They approached the front gate using one of the box trucks borrowed from the
US Mail, the driver announcing a delivery for Algernon Barrett. The fence rolled
back, admitting Mr. Barrett’s delivery: a dozen armed federal agents Trojan Horsed
in the cargo hold. The personnel carriers, Crown Vics, and half a dozen white vans
marked with the blue vertical Homeland Security stripe drafted in behind it.
Bell went in first with a SWAT team, her badge and the warrant lofted above her
head. She announced herself and ordered everyone to stay as they were, showing their
hands. Detective Heat entered in the second wave, along with cooperating law
enforcement and a platoon of biotechnicians lugging portable aerosol sniffers and
other sensory gear. Once past Reception and the front offices, the rest of the
facility appeared laid out, open plan, in one story under a corrugated roof. With no
resistance and nobody fleeing, agents easily corralled the thirty startled employees
near the loading dock while the DHS techies dispersed to sample air and inspect
equipment and storage containers.
Because of her firsthand knowledge of the layout, Heat led Bell to Algernon Barrett
’s office. The Jamaican was gone, but the betting line for the upcoming Kentucky
Derby blared from his big-screen TV and a pungent wisp curled up from a fatty in the
ashtray. Both of them poised their hands on their holsters and cleared the private
bathroom. The other door in the office gave onto a back hallway leading to the
warehouse. Outside a door marked as the spice supply room, they took ready positions
and entered. “Looky here,” said Yardley Bell as Barrett emerged from between
stacked cartons of Scotch bonnets and cloves with his hands up. “I found the secret
jerk ingredient.”
They searched him and took him back up the hall to his office. Nikki had warned them
before they left Varick Street about Barrett’s lawyer, so they were eager to get
some interrogation happening before Helen Miksit complicated matters.
“Why did you hide?”
“Who are you?”
“Bart Callan, special agent in charge, Department of Homeland Security. Just one of
the people in this room who can make your life hell. Now, answer my question. Why
did you hide from us?”
“Habit, I guess. Doors get busted, man’s got to run.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
“Believe what you like, mon.” Algernon turned from him and surveyed Nikki, who
stood off in the corner, still wearing her Homeland hoodie. “So, Detective, this is
what I get for cooperating?”
Nikki said, “Mr. Barrett, this will all go more smoothly if you continue to do so.
”
“Yeah?” He folded his arms and leaned back on the couch. “I’m not saying
anything. I want my lawyer.”
An hour later, after Callan and Bell did their best to brace him both head-on and
sideways about his participation in a terror plot, they lost him to the Bulldog, who
advised her client to say absolutely nothing. Her statement, she said, would
suffice. “My client is a United States citizen and taxpayer. He operates a
successful, legitimate business purveying spice rubs and chicken dishes to a loyal
public. Any inference that he is involved in some sort of diabolical plot based on
his foreign origin is wild speculation, offensive, and slanderous.”
“What about his sudden expansion at key targets of opportunity?” asked Bell.
“They are targets of opportunity,” said Helen Miksit. “For profit. So unless you
have evidence or a charge to file, why don’t you suck it?” If nothing else came
out of this raid, Nikki thought that, just maybe, she could get to like Helen Miksit
after all.
Out in the warehouse, while the forensic technicians continued their search for
evidence of viral or bacterial agents in marination canisters, drums of spices, and
refrigerators, Heat took Callan aside. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to
bag this and get back to my precinct.”
“I so was hopeful this would give us traction.” He surveyed the activity, ending
with a head shake. “Heat, we need a break.”