Illicit Cargo

By Patrick Ian O'donnell

Port of Los Angeles Detective Sergeant Shake Jonson is on the trail of smugglers trading in illegal drugs, illegal aliens, and illegal weapons. Before he can identify the culprits, he finds he has gone from being the hunter to being the hunted. When Jonson is the victim of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: May 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954941793

Patrick Ian O'donnell

Patrick Ian O’Donnell was born and raised in Los Angeles and has enjoyed a varied career including teacher, university administrator, resort operator, and a principal of a registered investment advisory firm. His books include Death of an Oysterman, Illicit Cargo, and the Phil and Paula Oxnard murder mysteries: Ortega Night, McCollum’s Run, Of Doggerel and the Dean, and A Wrathful Vintage He has also published a book of short stories set in the California mother lode: Gold, Greed, Guile, and Gumption, and a chapbook of verse: The Least You Can Do Is Smile. He and his wife, Lorraine, live in Yorba Linda, California.

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Acknowledgements

Thanks to the Los Angeles Port Police, especially to Sergeant Mike Graychik for guiding me toward whatever note of authenticity I have managed to strike. I also want to thank my old friend Anthony Hare, Captain Oakland PD, Retired, for his insight and advice with respect to this and my previous books.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

About the Author

Chapter One

Detective Sergeant W. S. ‘Shake’ Jonson had no objection to hand-holding; it was part of the job. He had been told by the Watch Commander, Lieutenant Gabe Perkins, to do just that by taking a missing-persons report from Carole Lang at Lanco, Inc., a prosperous import-export company. Her father had been scheduled to return home from a vacation two days before but failed to show up. Shake’s immediate reaction was that she needed to talk with the police department wherever he resided. He would not reside in the jurisdiction of the Port Police unless he lived on a boat.

I told her she’d have to talk with Palos Verdes PD, the white-haired veteran Perkins explained. She said she had already spoken with them but wanted to cover all the bases, so I said I’d send a detective to take a report. And, when you’ve finished with that, give this guy a call. He handed Shake a slip of paper with a name and phone number. He wants to talk about drug use at one of the marinas.

Although the Los Angeles Port Police were imbued by the California Constitution with the same powers as any municipal force, a good portion of their daily routine was public relations, hand-holding as Perkins called it. Still there was ample crime, the largest concentration of which was to be found in the port community of Wilmington in an area of about a square mile known as ‘the junkyard.’ It had been cleaned-up somewhat in recent years, yet most of the crime in the harbor remained there. The clean-up had coincided with construction of a super train route along the existing rail connection from the harbor to Downtown L.A. This artery, still a work in progress, was known as the Alameda Corridor, named for the street the route follows. It was conceived to relieve truck traffic from the heavily traveled Harbor and Long Beach Freeways and allow considerably more goods to pass from the ever-growing twin harbors of Los Angeles and Long Beach to downtown L.A., where they would eventually reach markets all over Southern California and the nation beyond. The planners foresaw lucrative commercial growth along the corridor.

Shake arrived at the recently erected 15,000 square foot warehouse owned by Lanco. The entrance, two heavy glass doors, opened into an atrium reception area flooded with light from a vaulted glass ceiling and decorated with potted ficus, philodendron, and palm. A far cry, Shake mused, from the old warehouses, built years before, which had so long been a big part of the port’s commerce in the past. This was definitely a part of the future. Lanco, Shake decided, had done well for itself.

In one corner of the atrium a woman sat at a desk behind a counter. She looked up from her work as Shake approached, May I help you?

He presented his badge. Sergeant Jonson, Port Police. I’m here to see Mrs. Lang. She’s expecting me.

As he was speaking, another woman entered the atrium from a door next to the counter. You’re the man from the police?

Yes ma’am. Shake said again showing his badge, I’m Sergeant Jonson, Port Police. Are you Mrs. Lang?

No. I’m Ann Boyles, the Administrative Assistant. Actually, there is no Mrs. Lang. It’s Miss Lang you’re here to see. Please come in; I’ll show you to her office.

She led him down a hallway past a large windowed room, with a dozen or so employees sitting at computer terminals, before showing him into her boss’s large, well-appointed office. After briefly announcing him, she withdrew. Ms. Lang rose, stepped from behind her desk, and held out her hand. Thanks so much for coming. I know this is really a matter for the Palos Verdes Police, that’s where we live. I’ve already spoken with them, but since our business is here in the Port, I was hoping you people could perhaps be of some help.

