She took a deep breath like she was inhaling me, my smell, my essence. “It’s pretty fucking cool.”
“I’m sorry I tried to make it about me.”
She shrugged. “What you said was shitty, but fair.”
“Sometimes I just don’t know which version of you I’m going to get.”
She nodded. “For the longest time, I’ve done and said certain things because it was easier to blend with my colleagues than it was to be honest. That was cowardice.” She took a step back, but kept her hands on my arms.
“That probably will require some work to unpack.”
“Yeah. It will.” She slid her hands down so she could hold mine. “But I want to be the person I think I am. I want to be the person you think I am. Well, the person you think I am most of the time.”
I half-smiled. “I just want you to be genuine.”
“Same.”
“Now can we back up a bit?” I asked.
She sighed. “I guess.”
“Feeling like you’ve been running is probably not good. How long has that been going on?”
“Since we were called to the hospital, I guess.”
“You’ve been feeling winded for four days?” I asked.
“I mean, yeah.” She shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. My anxiety is pretty well under control except when I’m feeling high levels of stress. Or, you know, if there’s some sort of predicating event.”
“Like being called to the hospital in the middle of the night?”
“Yeah, that’ll do it.”
“I didn’t know you had anxiety.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “I guess you wouldn’t. It’s not bad. Not like Logan’s. Or even Lane’s. Theirs is much worse.”
“I’m pretty sure you can’t quantify something like that.”
“I guess.” She sniffed.
“How do you normally deal with it?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t felt this way since I was a teenager. So most of my coping mechanisms involve, you know, studying for finals or whatever.”
“Have you spoken to anyone about it?”
“You mean other than you, right now?” she asked. I gave her a look. “Right. No. I’ve been doing a solid job of ignoring it.”
“Laurel, honey, darling.”
She scowled at my litany. “What?”
“You’ve been doing a shit job of ignoring it.”
She rolled her eyes at me in an epic fashion. “Okay. I could probably do better.”
“What do you need? And can I help?”
“I don’t know. I guess I should probably talk to a counselor or therapist again.”
“I agree. Do you have one?”
She shook her head. “It’s been fifteen years. I’d need to find a new one.”
“Okay. We can do that.”
Tears started to gather again. “We can?”
“Yes.” I pulled her in again. It was such an absurd question. Not like Laurel at all. Or, apparently, it was like her. Just not a side I’d seen before. Part of me was blown away by the openness of her breakdown. She’d allowed me to see something I imagined few were privy to. But I also ached at how raw her pain was. I couldn’t absorb it, but hopefully I could ease it. “We will figure this shit out.”
“I’m sorry. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing.” I kissed her head. “This is a normal response.”
“Doesn’t feel normal.” She sat on the edge of the bed. I sat next to her, just close enough so our shoulders could touch. I took her hand in mine.
“It’s your response so it’s healthy and normal for you,” I said.
“You sound like a fucking hippie.”
I laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
“How are you so good at this?”
“Good at what?”
“Dealing with crazy. Talking to Lane. All of it.”
“Well, I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’ve got a lot going on,” I said. She rolled her eyes. “The Lane thing I just have practice with.”
“What do you mean?”
“You remember Shelby? She runs the farm with Clive?”
“Shelby would be difficult to forget.”
“Right. Well, she’s a survivor. I asked her plenty of dumb questions. I said a bunch of dumb stuff. She called me on it. I listened.”
“So you talked to one person once about being assaulted and now you’re like an expert?” Laurel sounded rightfully skeptical.
“No, of course not. Everyone knows people who are survivors. But most people don’t talk to them about it. Shelby was helpful. She didn’t need to take the time to explain to me why what I said wasn’t okay, but she did. Repeatedly. I try to value that sacrifice.”
“But you’re really good with Lane.”
“I’m not. Honestly. I’m pretty good at listening and empathizing, but I’m not particularly skilled in dealing with assault survivors. Other people are just really bad. Not you, necessarily. It’s just, sexual assault isn’t a polite subject so most people don’t learn how to talk about it.”
Laurel stared intently at her hands for a minute, then two. “Yeah. Okay. That makes sense.”
“I’m real smart.”
She chuckled. “What do we do now?”
“There’s Thai food.”
“Just eat Thai?”
“You should wash your face. I should change my T-shirt. Then we should eat Thai. Later, we’ll find you a therapist. Do you approve this plan?”
“It sounds like an excellent plan.”
Nickels chose that moment to start scratching at my bedroom door. She thought this closed door business was bullshit.
“Nickels thinks you should give her snuggles too,” I said.
Laurel laughed at me. “She does?”
“Yes. I can sense it. She’s very therapeutic.” I opened the door wide enough for Nickels to run in. She went straight for Laurel. “Told you.”
Laurel sat on the floor and Nickels flopped so her belly was exposed. “Hi,” Laurel said. Nickels purred.
“See? Purring makes everything better.” I stripped off my T-shirt and swapped it for a dry one.
