Six hours later, Alan turned the key to his condo and swung the door open. With a brown grocery bag under one arm and a white paper bag in the other, he walked in and kicked the door shut with his foot. He felt a lot more awake and alive than he did that morning due to all the excitement. Walking through his postmodern living room to the dining room, he set the bags on the table before grabbing the phone and dialing.
“Chester Green, investigative journalist. If you’ve got the poop, I’ll get the scoop. How can I help you?”
“Ha! Nice slogan. What are you- a reporter or a kennel cleaner?” Alan joked.
“Hi, Alan. What’s up?” Chet replied, ignoring his friends slam.
“Get your butt over to my place for dinner,” Alan said, taking some packages out of a Pikes Place Market bag. “We’ve got some celebrating to do.”
“Do you mean about last night?”
“No, I’ll explain later. When can you be here?”
“Well I’m only a couple of blocks away, and I’m just finishing up. Do you need me to bring anything?” Chet asked politely.
“I’ve got everything we need,” came the reply.
“Okay then, I’ll be there shortly. What are we having?”
“Steamed clams and baked salmon,” Alan said as he looked into his dirty kitchen then changed his mind. “Make that barbecued.”
“Sounds good, I’m on my way,” Chet said.
Alan reached into the grocery bag, pulled out a micro-brew, and opened it. He took a drink as he walked to the French doors. Opening them up, he stepped onto the small deck. What a beautiful day, he thought, and it wasn’t just because of the weather. He took another drink and gazed out at Elliott Bay. He could practically see the whole city. To the north one could see the Space Needle. Turning slowly southward, he looked down on Elliott Bay across to West Seattle and the Olympic mountains. Then came Safeco Field and finally Mount Rainier.
Alan smiled. He then turned, fired up the gas grill before walking back inside. As Alan prepared the fish the doorbell rang.
“It’s open!” he yelled. The door opened and in walked Chet wearing brand new clothes. “Hey, nice suit,” Alan complimented, reaching into the grocery bag for a beer, which he handed to his friend.
“Thanks, I made some pretty good money from that last report. I was able to sell the story to both networks, as well as the Times and PI.”
“Good for you. It’s about time you got a new wardrobe,” joked Alan as he walked onto the deck with an armful of bowls.
Chet followed him. “I only got one suit. The rest I spent on electronic equipment for work. Some real state-of-the-art stuff.”
Alan frowned disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t spend all your money on work, Chet. Try to have a little fun with it, too.”
“I will, someday. We can’t all have rich fathers, you know,” Chet replied as he looked around. “Wow! What a view!” He’d been to Alan’s condo countless times, but the view always took his breath away. “Someday I hope to have a place like this.”
“Someday might be closer than you think,” Alan said as he tossed a handful of clams on the grill.
“What do you mean?”
“Tomorrow, my good friend, you and I are going on a little adventure,” Alan said with a grin.
“Where to?”
“A little town in Lewis County called Morton.”
“What’s down there?” Chet asked, curiously.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Alan chuckled. “That’s why we’re going.”
“What?” Chet was puzzled.
“Just a minute,” Alan said, then he walked back inside. A moment later he returned and handed Chet the package.
“What’s this?”
“What’s it look like?”
“It looks like a brick covered with foil and plastic.”
“No, you butthead! Open it up.” Alan removed some clams from the grill too put some more on.
Chet sat down and opened it up. “So, what is it?” he asked again.
“Opium.” Alan put the bowl of barbecued clams on the small table between them and sat down.
“Opium!” exclaimed Chet. “Where did you get it?”
“Off a teenager in the park this afternoon.” Alan removed a clam from its shell, dipped it in melted butter, and ate it.
“Where did he get it?” Chet asked as he too grabbed a clam from the bowl.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask him, he got away.”
“So… you find a package of drugs and all of a sudden we’re off to Morton? Sounds like a brilliant piece of detective work, Sherlock,” Chet laughed.
“No, no, let me explain.”
