Derailed (22 page)

But did I care?
Ha
! I was glad to see her running down the street in those platform spikes, holding on to her copper-colored wig as the rain beat it down around her ears.

Rodney stepped back up under the porch roof out of the rain, wagging his head. I thought it was at Donita, but maybe it was at me. DaShawn looked pained, almost like he might cry. I put my arm around his shoulder. “Come on, son. Let's go in.”

DaShawn hollered, “Bye!” and thundered down
the stairs the next morning, eager to get back to school after his boring spring break. I clipped the leash on Corky, ready to head out the back door to work when my iPhone rang.

It was Captain Gilson. “Hey Bentley, we got a tip from the DEA that there's a load of grass comin' in on the California Zephyr. They don't know who's carrying it, but it's supposed to be a substantial amount. So bring whatever you and Corky need for an overnight. I'm sending you out to meet it in Lincoln, Nebraska.”

“What?”

“You'll take the westbound Zephyr this afternoon. It gets into Lincoln about midnight, plenty of time for you to get off and catch the eastbound coming back through Lincoln about three hours later.”

“Three in the morning? You want me to catch a train at three in the morning? Man, that's above my pay grade.”

“Hey, that's why detectives are salaried. You're not on the clock. Remember?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look, have a second cup of coffee and get your stuff together. Train doesn't leave until two this afternoon, but get here no later than eleven. We got plans to make.”

“Yeah, and we need to talk. See ya when I get there.”

“Oh, and Bentley. Don't forget a pair of wraparound shades and . . . and bring some kinda cool hat, maybe one of those flat caps like golfers wear, something to give you a little character. Go buy yourself one. We can expense it. Know what I mean?”

I pressed End and slipped my phone into my pocket.
Something to give me a little character
, huh? Like I don't have any character? Yeah, well, I had an old plaid flat cap, so beat up it looked like Corky had used it for a chew toy. I'd take it just to spite Gilson for wanting me to play the ol' blind man routine. I'd need to stop at a Walgreens to pick up a pair of wraparound shades.

I hung up the leash, much to Corky's disappointment. “Estelle?” Guess she was still in the bathroom. “Estelle, I'm not goin' in till a bit later. Tell you about it when you come out.” I knew she wouldn't like me being gone overnight any more than I did. We'd planned to see Mom.

I went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed. Corky came up and laid her muzzle on my knee, her sad eyes looking at me and then off to the side as if to say, “What's the matter, boss? Why ain't we goin'?”

I gave her a scratch under the ears. “All right, girl. We'll go.” I got up and pulled my overnight satchel out of the closet and began packing. But a lump rose in my throat that a dog seemed to understand me so well without a hint of judgment.

“Ah, Harry. Glad you're here.” Gilson looked at his watch. “Hey, not too early for lunch. Let's go up to the food court and get some Chinese.”

I gulped. Fast-food Chinese was about as authentic as a reality show. Not the way to start a train trip, in my opinion. But Gilson was the captain.

We dropped Corky at the kennel, and ten minutes later got ourselves seated with plastic plates piled high with fried rice, General Tso's chicken, and chow mein.

“Okay, here's the skinny,” Gilson said. “The DEA claims they got a solid tip on a large shipment of marijuana being moved from Reno, Nevada, to Chicago on the Zephyr, but they didn't get their people to the station in Reno before the train pulled out—”

“Ha! Shoddy police work. That's on them.”

“Now hold on a minute.”

I knew I'd spoken too soon, trigger-happy from being on edge about this whole charade.

“It's not that simple,” Gilson explained. “The Union Pacific Club just had its eighty-sixth annual convention in Reno, and the Zephyr had to add two cars to accommodate all the people heading home. A hundred sixty-two people got on in Reno. Allegedly, one of them's a mule, but most are happy conventioneers who support the railroad. We don't want to make 'em angry by questioning everyone who boarded in Reno, and we'd be accused of profiling if we only looked at the other passengers.”

“So how am I supposed to do what the DEA can't?”

“Ah, that's the thing. This is the perfect test for you and Corky. You catch the train coming this way in Lincoln, and you'll have nearly twelve hours to find our man—”

“You're sure it's a man?”

“Just a figure of speech. Anyway, you'll have access to the whole train without disturbing any conventioneers or anyone else until you identify our mule. Then, bingo, give the DEA a call and have him picked up at the next stop.”

“How much weed is he supposed to be movin'?”

“DEA says over forty pounds. Could be worth two hundred thousand dollars on the street. Not bad for a start if you can catch him, Bentley.”

I could feel the hook set. When you put a challenge in front of me, I can't resist. “Okay. What's next?”

Gilson shrugged. “You brought Corky's harness, didn't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Got your tickets down in the office. Pick 'em up and get your disguise on. Then I guess you can hang out in the Metropolitan Lounge till train time. It's for first-class passengers, so there's coffee and comfortable chairs. A little before two, someone'll give you a ride to your sleeping car. You're booked in a handicapped compartment, but don't hide out there. You got a bad guy to catch!”

He looked down at my plate and frowned. “Hey, you've hardly eaten a thing. Don't you like Chinese?”

