“And of course our jurisdictions don’t speak to each other, so he’s got a parole officer in Windsor and one in Hamilton, and neither of them know it.”
Simms pointed a finger at Marley. “Exactly. He’s a dude who knows how to play the system.”
“So where does the Mace guy fit in?”
“I don’t know. The Windsor guys said that name was coming up in another drug case. Someone trying to cut a deal offered to spill on the Windsor drug scene as long as they kept him out of gen pop. This guy said West and Mace were on to something new that was really shifting the underground drug scene, and people were noticing. Then last fall, they both seemed to disappear.”
“And West set up here,” Marley said.
“Right. Lucky us, we got West and the new street drug.”
And Aimee got moved again. To something better? Away from something worse? There was no evidence Aimee was involved in the drug scene in Hamilton. She’d confessed only to her time in Windsor. What had happened to Aimee between the time her mother had died and when Carla showed up to become her legal guardian?
“Marlowe, can you ask her?”
“Who?”
“The kid. Aimee,” Simms said impatiently. “Can you ask her about someone named Mace?”
“Yes, I can,” Marley said, trying to keep the reluctance out of her voice. Aimee was a resilient kid, but Marley didn’t want to keep testing it.
“Good. And you up for field work yet?”
“Depends,” said Marley, shifting in her chair. She was officially off pain meds other than Advil. She wasn’t sleeping well, but she didn’t think that had anything to do with her injury. “What are you thinking?”
“Maybe heading down to knock on some doors, ask some questions.”
“Yeah, Simms. I’m up for that. Let me know.”
Marley’s phone chimed and vibrated on her desk. Marley ignored it for now.
“Could be this afternoon, could be tomorrow. I’ll text you.”
“Sounds good,” Marley said, wanting him to disappear.
When he did, Marley flipped her phone over to check the notification. It was Devon.
Aimee cut her forehead. I think someone needs to look at it.
Marley’s heart sank. Poor kid. She okay?
A little freaked out but okay.
Of course she was. This was Aimee West. Walk-in clinic?
Thinking my ER, Centennial. Wait times probably same but thought she might be happier in a place I know.
Marley considered that. Walk-in clinics were potentially quieter, with no urgent cases, though likely they were the same time sitting and waiting to get seen. But Devon would know the staff at the ER. Maybe even find a quiet corner for Aimee if she was overwhelmed or upset. She was just typing that back when Devon sent another text.
Stupid idea?
Marley deleted her original text and tried again. Not at all. Want me to come?
Why don’t Carla and I start and we’ll see how it goes?
Done. Keep me posted, Dr. Wolfe.
Will do, Constable Marlowe.
Marley put down her phone and stared at her desk. She knew Aimee was fine. She didn’t know what to do with the fact that she would rather be with Devon and Carla and Aimee right now. She’d rather be seeing them through this rough time than sorting through the chain reaction of this drug bust. It was becoming one hazy blur of human sadness.
Marley shifted in her seat, stretching to adjust her belt away from her wound. Devon was more than capable of supporting Carla and Aimee, and she always seemed to know the balance of checking in with Carla without patronizing. And Aimee loved Devon. They were safe and cared for. Marley was here now, this was her job. This was an opportunity to help Carla and Aimee in a way Devon couldn’t. She could help collect the evidence against Randolph West and piece together Aimee’s trauma so maybe, just maybe, some day she could put it to rest.
She pulled out a piece of paper, a useless memo with directions on how to change your voice mail on one side. A little embarrassed, Marley listed questions down the left side. Who, what, when, where, how, why?
She started with who. Randolph West and the three associates arrested with him. She added the name Mace with a question mark. Marley held her pen against Aimee’s name. She could list the relationship between Aimee and her father, between Aimee and his three associates. She tapped the name Mace, then circled it.