“I wish you would,” Chet replied, then scarfed down a clam.
“I ran a make on the truck the kid was driving.” Alan stood up and walked to the grill for more clams. “It belongs to a seventy-three year old retired Army Colonel named Henderson. I waited around for two hours for the kid to return, but he didn’t show, so I figured he saw me.”
“So do you have someone watching the truck?”
“No, I didn’t bother. I don’t think the kid can tell me very much anyway,” Alan said when he returned with a full bowl of clams.
“How do you figure?”
“Well, I don’t think the package was his. I think he stole it and the truck from this Henderson fellow.”
“I don’t follow you.” Chet wolfed down another clam.
“Look at this package. This is the purest uncut opium I’ve ever seen! What would a teenager be doing with it unless he stole it from someone else?” Alan held the brick in his hand.
“This package reminds me of a case file I saw when I first came to Seattle. It’s called the Phantom file. It’s an old case that’s never been solved. The Agency’s has arrested only a small number of dealers who had bricks of opium like this one. According to them, this supplier shows up on their doorstep unannounced. The dealer buys the bricks on the spot because he knows it’s the finest stuff around and he can sell it for a premium. Before anyone can follow him, the supplier disappears into thin air.”
“Like a Phantom,” Chet recalled.
“Exactly.”
As Chet ate clams and listened, Alan regurgitated everything he knew about the Phantom file. Phantom was no ordinary mob operation. A mob operation was a large established group of people who worked to dominate the entire drug market. They sold large amounts of drugs on the streets to anyone able to buy. Once established, it was always there. The Agency targeted mob organizations, like Kingpin, because there were always new leads and tips to go on. One arrest or seizure of drugs usually lead to more. It was a good use of Agency resources to target such an organization, because every victory had a major impact.
Phantom, on the other hand, didn’t fit this stereotype. It was small, supplying less than ten percent of the market. They didn’t try to sell to all types of users, but instead focused on the high end only. Because of the superior quality of the opium, they targeted rich users who could afford to pay a premium. Once the drugs were delivered, Phantom disappeared without a trace.
There were never any leads or tips to go on so stakeouts quickly became a waste of time. The case became a low priority for the Agency, who hoped Phantom would someday slip up on his own and be caught. Even with the low volume, the money made from this operation was enough to make anyone filthy rich.
After analyzing these differences, Cranston believed Phantom was not mob related at all. Instead, he felt that Phantom was a small, well organized, and disciplined group of individuals who worked as a freelance supplier. The setup worked so well that he compared it to a covert military operation.
Cranston started an investigation of every branch of the military, but instantly hit road blocks. It seemed that if there was one thing the military didn’t like, it was being investigated by another branch of the government. Each branch listened to his theory and told him they would look
into the possibility.
Cranston never got an answer back so the case again got filed away to collect dust. It wasn’t until Agent Rodriguez came to the group that he got any answers. Because of her Naval Intelligence background, she had contacts in each branch of the service that would talk to her discretely. After a few phones calls, and meetings, she had gotten all the information available. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what they had hoped for. Each branch did an in depth investigation based of Cranston’s theory, but came up with nothing. There were absolutely no similarities between Phantom and any military drug case. Again, the file was shelved.
“So where does Henderson fit in?” Chet finally broke in. “Do you think he’s Phantom?”
“I won’t know for sure until we go down there,” Alan answered. “However, there are some interesting similarities between Phantom and this case that make me lean in that direction. Like I said, this is high quality stuff. The only thing I’ve seen anywhere close to it came from Asia. Henderson spent most of his military career in Korea and Vietnam.”
“So you think he made some connections over seas then set up shop here in the States.”
“Exactly,” Alan confirmed. “Cranston was on the right track when he suspected a military connection. However, I don’t believe Phantom is on active duty. Instead, I suspect he’s retired military.”
