by Amy Lane
“What about Wyle E. and the Roadrunner,” Jackson asked gently, referring to the two other kids who had been on probation in his old duplex. “They good with their buddy wanting to date you?”
AJ shrugged gamely. “They have to readjust,” he said. “I get it. They know their friend one way, and this feels like a lie. But Jael has been really firm on them being nice to me.”
Jackson looked at him levelly. “If it helps, tell him that their free rent depends on it. Also, how are they doing on jobs?”
AJ frowned thoughtfully. “Not bad. Both of them have part-time gigs in an auto parts store that might move to full-time, and the one guy with the tattoos has signed up for classes at Sac City. Besides the redneck homophobia, they’re not bad kids. And Jael’s working on that.”
Jackson nodded. “Just remember—anything you’re not comfortable with, I’m not comfortable with. I will kick their asses out if they hurt you or Jail… uhm, Jael, so you can drop that into conversation if you need to.”
“I won’t,” AJ said firmly, and Jackson read the subtext. Stop it, Dad, I’m trying to look cool. Well, if he had to be Dad to AJ’s lost boy, that was fine. Better Jackson as Dad than AJ in another drug flop, too stoned to run away from a serial killer, as he’d been when Jackson had met him.
“Fair enough.” Jackson ripped off a piece of danish and shoved it into his mouth for spite. Try to make him feel old—little punk.
“Are you ready to talk about those financials yet?” Crystal asked after a moment. “Because the next stop in the conversation is my love life—”
“Are you dating?” Jackson asked, for form.
“No. I don’t feel like it. My house is tranquil, and AJ is a good roommate, and I don’t even mind if he and Jael have noisy sex in his room, which they haven’t yet. Too bad. Are we good yet?”
“Fine,” Jackson said, stunned.
“Fine,” AJ mumbled, clearly embarrassed but intrigued by the idea of bringing a lover overnight.
“Good. Because the two deep dives you had me do are bad. Very, very bad. And one of these people is a very wicked man. You have to stop him.”
Jackson stared at her until his eyeballs dried out.
“Drink some coffee,” she told him.
He took a sip and blinked.
“What’s wrong? You wouldn’t have asked me for a favor if you didn’t think I’d find something.” She waved her hand in agitation, and he shook himself.
“Well, yeah, but I usually have to pull teeth to have my hunches confirmed. That was just so refreshing. Tell me more, Crystal. I’m waiting for your guidance.”
“You only say that because you want to solve the case,” she said primly, a little smile escaping at the corners of her full mouth.
“Why yes, I do,” Jackson said. “The guy I’m trying to get off for murder is going to be arrested any day now, and it would be great if we had someone else to say ‘This guy! He is the one!’ so I don’t have to see our new friend go to jail.”
“He is a new friend!” She clapped her hands delightedly. “I knew there was something positive about your aura. Of course!” She frowned for a moment and then squinted at him. “But there’s red too. You’re… hurt? Not well. Something.”
“I’ve got stitches,” he said easily, ignoring the breathlessness of the last week. He’d know if there was something wrong, right?
She nodded, troubled. “That might be it. But now you’re impatient. Here.” She reached behind her to the phone stand by the kitchen counter and produced a folder, then pulled out three stapled packets from it and handed one to each of them.
“Now we’re going to start on page one of Robert Sampson’s outgoing payments. Notice the highlighted parts? AJ, you have to pay attention because you’re answering Ellery’s questions once Jackson explains it and goes on his adventure, okay?”
AJ nodded soberly, and Crystal took them on an odyssey of money laundering, drugs, and murder.
It was all there, highlighted in yellow, between the fruit stains, the coffee, and three friends at breakfast.
“WAIT,” HENRY said when Jackson picked him up from the flophouse. “Explain this to me again.”
Jackson nodded, glad he’d practiced on Ellery instead of leaving AJ to do it, because Ellery stopped and asked clarifying questions so Jackson didn’t go “Ablagh, blorp, squandoo!” and expect someone else to understand him.
