What She Found (Tracy Crosswhite #9)(40)

Attorney’s Office and Canadian authorities hashed out something in exchange for information Flynt could provide, perhaps information on his drug ring or other dealers and smugglers. That seemed more likely given that Flynt had, apparently, remained in the drug-smuggling business after his release from prison. Could Flynt have become an informant? Was his current one-year sentence as a low-security prisoner to protect him—to convince others he was not a government rat? Tracy knew the Hells Angels actively smuggled drugs into the United States from Canada. If Flynt was associated with them, those were not the type of people to piss off.

Tracy had no difficulties crossing the border at Blaine and met Gillies at the RCMP detachment on Fifty-Seventh Avenue just off the British Columbia Highway in Surrey. Gillies was an attractive man with a youthful face and easy smile. Well-built, he had the broad shoulders and beefy arms of a weightlifter. He shaved his head but for a tuft of hair. Gillies and Tracy stepped into a Ford Interceptor Utility vehicle from the RCMP fleets.

Gillies told her he had arranged to be present at the federal penitentiary in case Tracy encountered any problems gaining admittance. “I speak Canadian,” Gillies said.

“You ever tied Jack Flynt to a Hells Angels organization up here?” Tracy asked.

“Nothing like that in his file, though given the size of the load he was smuggling when he got pinched in 2002, one would suspect he is connected to a sizable organization.”

“What do you know about the plea deal?”

Gillies shook his head. “Not much except it came together quickly. He pled guilty and served his time.”

“Have you seen the terms?”

“The US Attorney and Canadian authorities have a confidentiality agreement in the file but not the terms of the agreement.”

“You think those terms included Flynt becoming a government informant when he got out?”

Gillies gave it some thought. “It could be why no terms were provided. They’d want to protect him.”

“I’m wondering if that’s why he was prosecuted again and given such a seemingly light sentence—to protect him, make him look legit.”

“Possibly,” Gillies said. “That would require cooperation between the US and Canadian authorities, and that would be well above my pay grade.”

“Mine too. Just wondering if we’re on a wild-goose chase here.”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

The drive took just over an hour. It was another twenty minutes to pass through various gates, secure Gillies’s firearm and other possessions in lockers, obtain guest passes, and step through metal detectors. During this process Gillies advised that the federal institution had a capacity of just under six hundred inmates, most living in medium and minimum security. That included convicted murderers and others who had committed violent offenses, but who were deemed not to be high-security risks. Once inside multiple locked doors, the facility hummed with the cacophony of voices and other noises at an irritating decibel. Tracy knew prisoners often said the most difficult thing to get used to wasn’t being locked behind bars or doors, but learning to deal with the constant noise, the lack of any peace or privacy.

The guard led Gillies and Tracy to a glass-enclosed room with tables and plastic chairs placed in a horseshoe pattern. At the front of the room stood an easel with a flip chart and colored pens.

“Looks like a classroom,” Tracy said.

“It is,” the guard said. “Couple weeks ago, the writer Jack Whyte taught a class on writing. That one usually attracts a crowd.” The guard checked his watch. “Flynt and his attorney were meeting, but I’m told they’re on their way over.”

Minutes later, a reed-thin Jack Flynt entered the room in a blue long-sleeve shirt and pants. According to his record, Flynt was sixty-eight. It took Tracy a minute to place who he looked like. He reminded her a lot of the thin and scruffy actor who had played Toot-Toot in the movie The Green Mile. The attorney, Kell Gordon, accompanied Flynt. Gordon was heavyset and wore a dark-brown suit, yellow button-down dress shirt, and paisley tie. Gordon looked like a sweater—a term her colleagues bestowed upon attorneys who perspired profusely in a courtroom.

The four of them pulled out chairs. Gordon immediately attempted to establish himself as the alpha dog. “I want to be sure that you both agree my client will not answer any questions seeking information on any drug smuggling he may or may not have performed after 2002.”

Gillies had pegged Gordon’s concern on the head, and Gordon had, in essence, confirmed that his client had continued to engage in drug smuggling, which fit with Tracy’s suspicion that he had become a government informant.

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Tracy said.

Gordon looked to Gillies. “Detective?”

“I’m just here to translate for Detective Crosswhite,” Gillies said.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Gordon said.

Tracy set a file on the table. “In 1995, what was the name of the boat you captained?”

“The Egregious,” Flynt said in a voice that was higher pitched than Tracy anticipated.

“What type of boat was the Egregious?”

“Seventy-five-foot fishing trawler.”

“A purse seine fishing trawler?”

“Yep.”

“Prior to March 2002, did you make runs from Vancouver to Lake Union in the Egregious?”