“Okay, I follow you. Phantom got his training and made contacts over seas while on active duty, but didn’t start the operation until he retired. That way, he couldn’t be tracked by any military intelligence organization.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Alan nodded. “There is one inconsistency though. The street dealers describe Phantom as a large Sicilian looking man with a European accent wearing an expensive Italian suit, diamond ring, and tie tack, and white fedora. Because of this, the first agents to investigate the case looked for a European supply line, but found none.”
“But I thought you said this stuff was Asian?” Chet was starting to get confused.
“That’s what I think.” Alan nodded. “If there was a European connection, the DEA would’ve found packages identical to this back east and in the mid-west, but we haven’t. They’ve only shown up on the west coast.”
By now, Chet was completely lost and his face said it all.
“Don’t you see?” Alan hesitated, hoping Chet would fill in the blanks, but it just wasn’t going to happen. “It’s a disguise, a costume to throw us off track.”
Chet started to get it. “A subliminal trick to make you look in another direction.”
“Right.” Alan saw the light go off in Chet’s head. “I mean, when was the last time someone wore a fedora, for Christ’s sake.”
“He dresses up like a mobster so that you would think he was one.”
“Everyone’s looking for a European connection when it’s been Asian all a long.”
“Very clever.” Chet smiled, admiring its simplicity and the ease at which Alan had put it together. They sat in silence for a few minutes, getting their fill of clams, before Chet arrived at another question. “So why Morton? Wouldn’t he operate from Seattle?”
“He probably just sells the finished product here after it’s been cut. Heck, Morton is between Seattle and Portland, maybe he supplies both? Besides, as sophisticated of an operation I think this is, it would require a secret cutting location in order to make it work.”
“What do you mean by cutting?” Chet’s face looked confused.
“When drugs like opium are smuggled into the country it’s usually done in as pure a form as possible. That way it can be shipped in small packages and concealed easier. When it gets to where it’s to be sold, it’s mixed with four to five times its weight in inert material. This brings its quality down to what you see on the street. Then it’s divided up, weighed, and put in small bags. It’s then ready to be delivered to the pushers on the street and sold.”
Chet was baffled. “But I thought you said Phantom delivers the bricks whole.”
“So far, that’s all we know for sure that he does. But most all drug organizations have some sort of cutting operation, so we can’t rule it out.” Alan informed him. “But then again, Morton may just be a delivery site. An entry point where the drugs come into the country.”
Chet nodded, accepting the explanation. “So where does the kid fit in?”
“Cutting and packaging drugs is a boring and monotonous job. It’s usually done by the newest members of the organization. That way they can learn about the process and street value of the product without finding out too many details of the organization,” Alan explained.
“So he was one of the grunts.”
“That’s the only way a kid could get close to this much opium,” Alan confirmed.
“So how did he end up in Seattle?”
“He probably figured out how much the drugs were worth on the street, got greedy, then stole the brick and truck when everyone else was asleep. He then high-tailed it to Seattle to try to make a quick fortune and disappear.” Alan went to the grill for more clams.
“How much do you think its worth?” Chet asked as he felt the package’s weight.
“I’d say about a two hundred grand after it has been cut and packaged.” Alan stuffed another clam in his mouth.
“Two hundred thousand dollars! I’ll say that would make someone greedy!” Chet exclaimed.
“Well he wouldn’t get that much selling it like it is, but any fraction of that is a small fortune to a dumb kid.”
“So what happens if this kid tells Henderson the Feds have the drugs and the truck? Won’t they close up shop?” Chet asked.
“That’s why we have to move fast. This kid is probably out of the state by now, but Henderson is sure to have people looking for him.” Alan walked into the condo for more beer, when he returned he handed one to Chet.
“I sure would hate to be in his shoes if he gets caught.” Chet’s tone was grim. “I’ve heard they like to make examples of people who betray the operation.”
“Yeah, they would probably torture him in front of everyone so that nobody gets the same idea,” Alan replied without emotion. “If you’re ready, I’ll put on the salmon.”
“Yeah, go ahead.” Chet stared out into space as Alan got up and disappeared through the glass doors. “Morton…, Mooortooon…, Morton, hum?” Chet said out loud to himself.