“Oh, I love
Chinese
, but . . .” I pushed the plate a couple of inches away. “Since you booked me first class, I get free meals on the train, right? Think I'll stick with Amtrak cuisine.”

“Mr. Bentley, the California Zephyr will be departing in about thirty minutes. If you'd take my arm, I'll be glad to escort you to Track 8. I have an electric cart there that can take you to your sleeping car.”

“Oh, that's not neces—I mean, that's good of you.” I stood up, realizing that I'd almost dismissed the offer of help. “Thank you. My bag's right here by me.” I reached out and took the elbow of the young woman who walked me out of the first-class lounge, Corky coming along obediently at my other side. She helped me onto a seat on the cart and I moved over to make room for Corky at my feet. We waited while an elderly couple got on in the seat in front of me, and then we hummed along the walkway beside the rumbling engines to the sleeping cars. The couple was let off at the first sleeper, and I was taken to the second one.

“Here you are, Mr. Bentley. The car number is zero five three two. You'll want to remember that. I think Chuck Murphy's your attendant, but uh . . . doesn't look like he's here yet. I'm sure he'll be along in a few moments. But if you'd like, I can help you get situated.”

“I think I can manage.” Whoops! I was going to blow my cover if I didn't remember that I
can't
manage. “That is, if you'll just tell me where my compartment is, I can probably find it. I'm supposed to have an accessibility compartment.”

“And you do. It's right up the steps here—just two steps. The first one is a stool, and the next step puts you in the train. Your compartment is to the right at the end of the short hall, right here on the first level.”

Corky and I made it into the vestibule.

“Oh, here's Murphy. I'll let him take over. Have a good trip, Mr. Bentley.”

“Don't forget my bag.”

“I've got it, sir,” said a deep voice from behind me, accented like a man of my color. “Straight ahead a few more feet, and you'll be in your compartment. I'll help you get situated.”

I made it into my compartment with what I hoped was convincing awkwardness and sat down while Murphy described where things were in the room. He was going into such detail that I finally said, “That's okay. I can see a little bit, enough to get around . . . with Corky's help, of course. I can make out the sink, the toilet, the windows and door. I'm not gonna smash into the wall or anything.”

“Well, that's good. Now, I can bring your meals to you if you'll give me your order—“

“No. That's okay. I can make my way to the dining car. Just tell me what direction it is. I'll get the waiter to tell me what's on the menu. I like getting to know people.”

“Yeah, but . . . what about your service dog?”

“Corky can sit on the floor under the table. She'll take up the floor space beside me, but two people can still sit across from us.”

“I don't know, sir. What if they don't want a dog down by their feet while they eat?”

“Lot of people like dogs. We'll find some. Now which way?”

Through my shades I saw him shrug like he couldn't believe I wanted to wander around the train, but that's exactly what I planned to do. “Well, sir, you go out your door and down the little hall with bathrooms on both sides, across the vestibule to another short hall. On your right, you'll find a stairway up to the upper level. When you get to the top, turn to your right, heading toward the rear of the train. The diner's the second car.” He paused, and then as though he had decided to tell me everything, he added, “Beyond that is the observation/lounge car. Snack bar's downstairs. All the cars beyond that are coaches.”

“Thanks. That's very helpful.” Then I thought of something. “Oh, and when I'm coming back, how will I know that I've arrived at car, what'd she say it was, zero five three two?”

“Yes, five thirty-two. Uh . . . well, we've got braille on the walls for most things, but the car numbers change. I guess . . . I guess you just have to count. It's the second car forward from the diner.”

“Good enough. Thanks, Murphy.”

“Anything else I can do for you now? If not, I've got more passengers coming.”

“I'm fine. See you around.” I gritted my teeth. Oh well, it was just a figure of speech.

He started to leave, then turned back. “If you need anything, you can push this call button right here by the toilet. There's another at your seat, on the wall just behind your head.”

Once Murphy closed the door behind him, I watched the other passengers streaming past my window, headed to their compartments and coaches. “Well, Corky, for better or worse, here we go.”

The westbound California Zephyr was only three minutes late departing Union Station. Not bad. I stared out the window at Chicago's underbelly slipping by . . . the Lower West Side . . . South Lawndale, just a few blocks north of Cook County Jail . . . Cicero, the train picking up speed as it zipped on out to the burbs.

“Guess we better practice navigating this thing, Corky.”

She was ready to go in a moment. I, on the other hand, was concerned whether we'd be able to make our way through the narrow hallways. I put on my shades and gripped Corky's harness handle.

When we got to the stairs, there was nothing to do but let her go first. Wasn't like the wide steps we'd practiced on at the training center, but I figured that was okay. Even when going ahead, a service dog would help a blind person with balance and indicate when they'd arrived at the top. We turned right like Murphy had said. It wasn't the width of the halls that provided the biggest challenge. It was the swaying of the train. I couldn't rock back and forth like a drunken sailor on the deck of a rolling ship. I had to stay to a narrow lane on the right side so Corky would have room to walk at my left side. But when the train lurched, I nearly tripped over her body. It took us a while to get the hang of it, but we made it through the next sleeper and then through the dining car with the
waiters watching me like they feared I'd end up falling across one of the tables.