“You’re right. This is very therapeutic.”
“It doesn’t negate the need to see a therapist, though.”
“Hard-ass.”
Chapter Ten
Going on adventures with Laurel held a lot more appeal when they weren’t connected to following a drug lead. Unfortunately, we had a lead to follow. At least I hadn’t been saddled with Reyes. I’d just have to take my adventures where I could get them.
Laurel was driving. I realized now that her obsession with driving was actually an obsession with her truck. Sure, the cameras and microphones routed to the FBI were a bonus, but she just liked driving her truck. The worst part was she was hot while driving it. She was wearing a flannel shirt and a navy quilted jacket. Her window was down a couple of inches. Cold air blew through the cab. One would think it was more logical to roll up the windows and take off the jacket, but Laurel had her quirks.
The stretch of Highway 70 we were on was mostly farmland. Orchards spread on both sides of the highway. Most of the trees were either barren or changing color. Every couple of miles there was another farm stand. Every farm had one. Some were next to the central house on the property. Most were situated far enough away to give the occupants a semblance of privacy. A handful were already closed for the season, but the majority would remain open until winter set in.
We passed another parking lot set between a farm stand and a house. Laurel did a double take, then braked. Luckily, no one was driving behind us.
“You see that?” she asked.
“See what?”
After a second, she sped up and looked back at the road. “Never mind.”
“What the hell was that?” I asked.
“Would you mind dropping a pin?” She pointed at her phone in the cup holder.
“Okay?” I took
her phone and launched the map. I dropped a pin at our location. “Want me to label it?”
“Yeah. Truck.”
“Huh?”
“Label it ‘truck.’”
“You going to fill me in?”
“Did you see that truck back there?”
I looked back, but the lot was long behind us. “No.”
“It was eighties, I think. Green and white. Looked pretty cool.”
“You in the market for a new truck?” I knew she wasn’t.
She looked at me like I was dumb. “No, but Andy is.”
“Andy wants a truck?”
She laughed and shook her head. “She told Robin she wants a truck like mine. Robin and I talked about it. A seventies truck will either be expensive because it’s a classic, or will require money to make sure everything is running smoothly.”
“I take it Robin’s got a budget?”
“Yeah. She’s telling Andy the budget is a thousand, but she’s got double that set aside. She’s just trying to make Andy work for it.”
“So eighties is the compromise?”
“Yeah. Still a beast. All the cool factor, but you know, not a classic. I mean, technically, seventies isn’t classic depending on who you ask, but whatever.”
“Why am I just hearing about this?”
“No clue. I could have sworn Robin mentioned it to you. She and I have been on the lookout for like a month and a half.”
“I think I’d remember that.”
Laurel shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess you’re getting old.”
I laughed. “Yep. That’s the first sign of age. Forgetting entire conversations.”
“Well, try to retain this one. The truck will probably turn out to be nothing, but we should stop and check it out on the way back. Robin and I have checked like three between us, but none of them were right.”
The scenery started to shift back and forth between suburban development and farmland until we crossed the river and were suddenly in Marysville. We circled the man-made lake in the center of the small city as I directed Laurel to Highway 20. The city quickly fell away and we were back in valley farmland. Laurel turned off the highway and onto increasingly dilapidated roads. The asphalt ended and gravel took over.
Laurel rolled up her window. “What are the chances Jerome gave you a bad lead to set you up?”
“Honestly? Fifty-fifty.”
“You didn’t think to mention that before we came all this way?”
I shrugged. “Maybe sixty-forty.”
“Which side is in favor of the set up?”
“Forty. Probably.” A dirty road appeared ahead. I squinted at the hand-lettered sign. “There.” I pointed. “Feather River Large Animal Clinic.”
Laurel slowed and turned. The road widened and smoothed out once we got past the initial tree line. Up ahead was a ranch-style house. The drive split. Laurel took the left fork toward the barn. The wide doors were open. A large wooden sign proclaimed the name of the veterinary practice. This one was newer and more artful. Like it had been commissioned rather than the afterthought of the sign back at the road.
We parked in the small lot next to the barn. Laurel texted Agent Michelson our location and waited for a response. We were out of Sacramento city and county limits. Her Sac PD colleagues wouldn’t be much help if this went south. The text telling us to proceed came after a minute. In that time, a guy emerged from the barn. He looked young—maybe early thirties. His brown boots were both sturdy and hipster. His jeans and flannel looked just about as trendy as Laurel’s. He waved as we got out of the truck.
“Can I help you?” he called.
I stepped in front of Laurel. She let me. “Yeah. We are looking for Roy Wickham. Can you direct us to his office?”
The guy frowned slightly, then pushed back his floppy blond hair and forced a smile. “Dr. Wickham retired a couple of years ago. I bought the practice. I’m Cory Parrish.” The smile became genuine. “Dr. Cory Parrish. How can I help?”
