Come and Get Me

by August Norman

  “That’s not Frodo’s frat.”

  “No, but his house co-sponsored the event, some sort of STD awareness night, and my friend Deena was going. I parked down the street, and she texted me. Here’s a pic.”

  The selfie of a blonde, presumably Deena, captured two young men in the background—a tall, scrawny guy talking to a younger man dressed in a bright pink robe and a bulbous foam helmet.

  “Is that kid supposed to be a dildo?”

  “Yep,” Lakshmi answered. “The pledges had to dress like sex toys. The dong is Frodo’s little frat brother, Chuck Lester. The tall, skinny guy is Frodo. Deena said he handed Lester an envelope and told him to leave.”

  Caitlin smiled. “And you followed Lester?”

  “Kind of hard to miss a walking penis. He ditched his costume, drove to this apartment, and walked around back. That was between midnight and one.”

  “What’s back there?”

  Lakshmi showed Caitlin images of a wooden deck, a gas grill, and a window with closed horizontal blinds. “Look at the barbecue.”

  Caitlin laughed. “No propane?”

  “Exactly, and the grill looks brand new. Lester must have put the envelope under the lid.”

  “You didn’t check?”

  “Couldn’t.” She swiped to the image of the kitchen window, enlarged the photo.

  Caitlin saw a small black dome in the frame. “A security camera.”

  Lakshmi nodded. “Indoor, looking out. That’s only the first bit. I left for five minutes to move my car down the street. When I got back, there was another frat boy leaving.”

  “What was he dressed as?”

  “A rabbit. It’s a brand name for a popular vibrator.”

  Caitlin sat back. “The case of the backdoor dildos. Take that, Hardy Boys.”

  Lakshmi went on. “I went back to the bushes and waited. There weren’t any more dongs, but around two AM …” She found a video, hit “Play.”

  Caitlin watched shaky video taken through an evergreen. Lanky Frodo opened the grill, grabbed five sealed envelopes, then went inside.

  “So we’re watching Frodo’s apartment?”

  Lakshmi nodded. “The farmer’s son has three bedrooms all to himself.” She pointed to the SUV in the space closest to his apartment. “His car hasn’t moved all night. It’s the blue Expedition, same one he drove the night Kieran and Dave came to get Angela. Can we call Greenwood now?”

  “Since they’ve separated the sale from the delivery, we can’t draw a direct line to drugs. The real question is where the money goes. We know that Kieran, Dave, Frodo, and his older brother Adam are all paid through third-party corporations. How would you get cash to the corporations? Something that no one would question?”

  “Could it be a charity?”

  Caitlin nodded. “The collegiate Greek system is built on the idea that all sponsored events are charitable in some way. Car washes, the dance marathon—”

  “STD awareness?” Lakshmi looked up wide-eyed. “Frodo’s the fraternity’s treasurer. David was too.”

  “Great, it all fits together. Say BPD pulls our dildo over and asks why he’s got so much cash. Dildo says the fraternity treasurer gave him an envelope after an organized function. Was there a cover charge for last night’s party?”

  “Two bucks for the STD awareness thing. Would that be enough?”

  “The amount wouldn’t matter. Our supposition is that they’re delivering weed with organic vegetables. The cover charge probably does go to a legitimate cause, but the money in the envelopes pays for the weed. The time between delivery and payment is obfuscated by the collection of money tied to the charity event.”

  “And the cash gets back to Frodo. Could he launder it through the fraternity?”

  Caitlin shook her head. “Risky. Could trigger an audit from the national chapter. Wasn’t there some sort of charity associated with the farm?”

  “Yes, the Delta Omega Tau Alumna Philanthropic Association. If they send the money to the charity, then the charity must pay out to the farm, or at least the associated corporations.”

  “Which sends the money to the shareholders. The drugs are the key. We need to follow trucks from the farm to the houses, see which deliveries are followed by events and if the money makes it back to Frodo.”

  “Then we go to Greenwood?”

  “Yep. I only hope we don’t have to wait until next weekend. It might be too late for today’s deliveries.”

  “Oh, Caitlin,” Lakshmi said, pulling up a calendar on her computer. “We’re building up to Little Five. There are parties every night.”

