I find out that there's a traitor in the mix."
There wasn't a sound anywhere save the gentle lapping of ocean against the seawall and the distant cries of seagulls.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Tim said softly.
"I spent 8 months making contacts, selling Lombardozzi tomatoes to various delis and groceries. That wasn't easy work. I had to go back time and again. I had to beg for space on their crowded shelves. Do any of you know how much work that is?"
Tim stepped forward. "What happened, Paul?"
"Someone gave my distribution list to a competitor. You know anything about that, Tim? I know you're hurting for money."
Relief surged through his body. "Paul, I would never do that to you."
"Really? Well, that's good to hear. Still, you're one of the three people who had access to the computer with the list. In fact, I think I've narrowed my suspect list. Fat Joe, Stevie, you stay. You're not off the hook. Tim, you too. The rest of you get out of here. Now!"
Men scattered, grabbing their things, and heading out the door. McGee felt fear rise in him. Fat Joe and Stevie were hardly the kind of guys that would be working in the office. They were muscle more than anything else. Tim's eyes darted to the gates open on the dock and the bay. There was no way he could outrun all three of them. He would have to find a way to be Tony. Talking his way out of this was his best chance at getting out okay.
…..
TBC