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“Let’s go to my office. Err…the office on this floor,” I added when Puck cocked his head.
I unlocked the door and motioned the men inside.
“This is a lot bigger than the one on the sixth floor,” Ares commented. “And cleaner.”
“Cleaner?”
“I mean, neater. Or, uh, better organized?” he added when I glared at him.
“It isn’t usually,” Puck mumbled.
“Shut it,” Cayman snapped at him.
“Please be seated,” I said, motioning to the table. Ares stood where he was, staring at me. “What?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“No, you’ve already begun. Continue. Were you about to ask where all my notes or piles of folders were?”
He smiled. “Not at all.”
“Then, what?”
“Your nostrils do this when you’re angry.” His flared.
I stared at him like he had been at me. “Are you serious? Is that really what you meant to say?”
He half nodded and pulled out a chair, motioning for me to take a seat. Instead, I walked around to the opposite side of the table.
“Tell me what we’ve learned from the driver,” I said, folding my arms and wishing I’d thought to grab a pad and pen before I sat down.
As if he’d read my mind, Puck got up, opened the credenza drawer, and handed me one of each before retaking his seat.
I smiled at him. “Thanks.”
He returned my smile. “Of course.”
“Can we get started?” Ares barked.
Making matters worse, Cayman laughed. When he finally got control of himself, he cleared his throat. “According to Josif Jacov, his elder cousin, Lazar, same last name, has been a driver for MBM Enterprises, owned by Marko Boris Mitskovski, for approximately five months after both their families immigrated to Northern Ireland. This was Josif’s first time as a driver. He was hired when the man originally scheduled to accompany Lazar out of Northern Ireland passed away suddenly. Had Mr. Jacov not been ‘desperate for money,’ he never would’ve agreed to take the offer of employment. Once they left the dock, with the containers, he says he was the one who pulled into the industrial complex to alert his cousin that he believed the ‘beef’ they were transporting had spoiled. I should add the background checks on both came back clean. Neither has been in legal trouble previously.”
“How did he explain his lack of identification?” Ares asked.
“He lost it somewhere between their arrival and departure from the docks,” Cayman responded.
“As did his cousin?”
Cayman nodded at Ares. “Affirmative.”
“No doubt, the real reason they stopped at the complex was to meet whoever was delivering their next set of fake identification—passports, etc.—which would allow them to continue their journey,” Ares said.
“After dumping the previous set at the port,” I added.
Ares nodded, then resumed his questioning. “Where were they headed?”
“Felixstowe, where they were to deliver the containers, then return to Ireland,” said Cayman.
“What are two Bulgarian nationals doing, living in Northern Ireland, and why were the semis licensed there?” Ares muttered, staring at the blank wall of this office in the same way he had yesterday when we were on the sixth floor.