  The weekend of the Little Five Hundred, an annual student bike race named after the Indy 500 auto race, was advertised as “the world’s greatest college weekend.” Bigger than homecoming, bigger than graduation, every night leading to the Saturday afternoon event would offer a full spectrum of debauchery—which meant a high demand for narcotics.

  They made a plan and parted ways, Lakshmi to sleep and regroup, Caitlin to work out logistics with Mary. She made her way back to the guesthouse an hour past sunset. Tired from the crying and the swimming and the planning, she almost missed the slip of paper stuck in the screen door.

  She hadn’t left the porch light on, so she picked up the folded half sheet of printer paper and went inside. Throwing her bag down, she flipped on a light and unfolded the note.

  Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Don’t worry, Caitlin Bergman, you’re still safe—like a rose embower’d in its own green leaves.

  Caitlin smiled, reached for her phone, and typed a text to Jerry Greenwood.

  Thanks for the note. Who says chivalry is dead?

  She hovered over “Send,” then stopped, deleting the response. Replying to the man at this time of night might lead to more than playing in the park, and Caitlin wanted to get up early.

  CHAPTER

  36

  THE NEXT DAY, Caitlin watched Lakshmi squeeze a massive black rental pickup into one of the diner’s tiny parking spaces and hop out.

  “Did you get the stuff?” she asked when Lakshmi emerged.

  She nodded. “Easels and everything. Are they here?”

  Caitlin pointed to a green Honda sedan at the opposite end of the parking lot. “Here comes Lubbers.”

  Mary walked over. “Lovely day for a stakeout.”

  Caitlin didn’t realize she’d instigated a hug until her hands closed around her friend. “A boy left me a note.”

  Mary patted her back, let go. “Like a love note? Let’s see.”

  Caitlin slipped her the paper.

  “Wow,” Mary said. “Your boy Greenwood’s got some penmanship. Weird imagery, though. What the hell does embower’d mean?”

  “I don’t think it’s a real word—”

  The deafening rumble of a motorcycle interrupted. Behind the wide grips of a Harley, Aaron Gaffney could have passed for an extra in Easy Rider. He wore a fringed suede jacket and a white helmet with white stars in a fat blue stripe down the middle, red pinstripes on both sides. He leered at them under raised eyebrows. “Ladies.”

  Caitlin laughed. “Is that an Evel Knievel helmet?”

  He revved his throttle, gave them a metallic, throaty growl. “It gets Mary hot. Right, sexy?”

  Mary bounced over to him. “You bet, random biker I just met.”

  She kissed him like they hadn’t seen each other in years, then came up for air. “What’s the plan?”

  Caitlin gave them the overview. “We need footage of the boys loading trucks, particularly with anything that comes out of the house. We’ll set up two spots, front and back, then rotate to follow if anyone leaves.”

  * * *

  Armed with one of two professional cameras borrowed from the Daily Student, Aaron parked behind a clump of trees on a service road facing the organic farm. Caitlin, Mary, and Lakshmi drove their vehicles another mile to a public park with a large group of soccer fields, parked, and got out. Kids ages six to fifteen played the game while
sidelined parents played games on their phones. Mary, standing by to follow anyone who might leave the farm, set up camp with a canvas chair and a romance novel.

  Caitlin left her hybrid and joined Lakshmi in the truck. They drove away from the farm, then turned onto a country road.

  Caitlin pointed to a small house on the north side of the street. “That should be the lot directly behind the Bro-duce farm.”

  Lakshmi parked in the house’s gravel driveway, then got out and knocked on the front door. A woman in her sixties, in tan pants and a floral print vest over a red blouse, stepped outside. Lakshmi shook the woman’s hand, then gestured toward the land past the house. The woman smiled, even put a hand on Lakshmi’s arm. She glanced back toward Caitlin, waved. Caitlin got out.

  Lakshmi handled the introduction. “Carol McGovern, this is my professor. Guess what, Caitlin? Not only is she fine with us looking around, she’s a painter as well.”

  Carol shook Caitlin’s hand with a firm, eager grip. “Mostly landscapes, all watercolors, but I can proudly say one of my cardinals hangs in an insurance office in Seymour. What are you working on today?”