Next, what. Drugs. What kind? Marley turned on her computer and accessed the files she was looking for, thankful Simms had opened it up to her. She scrolled down to the still-incomplete report on the drugs. Suspected opioid, a variation of the addictive substance. Marley jotted a few notes about the drugs, then looked at her two filled-in columns. Something wasn’t quite right, something incomplete. She added drug users to the who list. Then added drug distributor beside the name of West’s associates and drug developer with a question mark beside West himself and the still unknown Mace. Marley circled the drug users. She needed to ask Simms if anyone had questioned any of the drug users.
The when, where, and how went pretty quickly, as it was the bulk of the evidence they had: the details of locations and drug paraphernalia, distribution routes, and cash. It was the information that Marley cared about least and Simms cared about most. Possibly why I’m a terrible cop, Marley thought.
Marley shook her head and looked at the last empty column. Why. Why does anyone do what they do? What motivates them to break the law, to harm others, to harm themselves? What stories do they tell themselves so they can give themselves permission to hurt in any given moment? Continuously hurt. And not care.
She wrote down the names from the who column in the why column. West and his associates seemed easy. Why? Money. She hesitated with Aimee’s name, then wrote lack of power, agency, fear. Mace was still a question mark. Drug users? Marley considered what she knew about why people used drugs. Trauma, poverty, lack of power, agency, untreated mental health issues. The similarity to Aimee’s list wasn’t difficult to see, and Marley felt a hard resolve anchor itself in her chest. This wouldn’t be Aimee’s future. It couldn’t be.
“I’ve got an update, Marlowe.”
Marley had been absorbed in her list and hadn’t seen Simms arriving. She’d been blocking out the sound of the office pretty effectively for the last half hour.
“What is it, Simms?”
Simms put a paper on her desk and tapped it with one finger.
“Chemical analysis of West’s drug.”
Marley scanned the page, recognizing the chemical compound jargon but not understanding any of it. She scanned until she saw a summary.
“Chemical compound mimics fentanyl,” Marley read. She looked up at Simms. “But we’re not seeing the overdose numbers like with fentanyl.”
“You got it. Farther down, it explains that. When I talked to the lab guy on the phone, the one who did the final report, he said this was a pretty sophisticated formula and not something he’s seen in a lot of street drugs in Canada.”
“Sophisticated,” Marley said, considering the word.
“He called it ‘elegant and creative’, I believe,” Simms said.
Marley blinked. These words were strange here, jarring even. She glanced at her list. Where did sophisticated, elegant, and creative fit in?
“Whatcha got there?”
Marley hesitated, then showed him her list. “Don’t laugh,” she said. “I was trying to wrap my head around the whole picture.”
Simms scanned the list and grunted, though Marley wasn’t sure how to interpret that. “You can add to the ‘what’ list. We’ve got a better idea what this drug is. We’re calling it opioid Z for now.” He put the paper down but kept looking at it.
Marley hesitated, then leaned forward and pointed at the who. “I’m more curious about who, to be honest with you. I don’t see anyone on this list who has the knowledge for sophisticated chemical compound composition. Let alone elegance and creativity.”
Simms star
ed at her for a moment, then looked at the list. He tapped it again.
“You’re thinking Mace?” he said.
“I’m thinking we’ve got a big fat question mark around Mace.”
“And I think we should do something about it. Let’s go talk to some people.”
Marley checked her phone. No updates from Devon. They were good, they were fine. This was how Marley could help Aimee.
Marley looked back up at Simms.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
Devon could feel the bones in her hand crunching together as Aimee held her hand tighter and tighter and tighter. Carla was filling out paperwork, a long process since she only had a temporary health card for Aimee and a letter from Family and Children’s Services. Aimee’s birth certificate and health card hadn’t yet shown up in the piles of evidence from Fleming Street. Or maybe it was lost in transition between agencies. Aimee’s whole life seemed currently lost in transition.
The whoosh of the automatic doors made Aimee cringe, and she tucked her bandaged head into Devon’s shoulder.
“That door opens and closes about a thousand times in a day, I bet,” Devon said conversationally. “It allows the medical staff to go back and forth between the waiting area and the treatment rooms without having to touch a door handle.”
