My last lead, but likely my best. If I don’t start getting answers here this case is dead.

Grayson stared at the elevator doors as he descended in it. The “B2- Archive” button was illuminated on the panel. The machinery squealed, betraying its age. This building was seventy years old, and everything in it confirmed that.

The elevator stopped, and the bell dinged. The doors opened, and Grayson stepped out into the middle of a long, straight hallway. A sign on the wall pointed right for the archives and left for offices.

Grayson looked down toward the offices, his eyes scanning. No movement and silent as the grave. He checked his watch: eight thirty-seven PM.

Everyone must have gone home for the night, but hopefully not EVERYONE. What kind of archivist works swing shift?

Grayson walked towards the archives, his boots barely making a sound on the asbestos tile floor. He passed through a doorway into a large room filled with rows of massive steel storage racks. The racks were packed with books, papers, and boxes. The room smelled of dust and age. In the quiet, Grayson could hear a document scanner running further back in the rows. He walked carefully and quietly towards the sound.

As he approached, he slowed and looked through the racks while staying hidden in the shadows. He saw a thin, frail man scanning documents on a large commercial scanner. Grayson’s eyes searched and saw that the man had hung up his blazer and ID lanyard at the end of the rack.

Grayson stepped into view. “Hello,” he said loudly.

The man turned and gasped in surprise. His eyes were filled with fear as he stared at Grayson.

Grayson flashed a disarming smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was hoping to speak with Henry Jones. Is that you?”

The man looked down and away. “Uh, no. I don’t know who that is.”

Grayson grabbed the ID lanyard nearby. It read ‘Henry Jones’ and had the man’s picture on it. “Wait a minute, this is who I’m looking for. It’s you. I must have mispronounced your name. My apologies.”

Henry’s eyes grew wide, and his breathing quickened. “Are… are you from the WCPDI?”

That acronym again.

“No. My name is Grayson Witham. I’m a private investigator. I was hired to look into the recent death of a man named Evan Foster. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No, I don’t know anyone by that name,” Henry replied.

So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh.

Grayson’s eyes sharpened. “Well, let me tell you more about him, and you tell me when you start to remember. Evan Foster, before his death, was the Inspector General of the Los Angeles Harbor Department. Two weeks ago, he went out to lunch, only instead of lunch he met secretly with someone who was too afraid to be seen in Foster’s office.”

Grayson crossed his arms and shifted his weight. “When Foster got back from that meeting, he cleared his calendar and drafted a formal request to the California Department of Justice for funding for a special investigation. He then spent the rest of the day on the phone, and the two days after that driving around meeting with some very important politicians and federal officials. And three days after that meeting, wouldn’t ya know it, he died tragically in a car accident. Some malfunction with his brakes. Just bad luck, I guess.”

Leaning forward, Grayson let his tone build as he went in for the metaphorical kill. “Well, it took me quite a bit of work, and no small amount of cleverness, but I was able to track down who Foster met with at that lunch meeting that led to his untimely death. And guess what, it was you, Mr. Jones. So now I’m standing here, intensely curious about what exactly you told him two weeks ago that started all this.”

Henry panicked and backed up into the large scanner behind him. But he had nowhere to run; the large metal racks on either side pinned him in. The only way out was through the space where Grayson stood.

“I… I…please… I don’t,” Henry stammered.

Grayson sighed and took a step back. His eyes softened. “Look, it’s a sure bet whoever killed Foster wants you dead too for knowing whatever it is you know,” Grayson reasoned. “Sounds like you need an ally. Maybe I can help you, but you have to tell me what happened.”

Henry’s eyes searched the floor, his mind clearly churning. “Who hired you?”

“Foster’s daughter,” Grayson replied. “What’s going on here? Are they smuggling something through the ports? Is it drugs? Something worse?”

Henry sighed and shook his head. “No, it’s not that kind of scam.”

“Then what kind of scam is it?”

Henry looked up at Grayson. “Do you know what the WCPDI is?”

“No idea. I’ve run into the acronym several times now, but couldn’t find anything when I searched.”

“That’s not surprising; they keep a low profile. They’re a forgotten piece of government. I only came across them while digitizing documents. But it takes some explaining to know what’s going on.”

Finally, we’re getting somewhere.

“I’m all ears,” Grayson said, as he gestured to Henry to proceed.

“Alright,” Henry began, taking a deep breath. “In the late 1800s, the federal government wanted to establish trade routes with Asia, but to do that they needed to build up the West Coast maritime infrastructure. At that time, the states on the western seaboard were so new they didn’t have the resources to do it themselves, so the federal government established the ‘West Coast Port and Dock Initiative.’ The idea was that the WCPDI would raise funds by collecting a small tax from every trade ship that entered any port on the west coast, and use that money to build large-scale shipping and receiving infrastructure. And it worked. The West Coast shipping lanes exploded with new economic activity.”

“But as time passed and the states grew more established, states slowly took over control of all their ports and docks. By the 1950s, the WCPDI had been completely pushed out, and they no longer had any goal or purpose. But here’s the thing: they never stopped collecting the tax on every trade ship on the West Coast.

The tax was baked into the shipping bureaucracy. It had been there for so long no one questioned it, and legally it was still required. Now you have all this money flowing into the WCPDI and nothing to spend it on. So, by the mid-1970s, the entire WCPDI, less than thirty people at this point, started embezzling on a massive scale, stealing hundreds of millions of dollars over the years.”

Grayson balked. “Hold up. There’s no way that kind of money goes missing without someone noticing. The feds have auditing and reporting requirements. There’s oversight.”

“But the WCPDI doesn’t; that’s why it works,” Henry said, getting animated. “All those auditing and reporting requirements are tied to receiving federal funds, but the WCPDI doesn’t receive federal funds. It’s one of, possibly the only, federal organization that was given authority to tax directly. They collect their own money and have no oversight.”

“That’s one heck of a scam,” Grayson said, reeling.

“Yeah, and everyone there wants to keep it going.”

Grayson covered his mouth with his hand as his mind worked. “And who is David Korr?” he asked.

Henry’s eyes grew fearful again. “He’s the director of the WCPDI. Foster said he’s smart. Used a lot of money to buy friends. This goes deep. Foster was driving around town looking for a single high-ranking politician or official that Korr wasn’t bribing. I don’t think he found one.”

Grayson’s keen ears heard the elevator ding, and he turned and looked. He saw two men in business attire standing in the hallway, looking around. Grayson moved between the stacks before he was seen. He peered through the gaps at the strangers.

“You expecting anyone?” Grayson asked.

“No, everyone should be gone,” Henry replied.

“They look like cops.” Grayson paused. “They were at Foster’s office yesterday.”

Henry clenched and exhaled a ragged breath. “WCPDI has its own internal law enforcement agents,” he said. “Completely legitimate, with badges and everything. They’re on the take as much as any of them. Korr’s personal attack dogs. I think they killed Foster.”

Like a predator, Grayson assessed the two men. They looked down at the offices, then turned and began walking toward the archives.

“They’re armed,” Grayson whispered, “and they’re coming this way.”

“You led them right to me!” Henry accused with a harsh whisper.

“Relax, we’re fine,” Grayson said, even as he drew his pistol from inside his jacket. “I didn’t see a back way out of here. Is there one?”

Henry shook his head.

“Alright,” Grayson said, his voice low but firm. “I know a trick to get us out of this. Listen and do exactly as I say.”