Carole Lang, thirtyish and slim, looked harried, but still, Shake thought, a fantastic looking woman with a flawless complexion, clear gray eyes above high cheek bones and a strong chin. Her auburn hair was short and thick. This was one hand-holding assignment that would indeed be a pleasure. He said, If we can help, we certainly will. Why don’t you fill me in on the details? Shake made it sound as businesslike as possible trying to keep his eyes from too obvious scrutiny of the lovely Ms. Lang.

Rather than resuming her seat behind the desk, she motioned him toward one of two stuffed chairs next to a small corner table. Antique navigational maps in teakwood frames decorated the walls. Sitting in the other chair and crossing her well-shaped legs, she looked at Shake intensely for a brief moment before beginning. Sergeant, I’m very upset right now, so please forgive me if I get overly emotional. My father supposedly left for a week’s vacation in Mexico. I had strongly encouraged him to go. He had been working entirely too hard without a break, which is pretty much the way it’s always been with him. The move into our new building here was especially taxing. In the past he’s never felt comfortable taking off for more than a day or two at a time. Three months ago, I joined him in this business and for the first time since he started this company, over twenty years ago, he actually felt comfortable being able to leave it. Of course, that was due in great part to the fact that Harvey Grille, our vice president, has been with him for two years now. Dad has come to depend on Harvey and Harvey’s been able to take much of the load off him.

What exactly is your position with the company?

Dad insisted that I be given the title of vice president but junior to Harvey whose title is now Senior Vice President. Neither Dad nor I were sure at first just how it would work out. I had no interest in the business while I was growing up and was bent on a journalism career. My father was very supportive. He believed I should make my own way in the world. When I became somewhat disillusioned with TV journalism, he suggested I might want to join him in the business on a trial basis. Now that I’m working for the company, for my part, I couldn’t be happier. I know my father feels the same.

Shake would have liked to have heard more about her time spent at TV journalism. In fact, there were a lot of things about the woman he would like to know, none of which had any possible bearing on her father’s alleged disappearance.

Her father, she explained, was to have left ten days earlier, at the end of June. He was to be traveling alone on an American Airlines flight to Cancun. From there he was planning to travel by car to Talum, where he had planned to visit the Mayan ruins. Originally, he was to go with a friend, but very recently she and he had decided to go their separate way, so he was traveling alone. The first she knew that her father had not taken the flight was when he was scheduled to return. She had expected him to phone from Mexico at least a couple of times while he was gone, but he did not.

Did you think it was odd that he didn’t call? Shake asked.

Yes and no. Harvey and I insisted he put all business out of his mind and completely relax. On one hand I was surprised he didn’t call, on the other I was happy thinking he was comfortable enough with Harvey and me running things that he could forget this place for a while. On what was to have been his last night down there, I called the hotel where he was supposed to be staying to confirm that I’d be picking him up at LAX. He’d taken the airport shuttle when he left because I couldn’t take him, but I insisted I pick him up when he returned. The hotel said he’d never checked in. Naturally I began to worry. I hoped he had simply decided to stay in another hotel.

So, you went to the airport to meet his flight?

Yes. And he wasn’t on it. That’s when I checked with the airline and found he wasn’t on the passenger list of the flight down either. In other words, he’d been missing seven days, and that was two days ago.

Shake was sure he could be of very little help to Ms. Lang, but it was apparent she was upset and needed to talk to someone about her father. He hoped, at least, that was his motivation for staying and asking more questions. She was a really striking woman. He continued, Do you have reason to think his disappearance might be in some way connected with the business here?

I don’t know how. I called you people because I feel so helpless. The sergeant I spoke with from PV Police Department was very understanding, but aside from following the usual procedures for missing persons, there doesn’t seem much they could do, except perhaps talk with Michele.

Michele?

She’s the woman I mentioned whom my father had been seeing. I’m absolutely sure she has nothing to do with this. A pained look fleetingly crossed the young woman’s face. She repeated, I feel so helpless.

From what little he had seen of her, ‘helpless’ was not a word Shake would have used in connection with Carole Lang, but he understood her frustration. The only thing he could do was to talk unofficially with some of his contacts on the street. Conrad Lang seemingly lived pretty much for his business. Unless he was in some kind of deep financial trouble, he wouldn’t have simply walked away. Shake said, How has business been lately? If you don’t mind my asking.

Healthy and growing. As you can see, we’ve recently moved into this new facility. My father was shrewd enough to acquire this property when the Alameda Corridor concept was in the discussion stage.

Before this you were over near C Street and McDonald, right?