  “Water,” Caitlin answered. “It looks like a creek winds through the edge of your property.”

  “Oh yes, and it’s beautiful, especially in this light. Why don’t I get my paints, and I’ll join you? I can show you the best place to set up.”

  She turned toward the house, twenty years younger, but Caitlin couldn’t paint a smiley face. She dropped their cover story and confessed to the sins of journalism.

  Carol looked disappointed, but not angry. “So why come to my house?”

  Lakshmi answered, “Because we need to spy on the farm behind the creek.”

  Carol nodded. “Those boys, huh? Do the police know about this?”

  Caitlin knew not to lie. “Not at this time, though I am working with the Bloomington Police Department.”

  The woman lowered her voice. “Jerry Greenwood?”

  Caitlin laughed. “That’s right, Mrs. McGovern.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “No, and it’s for his own good that he doesn’t.”

  The woman weighed the choice, nodded. “Do you want to tinkle first?”

  * * *

  Caitlin pointed halfway up the tallest tree on the bank. “Plenty of leaf cover, nice strong branches—that’s my spot.”

  Lakshmi laughed. “Caitlin, that’s like twenty feet.”

  “I think twenty-five.”

  Caitlin ran, jumped high enough to catch the first branch, and pulled herself up.

  “Badass,” Lakshmi said below her.

  Caitlin acted like she hadn’t pulled something. “You’re not the only athlete around here. Toss the bag.”

  Lakshmi let the backpack fly. Caitlin strapped the gear around her shoulders and climbed to her spot.

  Lakshmi called from below. “How is it?”

  Caitlin sent a cell phone picture to the group’s text thread. She had a good view of the land west of the greenhouses, the road through the back fields, and the space between the main house and white barn. Two cars were parked near the house, but no one came or went, and no one was working the fields.

  Aaron replied with his perspective—the main house, driveway, and the barn’s front.

  Below her, Lakshmi busied herself on her tablet.

  Caitlin pulled the school’s high-quality camera from the bag. She scanned the farmland with its telephoto lens, snapping shots of a spinach field, the greenhouses, and a brick circle that might have been an old well. She held no illusions she’d find the grave of Angela Chapman, but the act seemed like a productive way to pass the time. After two hours, she and Lakshmi swapped spots, allowing a quick nap against the tree trunk.

  She woke to a text alert, swiped her phone to life, found the latest text.

  Aaron: Two guys left main house, walking down road by greenhouses.

  Caitlin called up to Lakshmi. “See Dave?”

  “Not yet.”

  Another text came in.

  Mary: Ready to roll.

  Caitlin saw Lakshmi lower the camera to text her reply.

  Lakshmi: Hold. Walking away from barn. Near last greenhouse now, each carrying something.

  Through the underbrush, Caitlin couldn’t see past the rising field. “How far away, Lakshmi?”

  “More than a football field—nothing to worry about.” She raised the camera again, then texted.

  Lakshmi: One is Nate Fodor. Other could be Gooch. They have a shotgun.

  Mary: Shit. Get out of there.

  Lakshmi: No worries. They’ve got a skeet-shooting trap.

  Caitlin: Still moving or set up?

  Lakshmi: Moving. Not far from windmills.

  Caitlin: Distance from us?

  The boom of a shotgun answered before Lakshmi. Faint male laughter followed.

  Lakshmi: 100 yards.

  Caitlin heard a male voice yell, “Pull.”

  She texted: Come down.

  Another shot followed. The shooter made contact. “Nice shot, Gooch.”

  Caitlin whisper-shouted up. “Lakshmi, move your ass.”

  The voices continued.

  “My turn, bro.”

  “That wasn’t even six, Frodo.”

  “Whatever—it’s my gun. Hit the button.”

  The trap launched. This time, the report came much later. Right after the boom, Caitlin heard a rustle rip through the tree leaves, like sand against a window. A handful of birds shot out of the brush at the edge of the field.

  “You could see the thing, right?”

  “Who cares? Did you see those birds take off?”

  Caitlin looked up. Lakshmi shoved the camera into the bag, put the strap around her shoulder, started climbing down.