“Okay,” Jackson said. “So twenty years ago, when Martin Sampson would have been about ten years old, his father and three friends joined together to create a medical partnership. And at first it was just them and a couple of nurses and a combination of both state and private insurance to fund them. But cutbacks were made to the state insurance, and the private insurance kept going HMO, and our partners were sort of left out in the cold.”
Henry nodded. “I get that. Why didn’t they join an HMO? I know a lot of doctors did.”
“Well, a lot of doctors had more business sense than these guys. Apparently, Ash Carver lived his life on thirty-black, Calvin Warburton hadn’t met a woman he hadn’t wanted to fuck and then cheat on, and Jordan Patel’s sole interest was research, and he had a tendency to forget he even had patients. So these four doctors were about to lose everything—including their licenses, because Warburton’s womanizing was damned illegal and Patel had turned his patient care over to a nursing student out of her league who had made some serious errors—”
“Summer Frasier!” Henry said, and Jackson took his hand off the steering wheel of Ellery’s car to touch his finger to his nose.
“Yahtzee! Yes, for the win. And now we know why she has to beg for lubricant. Anyway, their business was going under, and little Martin kept getting kicked out of private schools, and Robert Scott Sampson noticed that oh my God! These pamphlets from the drug companies asking if he wanted free samples were everywhere. Different companies, different drugs—all of them just giving away narcotics and Ritalin and all the shit that’s regulated now but wasn’t so much back then.”
“Like a dog rolling in flowers because he could,” Henry said in wonder. “Where are we going, by the way?”
“Did you bring your brown polyester shirt and your jeans?”
Henry held up a small reusable shopping bag. “I did, indeed.”
“Baseball hat too?” Because it was hot outside and because a little anonymity never hurt.
“I’m wearing it! Duh!”
Jackson chuckled through the low-level headache that had settled in after his caffeine wore off. “USAF—I should have noticed that,” he said after a deep breath. “I’ve got one too.” Jackson’s had Daffy Duck on it, just because. “Good. The company that Sampson uses to clean his house is off of Richards Boulevard. According to his records, they take the money out on Friday of every week, which would indicate that Friday—”
“Today,” Henry said, nodding.
“Yes, today, is the day they wander through his precious possessions invisibly and vacuum. Which is what we’re going to do, to see what we can see.”
“You… you’ve seemed pretty determined to do this from the beginning,” Henry observed. “Can I ask why?”
Jackson grimaced. “Because Martin Sampson wasn’t a good guy. But he had help getting that way. Let’s just say that, serial killers aside, most people know their killers, and everything about Sampson screamed daddy issues.”
“Any other reason?”
“I think Robert Sampson was our OG, our original gangster, our big drug kahuna. I think he’s been doing it for years.”
“Why would he kill his son?”
Jackson thought about it, thought about his mother on the coroner’s slab, thought about how sometimes, parenting didn’t take.
“Did Martin ever find out your name?” he said after a moment. “Did he have any way of knowing you were related to your brother?”
Henry blinked. “I… well, I remember him looking at my driver’s license,” he said after a moment. “He said, ‘Henry Worrall, Mon
tana.’”
“And you said…?”
“I said, ‘Yeah, I’m here to visit my brother.’”
“And the next time he sees you, you’re defending the Johnnies guys, being an all-American hero?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because in his fucked-up, ‘burn the fucking world down’ way, Martin Sampson loved your brother. And I think getting called out for a worthless piece of shit by David Worrall’s little brother was his last straw.”
“So his father’s a drug dealer…. Do you think that’s why he started using?”
Jackson shook his head. “No. See, here’s the thing. Up to about a year and a half ago, Robert was giving his son an allowance like you would with a spoiled college kid who was still working on his degree.”
“What happened?”
“Martin got arrested for taking out his girlfriend’s windows. And when he got arrested, he had a shitload of cocaine on him, because he was dealing.”
“And he never went to jail?”