Carole Lang grimaced, Yes. Horrible place. Doubt that I’d have had the guts to join the company if we weren’t about to make the move at the time I came in.

Let me do this, Ms. Lang. I can ask a few people I know here in the area if they may have seen something at the time your father disappeared. I may be able to learn something, but I wouldn’t count on it. People I’m talking about aren’t models of responsibility, but they do see and hear things. Sometimes they’ll tell me about those things; sometimes they won’t. Let me repeat, don’t count on me to come up with anything.

Thanks Sergeant. I’ll appreciate any effort you make, and I won’t expect miracles. You’ve been very good to take your time with me. She succeeded in blinking back a tear. I just want to find out what’s happened to my father.

Their meeting over, Carole walked with him to the reception area where a man in a business suit had just come into the building. He greeted Ms. Lang with obvious pleasure. Good morning, Carole, and then, as if remembering that these were not happy times for her, added, Any news?

His somewhat puzzled gaze fell briefly on Shake as Carole Lang said, Good morning, Harvey. No news as yet. This is Detective Jonson from Port Police. I was discussing dad’s disappearance with him. He will try to help, but there’s not really much he can do. Sergeant, this is our senior Vice President, Harvey Grille.

Grille extended his hand. Sergeant. I’m glad you’re here. Poor Carole, all of us actually, are going through hell and the police don’t seem to be very interested.

Grille’s blond hair and tanned face gave him an almost boyish look although he was, Shake assumed, a few years Shake’s senior. Missing persons, Shake explained, are a difficult matter. There are more occasions of it than you might think. It’s most difficult when the person is missing through his own choosing, which wouldn’t seem too logical in the case of Mr. Lang. As I told Ms. Lang, I’ll see if I can turn up anything, but it’s really under the jurisdiction of Palos Verdes police, and I’m sure they’ll do whatever they can. Shake turned directly to Carole. If I come up with anything, I’ll let you know. I hope the truth surfaces soon…Ms. Lang, Mr. Grille.

Back in her office, Carole thought about the Port Police Detective, Jonson. He was certainly good looking, tall with black hair and piercing blue eyes. She found herself wondering if he were married. He wore no ring, but many men didn’t.

Her last relationship, while she was a producer on nightly TV news in nearby San Bernardino, had ended several months earlier. She had decided that spending the rest of her life with a small city news anchorman whose marriage proposal she was seriously considering until she concluded he was entirely too self-involved and was not what she wanted for herself. Other than a steamy affair while in college, the anchorman was the only serious relationship she had had in her thirty-two years. Multiple opportunities had presented themselves, but none was particularly appealing, and she had always felt her career was the most important part of her life. Suddenly a pang of guilt swept over her. She should be worrying about her father, not thinking about some man.

Chapter Two

Shake got into his car wondering if there was more than a business relationship between Carole Lang and Harvey Grille. He also found himself fantasizing about the appealing Carole Lang. She was indeed beautiful.

Before heading back to the station, he drove into the junkyard to take a look at Lanco’s old warehouse. Turning off of Anaheim Street, he wove his way through the maze of narrow streets. There was a third-world flavor to this potholed sprawl, home to a few aged wrecking yards, cargo container storage lots, and abandoned cinder block buildings where aficionados gathered for clandestine Saturday night cockfights, and where the detritus of failed enterprises and pathetic lives gathered together as if by a pact of mutual defense. Paper and rags lay where the breezes had carried them against the broken-down fences surrounding the mostly deserted properties. Shake knew the area well; while a uniformed officer he had driven through it on every shift.

Three nondescript mongrel dogs were making their way along the street, stopping to sniff at the scent-marked wall of an old storage shed that had been visited earlier by some other transient: canine or human. Homeless dogs, Ghetto Elk in the parlance of the street, were common. Scavengers, they tended to run in packs, eating what they could find in trash cans and depending on a few kindly souls, usually their homeless human counterparts, to share food with them.

He drove by the old Lanco warehouse. It was larger than most of the junkyard buildings, a gray concrete block structure. Despite its size, now empty, it was as forlorn as the others on the surrounding streets. He did not know what he expected to find driving by the building, but there was nothing there that shed light on Lang’s disappearance.

He was retracing his route back out to Anaheim Street when he spotted an elderly man sitting alongside the street, his back resting against a power pole, intently examining his forearm. Shake slowed to a stop and called out through his car window, What’s the matter Gandy?

Damn piece of glass cut me.

Shake got out of his car and walked over to where the man was sitting. Blood was flowing over Gandy’s black skin from the wound just below his elbow. That’s a bad cut, Gandy. You need to take care of that.