  “Pull.”

  The next boom came straight toward the trees. Lakshmi struggled for footing. The camera bag slipped off her shoulder. Caitlin caught the bag before the gear hit the ground, but Lakshmi landed hard. Something made of bone snapped.

  CHAPTER

  37

  New Providence Island, The Bahamas

  THE WAVY LADY, a red and white catamaran, sat anchored off the eastern shore of New Providence, the island home to seventy percent of Bahamians, and Mike Roman’s hotel room. A breeze pushed an aggressive cloud of pot smoke back toward the ship and dulled the steady thud of party music.

  Drunk Allison from Chicago touched Mike’s arm, her bikini top jiggling enough to be noticed. “Ed?”

  Any one of the horny drunks around him on the deck would have appreciated that jiggle, but Mike stayed true to his character—Ed Thompson from Toledo, recently dumped.

  “Allison, you’re great, but I’m not in a party mood.”

  “Because of your fiancée?”

  “Who told you?” He looked back to the main cabin. A writhing clump danced in front of a bar where Adam Fodor, wearing a Doctor Greenthumb wig and all, dispensed booze in plastic cups, lit joint in his mouth.

  Mike had met the elder Fodor the day before, pitched him a sob story about being left at the altar, tried to get a refund for a honeymoon scuba package. Not only did Adam grant the refund, he shared his bottle of dark rum, then guaranteed Ed Thompson a good time on his midnight booze cruise. Compared to Kieran Michelson, Fodor seemed like a pretty good guy.

  Drunk Allison grabbed Mike’s hand. “Let’s go dance.”

  She pulled him to the cabin, then dove into the meat hurricane. More sweat than standing room. Mike worked his way to the bar, took a corner spot. Fodor approached.

  “Big Ed.” He tossed his dreads around and slapped the bar with his palm. “Having a good time?”

  Mike shrugged. “Good enough, buddy.”

  Fodor grabbed two cups and a bottle. “I party for a living. I can tell when someone’s not having fun. Do a shot with me.”

  Mike smelled the dark liquor in the plastic cup. His nostrils said no, but Fodor raised his own cup and yelled, “No regrets.”<
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  Mike did the shot, regretted everything.

  Fodor handed his wig to a second bartender, pointed Mike aft. They climbed up to the captain’s deck.

  “Adam, you’ve been cool and everything, but you don’t have to look after me.”

  “Time for my break anyway.” Fodor reached into a pocket, came back with a tiny baggy and a ring of keys. “You want a bump?”

  He tapped some coke onto the end of a key, did his impression of the eighties.

  Mike wanted Fodor to trust him but didn’t want to push too hard. “Truthfully, I want to go home.”

  Fodor sucked through his nostril, wiped the tip of his nose. “Not into the island life?”

  “Just thought I’d feel better about everything once I got here.”

  Fodor handed the baggy to Mike. “Drugs make everywhere better, and the Caribbean has its advantages.”

  “What, like you just drop by Colombia anytime you want?”

  “I do own a few boats.” He held out his keys. “You want to hit this?”

  Mike Roman had avoided Michelson’s coke, but Ed Thompson needed to indulge. He took Fodor’s keys, poured a tiny pile onto the end of a standard Kwikset. He did the bump and handed the gear back.

  The next part would be tricky. When he’d checked Fodor’s web page that morning, two rooms were still available for a Wednesday morning fishing charter from the Bahamas to Florida. Caitlin had told him to look for anything outside of the standard drunk party boat scene. A kid with access to cocaine, taking a one-way trip through international waters the same week as IU’s biggest party, had to count. Mike wanted to be on that boat but couldn’t look like he wanted to be on that boat. “What I really want is to get to Miami.”

  “What’s in Miami?”

  Mike’s brain came alive. Lot of dopamine in that dope. “Wow.”

  “Right? What’s in Miami?”

  “Sex.”

  “Shit, we got sex here. You want to go again?”

  Mike waved him away. “Picture the dirtiest sex of your life, the kind that you kept in the spank bank at the worst time in your relationship.”

  “I’m with you.”

  “You’d better not be,” Mike said, “but she will be, and if history repeats itself, so will one of her friends.”