Jackson grunted. God, this was so unfair. “Yeah, but he wasn’t there long. He was out in plenty of time to get dead. Isn’t it great to be rich, white, and male in America?” Jesus fucking Christ—if AJ had been busted with that much product on him, he’d be an old man before he got out. Except AJ wasn’t Martin Sampson, and AJ wouldn’t have made it so much as a month. Hell, Crystal had served three years for having paraphernalia—no drugs included—and that didn’t include the two years for hacking to fund her habit. It all depended on who was being held up as an example of a “bad citizen” and who was the pillar of the fucking community, right?
That was why he and Ellery did what they did.
“Two out of three still ain’t bad,” Henry admitted sourly. “A thing I never thought about until I met you, fuck you very much. So when did Martin get out of jail?”
“A year ago,” Jackson confirmed.
“So he’s clean for coke and…?”
“And Dad’s drug business isn’t doing so well. And here’s the thing. When Martin was dealing someone else’s coke, Dad’s business was doing great! But Martin goes up the creek and Dad’s business falls off—the same business that was giving his son the allowance that let him feed his addiction and the addictions of the people around him. Why do you think that is?”
“I got nothing,” Henry confessed.
“I’ve got an idea,” Jackson told him. “This is all pure fucking speculation, based on the fact that Daddy Sampson’s business picked up pretty much the same month Martin got out of jail. Now, Martin said coke was a rich-man’s drug and if he wanted pills he’d go to Daddy. What if—and, speculation, mind you—what if the guys he hung with weren’t so rich.”
“But he hung with Johnnies guys!” Henry protested.
Jackson frowned. “Yeah, but hear me out. John was doing drugs, but he was doing them outside of the house. Does your brother look like he’d be running a house built on cocaine?”
“No,” Henry said, adamant. “I’d be surprised if he more than tried it, and he probably felt super guilty later, if he did. Davy—he was always the good boy, the one who looked after the younger kids. He couldn’t do that if he was high. And I don’t think he could not do it, you know?”
Jackson nodded. “I got that from him. And I got that if he’d been coked up, he would have been like John—he would have told us up front. Besides, the business is porn, and we all know coke makes your balls shrivel. I’m sure there’s some stimulants out there that keep you super aroused, but you can’t use them too long or it’s going to fuck up your porn, you know?”
“Hard to look cute and clean-cut when your septum is gone or you’ve got yellow teeth from meth,” Henry confirmed. “I see you.”
“So young Martin isn’t dealing to the Johnnies kids, and his dad’s not either. I don’t know if his dad even knew his son was in porn—although I’m sure he heard about it when Martin went to jail. But his dad’s got nobody to distribute for him. He can’t even breathe about it to patients; too many doctors get ruined that way. He may have his doctor friends on board, but nobody else he knows is going to buy in. But his son—his son is sitting on a gold mine of distribution. Robert isn’t going to have his son deal, oh no. But imagine if his son brings home friends, guys Robert’s trying to hook up as professional contacts. Can you see how this would play out?”
“Hey, kid,” Henry said in a conspiratorial whisper. “You look tired. I can give you something for that. Still buzzed? Want something to bring you down? Got that too.”
Jackson grunted and steered them down Richards, which had been recently remodeled. Yeah, some of the street still housed sex shops and homeless shelters, but beyond the freeway interchange was a whack of new businesses, and Jackson was a fan.
“Stop doing the voice,” he muttered. “It’s creeping me out. But yes. Martin Sampson went to school with Jordan Patel’s daughter, Calvin Warburton’s sons, and Ash Carver’s son. Patel’s daughter got out—like, way out, to the Ivy League and then to practice medicine in Chicago. But Ash Carver’s son, Barnes, did not. He was killed in a car accident while Martin was in prison.”
“DUI?” Henry hazarded.
“And give the boy a cigar. But not any ordinary influence. Nope. I called my buddy in the CHP, and Mack said the kid had been doing so many different pills that if he hadn’t exploded his brain against a tree, it would have exploded on its own.”