Shit. There was no way this wholesome country veterinarian had continued his predecessor’s drug dealing. “Oh, there’s a specific prescription medication we are trying to track down,” I said. He started frowning again. Hopefully, he never played poker. “We were directed here by a colleague. Jerome St. Maris. He said Dr. Wickham was known for carrying it.”
“Right. What medication was it?”
I assumed Laurel and I were about two minutes from being sent packing, but we’d come this far. “Ketamine.”
Parrish stared at me for a full thirty seconds. I stared back at him. “How much did you need?” he asked.
“Five vials.”
“Did you bring payment for that?”
“We did.”
He nodded once, with conviction. “Let me check my supply. I’m not sure I have that much on hand.”
I offered a half-smile. Maybe he was a better poker player than I’d thought. “Thank you.”
He went back into the barn and ducked into an office.
Laurel leaned close. “Michelson wants us to confirm that he’s dealing. That’s our only job. They want to make a clean arrest and gather as much solid evidence as possible.”
“You guys think they kept records?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s possible. The more we can get on him, the better our leverage.”
“Seems logical.”
“Did you actually bring enough money for five vials of ketamine?”
I grinned. “I have no fucking clue. I tried to figure out how much it costs before we came and was wildly unsuccessful. The internet is a weird place.”
“Cash.” She gave me a sharp look.
“What?”
“That could totally undermine our credibility.”
“It won’t. I’m good at bluffing. You’re good at lying. We’ll be fine.”
“What if he comes back and tells you it’s five hundred a vial?”
“He won’t. Even with an insane markup, it won’t be that high.”
“But you don’t know the street value.”
“Neither do you, Detective.”
She glared. “How much did you bring?”
“Only a grand.”
“You brought a grand?” she whisper-shouted.
I grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Should I have brought a roll of sweaty twenties?” I laughed at the visual. “I’m a professional.”
“You stress me out.”
“No, I don’t.”
She huffed. “Where the hell did this guy go?”
I tried to see inside the barn, but it was pretty dark compared to the bright, crisp sunlight. “No clue. Want me to go check?” I started walking toward the barn.
Laurel pulled me back. “No. We don’t go marching into random barns. We have no clue what’s in there.”
“Worst-case scenario it’s an axe murdering sex cult. Or Republicans.”
“You’re taking this far too lightly.”
“You’re taking this far too seriously. This guy is a white-collar criminal. He likes to make a couple extra bucks selling horse tranquilizers to rapey frat boys. He’s a jerk, but he’s not the kind of jerk who fights back.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve seen way too many entitled men backed into a corner.” She looked past me and scowled. “What the fuck?”
I turned in time to see two Yuba County Sheriff’s vehicles pull up behind us. One angled behind Laurel’s truck, the other parked between us and the open barn. Four sheriffs climbed out of the cars and rapidly surrounded us. We followed their instructions to put our hands on our heads. Laurel watched them move until she figured out who was the superior officer. She made eye contact with him.
“I’m a detective with the Sacramento Police Department. My badge is in my jacket pocket.”
One of the deputies patted me down. He was less than kind in doing so.
“We got a weapon.” The only female sheriff removed Laurel’s service weapon from her shoulder holster. That was
why she kept her stupid jacket on.
Laurel sighed. “I have another gun on my ankle. And my badge is in my jacket pocket. May I please show it to you?”
The female deputy squatted and removed a small piece from Laurel’s ankle holster. I had no idea why she was carrying an extra gun. Seemed excessive. Finally, the deputy reached into Laurel’s pocket and removed her badge and ID. She handed it to her superior officer. He grunted and read the ID.
“You’re pretty far out of your jurisdiction, Detective.”
The guy feeling me up pulled my wallet out and handed it over.
“We’re here following a lead on behalf of Agent Michelson out of the Sacramento FBI office,” Laurel said.
“Cash Braddock?” The sheriff reading my ID chuckled. “You couldn’t come up with a better fake name than Cash Braddock?”
I ran through about ten smart responses, but years of contentious interactions with cops combined with years of combative dudes with superiority complexes gave me the wisdom to not say anything.
“Ms. Braddock is my CI. Can I put my hands down now?” Laurel asked. Her words were polite, but her tone was not.
The sheriff grunted and nodded at her. He turned and started reading details off our IDs into his radio. The remaining three deputies stood in a loose circle around us. When Laurel reached for her pocket, one of them stepped forward.
“Please don’t, ma’am. This will only take a few moments.”
“It will go a lot faster if I can contact my superior.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but we’re going to do it our way.”
* * *
After thirty minutes of standing and an hour of leaning against the side of a sheriff’s vehicle, I no longer had faith that sorting everything out would only take a few moments.
They had taken Laurel’s cell phone, which made her real fussy. The sun was on its descent, and the temperature was dropping with it. Laurel’s dumb jacket was looking more and more appealing next to my thin hoodie.
“Let’s run through this one more time.” The lead sheriff seemed to be losing brain cells with the sunshine. Or maybe that was my patience. “Who directed you to Roy Wickham?”
Cash and the Sorority Girl Page 9