Aimee didn’t say anything, but she peeked over Devon’s shoulder at the door before settling again.
Aimee had been spinning on the barstool in the kitchen while Devon and Carla were chatting after breakfast. Her foot had caught as she was climbing down, and she’d fallen into the stool next to it, slicing her head on an exposed wood staple. It wasn’t too deep, but it was deep enough.
“Can I get your finger, honey?” the triage nurse said to Aimee. “I’m going to put this clip on it.”
Aimee looked at the pulse-ox monitor, with its glowing red button. She extended her hand, still leaning into Devon.
“There you go,” the nurse said. She was kind and efficient. “Next up, a thermometer. This one goes in your ear.”
Aimee held still through all the prodding and questions, but Devon could feel her agitation. When they were released from triage and sent back to the waiting area, Devon carried Aimee in her arms. She walked to the main desk and waited, knowing interrupting a nurse was one of the very best ways to get your head bitten off, chewed up, and spat out. Devon was relieved to see Gloria on shift. She was bright and efficient and always made things work.
Gloria shoved a pen into the side pocket of her blue and purple scrubs and turned around, her eyes lighting up when she saw Devon.
“Well, if it isn’t the Zen Tiger.” She glanced at Aimee, who was still hiding her face. “With a babe in arms even.”
“It’s good to see you, Gloria,” Devon said, relieved the sentiment wasn’t forced. “How mad would you be if I waited with this one in the alcove? She’s a little overwhelmed.”
Gloria came around the other side of the desk, pulling on a pair of gloves from a box on the wall. Devon had almost forgotten these fluid movements, the dance and interplay of muscle memory repeating a motion again and again, seeking out answers to the unknown.
“Who do we have here?”
“This is Aimee and her grandmother Carla. Aimee’s got a cut to the head from a fall off a stool in my kitchen.”
“Hey, Aimee. I’m Gloria, I’m a nurse. Sometimes they call me Glorious, but that’s because every now and then I bake cannolis.”
Aimee turned her head just enough to see Gloria.
“Mind if I touch your forehead, honey? Will only take a sec.”
Aimee nodded and sat through another short exam.
“It’s not too bad. You go sit with her in the alcove, and I’ll tell Bryson where to find you when he’s got a minute. Could be a while.”
“Thanks, Gloria,” Devon said.
The nurse squeezed Devon’s bicep. “It’s good to see you. You are missed.”
Then Gloria was gone, swept up in the never-ending movement of the emergency department.
Devon swallowed a lump in her throat and indicated with a quick jerk of her chin to Carla which way they were going. The alcove was an odd space outside the staff room, with two chairs tucked behind the tall wheelie shelves of blankets and sheets. It didn’t diminish the sound of the busy hospital much, but it felt calmer, a respite from the constant energy.
Carla sat in one of the chairs and held her arms up. “Here, let me take her. Your arms must be tired by now.”
Devon leaned down, and Aimee awkwardly clambered from her arms to her grandmother’s. Devon shook out her arms, muscles aching.
“You guys okay here for a bit?” Devon said to Carla. “I’m going to double-check Bryson knows we’re back here.”
“We’re good,” Carla said, rocking Aimee a little in her arms. “Thanks for finding us a quiet spot. I know how busy these places can get.”
“Not a problem. I’d offer to bring you some tea or coffee, but I know how gruesome it is here.”
Carla laughed. “Let’s not risk it,” she said.
Devon walked back through the busy, familiar halls, looking for the doctor. She felt conspicuous now without Aimee in her arms, a tangible, easily explained reason why she was here back in the ER. But it was okay, Devon realized. There was concern in her body, awareness of others, apprehension at having to repeat why she was here and where she had been. But no panic, no overriding sense of wrongness. No voice in her head blaring the siren of you can’t do this.
“Devon! Hey, I was just coming to look for you.”