Alan emerged holding the salmon like a trophy. “Check this out. Isn’t she a beaut?!”
“I’ll say. We’ll be eating good tonight.”
Alan put the salmon fillet on the grill then placed lemon, butter, and onion slices on top. As the feast sizzled, Alan looked over and saw Chet starring out at the Olympics in deep concentration. “What’s that you’re mumbling about?”
As if awoke from a deep sleep, Chet’s head turned towards Alan. “What? …Oh, just Morton.”
“What about it?” Alan walked over and handed Chet another bowl of clams.
Chet took the bowl then started prying a clam out of its shell as he replied. “Where have I heard that name before? It’s sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t get it.”
“I’ve never heard of it. What do you think it could be?” Alan asked, then shoveled a clam into his mouth.
“I don’t know, probably nothing, but I can’t help thinking that something big happened there.” A moment later, Chet shook the thought off. “Oh well, lets forget about that for now. What did Cranston think when you showed him the brick?”
“I didn’t tell anyone. I just called in and took the next couple days off on vacation.”
“What?” Chet exclaimed as he almost choked on a clam. “You’re going down there without backup! Isn’t that a little stupid?” Alan was known for doing things like this, but Chet had never gotten used to it.
“No, not really. The way I figure it, in order for this place to remain secret, Phantom can’t allow too many people there.
Probably two or three tops… so it shouldn’t be too bad.” Alan spoke confidently, but knew there was no way to be sure.
“I don’t know, Alan.” Chet fidgeted uneasily in his chair. “Won’t Cranston be chapped when he finds out?”
“Who cares? That old crony’s on his way out the door anyway,” Alan replied. “Besides, if I would’ve told him he would’ve given the case to that jerk O’Leary and I’d be left in the cold. I need to solve this case alone. Even though it’s a low priority case, it still holds a lot of weight with the Agency’s upper brass.”
“Phantom is the oldest open case the DEA has ever known,” Alan continued. “The person who captures Phantom, will get instant recognition all the way at the top in Washington DC. If I can solve this case, it will show everyone that I could do something that no one else had been able to do in decades. This could be the crown jewel of my DEA career. So as you can see, Chet. I can’t share this with anyone.”
Chet thought about it grimly, but understood. He too didn’t want to share the story with anyone else, but felt very uneasy about being unprotected. He searched for other possibilities.
“What about the local sheriffs department?” Chet asked after a moment of thought. “Have you contacted them?”
“I don’t want to bring them into it until I have to. This Henderson seems like a pretty slick fellow. There’s no telling who he’s got in his pocket.”
“How can you tell?”
“I had a tough time tracking him down. He doesn’t have an address just a PO Box in Morton where the Army sends his retirement checks. He also doesn’t have a bank account. He just cashes his checks and disappears.”
“Then how are we going to find him?” Chet questioned. “He could be a million miles from Morton.”
“We will go down there and ask a few locals, real quiet like, so as not to tip him off. If that doesn’t work we will stakeout the PO Box and wait until he shows up. Then follow him home.” Alan looked over at his friend for some kind of sign. “Are you with me?”
“I don’t know, Alan. We would be going alone with no idea what to expect. It sounds pretty risky to me,” Chet said, worriedly.
Chet had always been a bit of a weenie, Alan thought. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do then,” he said, reassuringly. “We’ll go down there, find Henderson, and stake him out. If it looks too big we will call in the troops. Now are you with me?” Alan asked again.
“This story of yours is awful thin, but you are the luckiest guesser I’ve ever known. Yeah, I’ll burn up a couple of days with you to see what happens,” Chet replied with a smile.
“Great!” Alan exclaimed. He stood and walked to the grill to check the food.
“But if things get too hairy I’ll call Cranston myself if you won’t!”
Alan ignored him as he checked the salmon. “Perfect! Let’s eat.”
* * * *
Chapter 12
Issues Unresolved