We followed the guy in, where a couple of other guys poked their head around pallets of crates they were sweeping around.
“We may need to speak to your crew, too,” I said.
Nikki gave me the side-eye. “Just a few questions,” she added, “nothing time consuming.”
“Russ, Javier,” he beckoned them with the tablet. “These officials have a few questions for you about recent delivery to the Fairhaven Club. Hey, while you’re asking them, can I look up the files on the computer for you?”
I glanced at Nikki. I wasn’t sure how well her trick with wrapping a person up in her will worked on people away from her.
She nodded to the man. “That will be fine.”
“I’ll lend you a hand,” I said.
I followed Martin—I finally just asked for his name and gave mine as Jimmy Freeman, what was already listed on my inspector ID—into the office. Barely more than a closet, it was clear the space was just for one person to do computer work and not for any kind of meetings, unless it was by phone.
Martin started clicking and typing away, searching for deliveries by address, in this case, the Fairhaven Club. Up came a list as long as my arm. The originating address came from about a dozen places spread across European countries and Canada. The address didn’t come with any business names for the originating address, but the client account that paid for shipping was there. Unfortunately, there were a couple of dozen of those, as well.
“Can you print these for me?” I asked.
He nodded, then clicked on the options.
I’d be able to chase down the names of businesses later.
As the printer whirred, something stood out to me on the screen. “This column, what does R mean?”
“That column’s for special handling instructions. You know, fragile, any possible dangerous warnings. The R means refrigerated?”
I looked down the list. Every shipment to the Fairhaven Club was refrigerated.
“Huh,” I said.