Doug Bryson hadn’t been a med student for twenty years, but it was hard to tell. His light beard did very little to cover his baby face. Bryson was a good doctor and had been one of Devon’s best allies in the beginning, as she tried to integrate mental health practices into the busy trauma unit.
“Looking good, Bryson. I like the beard.”
Bryson stroked his beard dramatically. “This puppy took me a month. I’m quite proud of it. You’re looking good, kid. You running a lot?”
“Thanks and yeah. Most days, if I can avoid these storms. Hey, thanks for your texts over the last little while. It’s meant a lot.” Devon swallowed, making space for the feeling of vulnerability and gratitude.
Bryson cuffed her on the shoulder. “Team takes care of team. You taught us that.”
Devon hoped that was true.
“I hear you’ve got a kid with you needing some stitches?”
“Aimee and her grandmother are staying with me for a bit and Aimee, she’s eight, took a fall off one of my spinning barstools.”
Bryson nodded. “Give me about fifteen minutes—which means half an hour—and I’ll take a look. Hopefully we can use some epoxy and not make the kid suffer through stitches.”
“You’ve got the best hands on the floor, Bryson. That’s why Gloria put you on the case.”
“Ah, flattery,” Bryson said, grinning. “I do like flattery. Fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect. And just a heads-up that Aimee doesn’t talk. She gestures and writes to communicate.”
“Okay,” Bryson said, looking curious. “We’ll make it work.”
Bryson waved as he walked off and Devon leaned back into the wall, out of the way of the busiest of the traffic flow. She pulled out her phone, responding to a message from her dad. She hesitated before sending a message to Marley, not wanting to interrupt her day. Marley was back to work, focused on uncovering what exactly Randolph West had released onto the street. Devon thought a quick check-in message would be okay, giving an update without requiring a response.
As she was tapping out the message on her phone, a commotion by one of the curtained-off beds caught Devon’s attention. She saw the curtain yanked and heard a voice hiss. She also heard the sound of crying, gulping, and sniffing and the cracking voice of someone trying to hold it together. Another cycle of blame and regret and guilt. Histories played out in the emergency room, relationships cut to their core in the
se moments of pain and stress.
A moment later, Gloria pushed back the curtain, closing it halfway as she left. Devon recognized the nurse’s professional mask, the armour that front line workers put on every day. When she caught sight of Devon, Gloria let the mask slip, shaking her head a little. Devon thought the annoyance on the nurse’s face looked awfully close to defeat.
“Family drama?” Devon guessed, talking quietly.
“Big time,” Gloria said. “Daughter OD’d and Mom is choosing this moment to announce she’s taking away her four-year-old grandchild.”
Pain on pain, Devon thought. She could see the young woman in the hospital bed. She looked to be in her early twenties, hair in a fallen ponytail over her shoulder, shredding a tissue into small pieces on the sheet over her lap. Devon’s heart ached to see the hopelessness and self-loathing in her expression. Self-hatred was a deep and dark pit. This young woman had a tough climb ahead of her.
“Calling social services for sure,” Gloria said. “Medically she’s fine, though I need the doc to check out that rash.” Gloria sighed. “Patch ’em up, see if we can get her some help, and make space for the next one.”
Devon raised her eyebrow at the nurse. Gloria snorted and rolled her eyes.
“You’re really going to make me reframe? No free passes?”
“You can do it in your head if you like,” Devon said mildly, smiling at Gloria’s resistance to the process they’d practiced as a unit over and over.
Another eye roll as Gloria tapped sharply on the keyboard recessed into the wall. Devon said nothing, just continued looking around the ward, feeling the familiar rhythms and finding a sense of peace.
“Fine,” Gloria said, shoving the keyboard back into the wall. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared Devon down. Devon could see the glint in her eye, though, the acceptance that she needed to shift the negative thoughts. “I was here today to take care of the patient. I provided care. I made things as betterer as I could.” That hint of laughter, a defense mechanism Devon had always encouraged. “I can make up words, right?”
Storm Lines Page 14
