The CBP agent glances up. “You ever deal with him directly?”
I think of his blood on my hands. The sound he made when he realized I wasn’t bluffing, and the knife going across his throat just like he ordered for my father.
“No,” I say. “Not personally.”
The DEA agent watches my face. “To your knowledge, was this their first attempt at moving narcotics through the port?”
I keep my tone even and professional. “I can’t say for certain. What I can say is that previous shipments cleared on weight and registration. If this had been happening regularly, it would’ve shown up sooner.”
“And if you’d known?” he asks.
“It wouldn’t have gotten this far,” I say. “Our compliance thresholds would have caught it long before it reached port.”
The room stays quiet for a beat.
“Duvall and his son disappeared,” the DEA agent says. “About two weeks before we boarded the container.”
I give a slow nod. “That’s usually what happens when people realize they’re about to lose control of a situation.If I had to guess, they were over-leveraged with an upstream supplier. When that cargo wasn't landing, they were probably in a world of shit.”
“You think they ran?”
“I think men like that don’t wait around to see how bad it gets,” I say. “And if they didn’t run, then they crossed someone who doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”
The agent studies me. “Either way, you’re saying you haven't done anything with Gulf Meridian since this?”
“I’m saying they’re no longer in a position to do business with anyone,” I reply. “Ports have long memories.”
I sitacross from Indigo Blue with the engine idling, the windows cracked just enough to let the river air creep in. The club looks the same. Dark glass, a closed door, artsy people coming and going.
This is where it started going wrong. I have no business being here, but something about seeing it helps to ground me and remind me why she's so much better off without me.
I,m just passing through, took a wrong turn. But none of it sticks. I know I purposefully take the long way around just to be able to be here. In a weird way, it connects us.
I watch the door like I did that night, like I’m waiting for something to happen.
A sharp knock slams against the passenger-side window and scares the shit out of me.
My body locks on instinct, pulse slamming hard. I turn fast enough that the motion pulls something in my shoulder.
Delphine stands there, one eyebrow lifted, palm still resting against the glass.
“Jesus,” I mutter, then catch myself, and bring my hand back. I roll the window down halfway. “You trying to get shot?”
She leans closer, unfazed. “You always jump like that, or am I special?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She tilts her head, eyes flicking toward the club, then back to me. “Heading in to meet some friends. Question is, what areyoudoing here?”
“I’m just driving by.”
She lets that sit. Then she snorts. “You’re parked, Ridge. Come on. Really?”
I don’t answer.
She looks at me for another second, then nods toward the door handle. “Can I get in for a minute? Something I want to talk to you about.”
“No.”
