“He wrapped yesterday,” Kemp said. “So if he’s anywhere other than his home in Maryland, I’m concerned.” He glared at Cassie and me. “Otherwise, this is a smear job.”
I swallowed, and we all waited. A minute later, Kemp received a call. He requested a trace on the agent’s phone. Ten minutes after, he found out O’Reilly was at the Port of Miami, specifically the cargo end down by Fishermans Channel.
“If Freddie had the guns down in Hambis,” I said, “that’s the port he’d ship from.”
“Can we scramble a copter over there?” Kemp asked Poulton.
The director went to work, finding one that was available and directing it to the next building over.
“You guys can take that,” Cassie said. “Gardner and I will head over by car.”
On the way, she glanced at me as we moved around nighttime traffic. “So this is a date with you, huh?” she said. “Feels a lot like work.”
I slowed as the traffic came to a standstill. Cassie’s face was turned away from me, her eyes on the side window. Before the cars moved again, I leaned across and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Well, that doesn’t happen at work,” she said, glancing over.
“No,” I replied. Facing forward still. Got onto the highway.
Should I have done that?
We moved into the tunnel that brought us under the water. As we emerged onto the Port of Miami, I scanned the docks. To our left was a curving glass structure that marked where Norwegian Cruise Lines departed from. And over to our right were hundreds of ship containers.
At a guard gate, I flashed my badge at a cop, and he motioned us inside. While we’d been stuck in traffic, Poulton and Kemp had beaten us here by a solid twenty minutes. The director had mobilized port police, and a Miami PD helicopter sat on the asphalt nearby. In the distance, a cargo ship was docked under a set of freight loaders, the blue and red containers piled four stories high.
Someone moved a police van out of the way, and I saw the figure of Barry Kemp standing near an enormous cargo container with its door swung open. Cassie and I got out and identified ourselves. But the cop told us to hold where we were.
Ten minutes later, Poulton walked over. “You two did good,” he said.
In the distance, I saw Kemp hold something in his hand. A box. He took an object from it, and against the night sky, we could see the distinct silhouette of a handgun.
“O’Reilly?” I asked.
“In the wind,” Poulton said. “But we’ll find him.”
Cassie shook her head, and a thought moved through mine. That of all the C.I.s we’d gone through, O’Reilly was the real inside man. I wondered if my text had spooked him.
“Why don’t we let ATF take this from here?” Poulton said. “I’ll stay with Barry. He might want a presser. Or he might want to handle this privately.”
Poulton had that sharkish grin on his face, and I could tell he was prepared to go either way. Collect a favor from ATF if the decision was to sweep the news of a dirty agent under the rug and handle it internally. Or be here for a press conference if Kemp decided to spin this as a positive about guns seized. A joint op between the FBI and ATF. Either way, a personal win for Craig Poulton, as always.
“Is there anything else?” he asked me.
“No,” I said.
“Then you guys are free to go.”
But I stood my ground, waiting. This wasourcase. PAR’s case.
Poulton studied me, squinting almost, curious. Unused to me being stubborn.
“Gardner,” he said. “At whatyoudo, you guys are the best. But you know…” He looked over his shoulder. “There’s a time for the brilliant misfits. And a time for those who know how to work the crowd.” He paused. “Politics. It’s a skill, too.”
I swallowed. A very different version of me would’ve taken a swing at him.
But I just nodded, watching as Kemp kicked the side of the cargo container in frustration. I felt bad for Barry Kemp.
“Enjoy your night,” Poulton said. “I got this.”