“That’s awful,” Henry muttered, all trace of banter gone. “Oh my God. That’s… that’s really awful. His father did that to him?”
“Or his father’s buddy,” Jackson said. “And that’s when things get strange. That’s when the financials and the police reports stop telling the story. Or they do, but the missing details are really fucking important.”
“Why?” Henry asked. “What happened?”
“Well, about two weeks after Ash—who was long divorced from his wife, by the way—has paid out for a casket and flowers, a bunch of things happen to his finances. His house goes up for sale, and the money goes in, but nothing comes out. He sells his car, and again, money in for a car, but no bills. There’s no hotel bills, no rental agreements, no nothing. Nothing but his standard monthly contribution to his partner’s checking account to spring for his overhead, which he can do for another five years without depleting his savings. Now you went into his office, and what did you see?”
“Nothing. It was used as a warehouse,” Henry said. “Shit stacked everywhere.”
“That’s what you said. And we both heard from different places that Carver was out on sabbatical. It’s general fucking knowledge, right?”
“Yeah, but, I mean, the guy’s gotta eat, right?”
“You’d think.” Jackson’s voice got grim. “I mean, he must be a walking corpse by now.”
There was silence in Ellery’s Lexus as that sank in. “Or maybe not walking around so much,” Henry said thickly.
“Maybe not.”
“Shit.”
Jackson nodded. Sitting at Crystal’s kitchen table that morning, the light coming in through the gauzy curtains, the pastry sweet on his tongue, he’d looked at Ash Carver’s financials, at that lack of activity in a checking account that had been rife with activity—including an allowance to a now deceased son—and he’d smelled nothing but death.
“So,” Henry said after they’d both taken a deep breath. “We’re going to the cleaning service.”
“Yup.”
“Because…?”
“Because Toby found carpet fiber in the wound, but there was no carpet in the dumpster. And when Ellery gives the police the financials today, they’re going to have enough to start an investigation, but not before the cleaning service gets rid of all the evidence. And because….” Jackson wasn’t sure he should tell Henry this, but he thought he’d better. “Because it’s Friday. And if they’re going to issue a warrant for your arrest, it’s going to be today. And it’s not that I don’t think you’re tough enough for jail—it’s
that you’re my friend and I don’t want you there. I know enough people who had to wait a month or three for a trial. You’re finally getting your shit together, Henry, and as good as Ellery is, and as much clout as he still wields in this town, I would very much not like to have to live with him for the next three months if he’s battering down the walls of justice trying to get you a trial.”
Henry grunted as though struck. “Wow. That was almost a love sonnet. Does Ellery know?”
“That if we keep you out of jail, I may kill you? Yes. Yes, I’m pretty sure he does.”
Henry snickered. “Don’t worry about it if we don’t beat the clock,” he said after a moment. “I think it’s enough to know I’ve got people who don’t want me in there. Is this it?”
Jackson had pulled up to a bank of warehouses, some with hand-lettered signs, some with banners from FedEx, and some with street art on a piece of plywood. This sign was well made, metal, bolted into the archway over the carport, and it said, River Breeze Cleaning, complete with a little logo that featured running water and a spray bottle full of pine cleaner.
“This is the place,” Jackson said. “Let me find Joey.”
It was easy for employers of unskilled labor to exploit their workforce—particularly migrant labor—but Joey Duarte was one of the good guys. Topping out at five feet five inches, with a mischievous smile, sloe eyes, and a BA in business, Joey had taken his mother’s pride in a clean home and a stake left to him by his grandfather and turned it into a housecleaning co-op that was designed to help kids through college, struggling parents make extra money, and give people who just wanted to make an honest wage a steady, no-drama income. He also offered health and dental, and, Jackson remembered fondly, was sort of amazing in bed.
Right now, he was underneath one of six white service vans in his fleet, banging away at it with a wrench. Joey had a quick mind and an unrivaled resourcefulness, and one of the reasons he’d been able to build his business so far, so fast, was that he could pretty much fix anything that came his way.
