Andrew Gross - The Dark Tide

“My daughter was four.” Hauck gazed back at him. “She was run over by our car, in our own driveway. Five years ago. I’d been driving. I thought I’d left it in park. I was bitter, after the pain finally eased. My ex-wife still can’t look me in the eyes without seeing it all over. So I know… That’s all I meant to say.”

“Never goes away, does it?” Raymond shifted his weight on the railing.

Hauck shook his head. “Never does.”

Raymond let out a breath. “I watched those goddamn tankers come in three, four times. From Venezuela, the Philippines, Trinidad. Twice I even brought ’em in myself. Even a fool could see those ships were riding way too high. Didn’t have a lick of oil. Even snuck inside the holds once to see for myself.” He shook his head. “Clean as a baby’s ass. It’s not right what they were trying to do…”

Hauck asked, “You took it to your boss?”

“My boss, the harbormaster, the customs people…No duty on oil, so what the hell do they care? No telling who was getting paid. I kept hearing, ‘You just bring ’em in and park ’em, old man. Don’t stir it up.’ But I kept stirring. Then I got this call.”

“To push you to stop?”

Pappy nodded. “‘Don’t make waves, mister. You never know where they might fall.’ Finally I got this visit, too.”

“You remember from whom?”

“Met me outside the bar, just like you. Square jaw, dark hair, mustache. The kind of SOB who looked like he meant trouble. Mentioned my boy up north. Even showed me a picture. AJ and some gal up there with a kid. I knew what he was telling me. Still I kept at it. Called up this reporter I knew. I said I’d get him proof. That’s when I went aboard. A week later they sent me this.”

Pappy dug into his trousers, the kind of navy blue work pants he’d worn on the job, and came out with his cell phone, scanning it until he found a stored call. He handed it to Hauck.

A photo. Hauck exhaled. AJ Raymond lying in the road.

Pappy pointed. “You see what they wrote to me there?” SEEN ENOUGH NOW?

A screw of anger and understanding tightened in Hauck’s chest. “Who sent this to you?”

Pappy shook his head. “Never knew.”

“You take this to the police?”

Another shake of the head. “They won. No.”

“I’d like to send this picture to myself, if that’s okay?”

“Go ahead. I’m not standing by any longer. It’s yours now.”

Hauck forwarded the image to himself. Felt his phone vibrate.

“He was a good boy, my son.” Pappy looked Hauck in the eye. “He liked surfing and fishing. Cars. He’d never hurt a fly. He didn’t deserve to die like that…”

Hauck handed Pappy back the phone. He moved next to the old man on the railing. “These people, it was they that did this to him, not you. You were just trying to do what you thought was right.”

Pappy gazed at him. “Why are you doing all this, mister? You never showed me no badge. It can’t just be for AJ.”

“My daughter,” Hauck said, shrugging back at him, “she had red hair, too.”

“So we’re the same.” Pappy smiled. “Sort of. I was wrong, Lieutenant, the way I treated you. I was scared for Pete and my other boy, Walker, their families. Bringing all this up again. But you get them. You get those sons of bitches who killed my boy. I don’t know why they did. I don’t know what they were protecting. But whatever it was, it wasn’t worth this. You get them, you hear? Wherever this leads. And when you do”-he winked, a glimmer in his eye-“you don’t think about throwin’ ’em in no jail, you understand?”

Hauck smiled. He squeezed the man on the arm. “So what was the name?”

Pappy squinted. “The name?”

“Of the tanker?” Hauck asked.

“Some Greek word.” Pappy sniffed. “I looked it up. Goddess of the underworld. Persephone, it was called.”

Vito Collucci could find anything, if the matter was about money. He made his living as a forensic accountant, tracking down the buried assets of philandering husbands for vengeful ex-wives. The hidden profits of large companies trying to fend off class-action suits. Before putting out a shingle, he had been a detective on the Stamford police force for fifteen years, which was where Hauck knew him from.

Vito Collucci could spot a bad seed in a sperm bank, he liked to say.

“Vito, I need a favor,” Hauck said over the phone, heading out to the airport for his flight from Pensacola.

These days Vito ran a good-size company. He was a frequent “guest expert” on MSNBC, but he had never forgotten how Hauck had thrown him cases when he first got started.

“When?” he asked. When Hauck called, Vito knew it usually involved information. Information that was hard to find.

“Today,” Hauck said. “I guess, tomorrow, if you need it.”

“Today’s fine.”

Hauck landed at two, taking his Bronco up from La Guardia. As he passed Greenwich heading to Stamford, the station a mile away, it occurred to him that he was getting deeper into something and a little further outside the law than he liked. He thought about giving Karen Friedman a call but decided to wait. There was a text message on his phone.

Usual place. From Vito. Three P.M. was fine.

The usual place was the Stamford Restaurant & Pizzeria, a no-frills cops’ haunt on Main Street, past downtown, close to the Darien border.

Vito was already there, at one of the long tables covered in checkered cloths. He was short, barrel-chested, with thick wrestler’s forearms and wiry graying hair. A plate of ziti with sauce was set before him, and a bowl of escarole and cannellini beans.

“I’d run up the check,” he said as Hauck came in, “but you’re lucky, Ellie’s got me on this cholesterol thing.”

“I can see.” Hauck grinned and sat down. He ordered the same. “So how’ve you been?”

“Good,” Vito said. “Busy.”

“You look thinner on TV.”

“And you don’t seem to age,” Vito said. “Except for that shiner you’re carrying. You gotta realize, Ty, you can’t tussle with the young dudes anymore.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Vito had a manila envelope beside him on the table. He pushed it over to Hauck. “Take a peek. I’ll let you know what I found.”

Hauck gazed at the contents.

“The ship was easy. I looked it up in Jane’s. Persephone, right?” Vito stabbed at a few ziti with his fork. “ULCC-class supertanker. Built in Germany, 1978. Pretty much outdated now. What’re you thinking, maybe of trading up to something a bit more seaworthy, Ty?”

“Might look good on the sound.” Hauck nodded. “Be a bit of a bitch to dock, though.” He scanned a photocopied page from the nautical manual that displayed an image of the ship. Sixty-two thousand tons.

“Been sold around a couple of times over the years,” Vito went on. “The last time to some Greek shipping company-Argos Maritime. That mean anything to you?”

Hauck shook his head.

“Didn’t think it would. So I kept at it. Pretended that I was a lawyer’s assistant to the company, tracking down a claim. The past four years this scrap heap’s been leased to some oil-exploration outfit I can’t bring up anything on anywhere. Dolphin Oil.”

Hauck scratched his head. “Who’s Dolphin?”

“Fuck if I know.” Vito shrugged. “Believe me, I checked. No record of them anywhere in the D &B. Then I tried a trade list of petroleum-exploration and-development companies, and it didn’t show up either. If Dolphin’s a player in the oil and gas business, they’re keeping it pretty much on the QT.”

“You think they’re a real company?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Vito said, pushing his plate away. “So I kept digging. I tried a directory of offshore-company listings. No record of them in Europe or Asia. I’m thinking, how does a company with no record in the industry lease a goddamn supertanker? Guess what came up? Feel free to turn the page.”