“Can’t say I have,” Mike lied, keeping his voice steady. “Mostly just driftwood and plastic trash these days.” Vance studied him for a long beat, then handed him a card. “If you remember anything, give me a call. The reward is very generous. Very.” There was a subtle edge to his voice. Mike noticed Vance’s eyes lingering on the *Hope*, as if calculating the boat’s range.
That night, Mike couldn’t sleep. Susan was tossing and turning beside him. The house was drafty, and the furnace was making a rhythmic clanking sound that usually meant a $500 repair bill. “Mike, what if that guy is telling the truth?” she whispered. “What if we’re holding onto stolen property?”
“If it’s a legitimate claim, we’ll handle it,” Mike said. “But I want to make sure he’s not a shark first.” Mike knew that “salvage fraud” was a real thing. Scammers would track lost cargo manifests and then bully fishermen into giving up their finds for a fraction of the value. He needed professional advice.
The next morning, Mike drove to the county seat to see an old friend, Sam Peters, who worked for the Port Authority. They’d served in the Coast Guard together years ago. Sam was a straight shooter with access to the shipping databases. “Sam, I need a favor,” Mike said. “Can you check the manifest for a ship called the *Northern Star* from three years ago? Specifically, a lost container of vanilla.”
Sam spent an hour digging through the records. “Here’s the thing, Mike,” Sam said, leaning back. “The *Northern Star* did lose cargo, but it was mostly timber and industrial machinery. No vanilla. And this Vance guy? I’ve heard his name before. He’s been sniffing around ports from here to San Francisco. He doesn’t represent any insurance company I know of.”
“So he’s a scavenger?” Mike asked. “Looks like it. He’s probably trying to jump a claim before the real owners—or the state—find out.” Mike felt a brief moment of relief, but it was short-lived. Sam continued: “But there *is* a missing container of vanilla in the system. It’s from five years ago, not three. And it didn’t fall off a ship in a storm. It disappeared under… let’s say, ‘mysterious circumstances’ in port.”
Two days later, another group arrived in town. These weren’t guys in suits. They were three men in a beat-up Ford Transit. Their leader, a thick-necked man named Tony Russo, had a gold chain and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked like a low-level enforcer for a regional trucking outfit. “We’re from Northwest Logistics,” he claimed. “Looking for our missing shipment. We’ve got the paperwork.”