It’ll be okay, Shake.

Looks pretty bad to me. How did it happen?

The man, wincing slightly, looked up at Shake. I was pickin’ through that box over there that somebody dumped and a goddamn dog snuck up behind me. He snarled and I jumped and pulled my hand out that box real quick. Didn’t see the broke soda bottle. Chased him off and saw this thing bleedin’ bad so I held it real tight against my shirt sleeve to stop it. Then you come along.

Your shirt sleeve isn’t exactly sterile, Gandy. That could get infected, then you’d really be in trouble. You need to go to the emergency room.

How am I goin’ to do that? I ain’t got no way to get there an’ I got no money besides.

Shake knew if the old man had been willing to go to an emergency room and was able to get there, he would have been treated at no cost, but Gandy wouldn’t do it in any event. Shake said, Tell you what, Gandy. Take my handkerchief here—it’s clean—and hold it on that cut, then you wait right here. I’m going to get you something to put on that. Gandy nodded and went back to examining his wound as Shake left for the closest drugstore to get something for the old man’s arm. He had known Gandy Brown for at least five years. Over that time he had established a certain amount of rapport. Cops need information in order to do their job. Gandy, who because of his age tended to be overlooked by some of the more notorious street people, was nonetheless a keen observer. He gave out information on his terms, but it was always good information. In twenty minutes Shake was back with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a tube of Neosporin, a package of Telfa pads, a roll of bandage tape, and a clean washcloth.

Pouring water from a bottle he kept in his car, Shake dampened half of the washcloth and handed it to Gandy. He wanted the man to tend his own wounds just for the record. Here, wipe that really well. When Gandy had finished cleaning to Shake’s satisfaction, Shake handed him the small bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Here, pour a little of this on it. Gandy complied, letting out a small yelp. That stuff stings. You a cruel man, Shake.

You don’t want this thing to get infected. Shake continued talking Gandy through the procedure, next having him apply the Neosporin followed by the Telfa pad and the tape. Now you need to change this every day. Okay?

Gandy nodded.

And another thing, if you’ve got a change of clothes stashed somewhere you better get out of these and get ’em washed up somewhere.

Yeah, don’t worry Shake, I’ll do that.

Tell me. You ever spend much time around the new Lanco Building on Alameda? You know the one I mean?

I know. That’s that fancy new one they built. I don’t hang out down there—too wide open. I go down ’round their old building to do some cannin’. Somebody throws old ’lectrical wire into the lot next to it sometimes, so I check there regular.

Canning, as Shake knew, was the word used to mean scavenging for aluminum cans and any other refuse that someone is willing to pay for. Copper brought the most money, so a find of electrical wire was a big deal in the canning business.

Okay, Gandy. Just thought I’d ask. You’re always a good help, old buddy.

You know I always keep my eyes open for you. Shake…I ’preciate you gettin’ this stuff for the cut.

Any time Gandy. Keep an eye pealed. Let me know if you see anything you think I ought to know about. I gotta to get going. You be sure to take care of that wound now.

Chapter Three

The name on the slip the Lieutenant had handed him before he called on Carole Lang was that of a Lloyd Fairchild. He had reported that drugs had been used by teenagers at an un-chaperoned party attended by his son Luke on the Sea-Sea Senior, a yacht moored at one of the local yacht clubs. Apparently the boy had come home acting peculiarly, and it had taken his father three days to get him to admit he had sniffed cocaine offered by one of the other boys. On the telephone Fairchild had told Shake he did not want his son getting into trouble, but felt he had to report the incident and thought the authorities would want to talk with the boy. Luke Fairchild would be home from school by four o’clock, so Shake arranged to meet at their home shortly after that.

The Fairchild’s home was in Rolling Hills Estates on the Palos Verdes Peninsula above San Pedro on a half-acre of what was known as ‘horse property.’ Pre-pubescent girls born to upper-middle class families had, for reasons unfathomable to Shake, a propensity not only to want to ride horses but to own one. On the Peninsula, young ladies in great numbers were indulged in this expensive pastime. Most grew out of their early enthusiasm for things equine. As a result, many of the so-called horse properties, complete with barns and tack rooms, were horseless, as was the case with the Fairchild’s place.

As agreed, Lloyd Fairchild was there waiting along with his son. The young man, dressed in jeans and a Dodgers T-shirt, moved his shoulders nervously as his father ushered him and Shake into the large family room where he suggested they sit on a massive horsehide couch while he perched on its wide arm. Shake began his questioning of young Luke asking, "Why don’t you just tell me about this party