“Okay, we have a major fentanyl ring operating in Baronville. And they’re using the fulfillment center to bring it in. What do you think Ross does with it?”
“He must take it from the center and pass it on to others. He’s got a duffel bag in his office. I think that’s how he’s getting it out. I found out he goes to the gym after work. But why carry your gym clothes in with you to work when the gym you’re going to has locker rooms and showers? Why not just leave them in the car until you get to the gym?”
“But don’t they have security there to check bags and stuff?”
“They have magnetometers, but that wouldn’t catch powder like this. Now, they do search bags. But I’m betting the duffel has a false bottom. I opened it up when I was in his office, and it seemed to be shallow for how large the bag was. And it wouldn’t take much space to hide bottles like these.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
Decker indicated the bottle. “So educate me on the economics of this.”
“The cost to make a kilo of heroin and a kilo of fentanyl is about the same, about three to four grand. A kilo of heroin will fetch sixty thousand on the streets. But because fentanyl is so much more potent, one kilo of fentanyl can be made into about twenty-four total kilos of drug product, making it far more lucrative than heroin. And a kilo of fentanyl can produce nearly seven hundred thousand pills that sell for about twenty-five bucks each.” She looked more closely at the bottle. “This is about five thousand milligrams of powder.”
“There were twenty boxes in his office. The one I opened had five bottles inside it. If all the others had the same number of bottles, what would that be worth on the street?”
Kemper mentally calculated this. “If it is fentanyl, you’re looking at nearly nine million bucks sitting in the guy’s office.”
“I wonder how many shipments are coming through there?”
“I wonder too,” said Kemper worriedly.
“Why does it strike me that the dollar amounts we’re talking about make this seem less like a small-town conspiracy and more like an international one?”
She nodded. “You just read my mind, Decker. I can tell you that the Mexican cartels are all in on fentanyl. They either import it directly from China, where it’s manufactured both illegally and by legit pharma corporations, or they buy the stuff they need to make it from the Chinese and do the lab work themselves. They sell it in powder form like in this bottle, or they cut it with heroin. But they’re also pressing millions of fentanyl pills. And the thing with fentanyl, when you put it in pills, the dealers usually have no idea it’s in there. And the consumers don’t either. But people who don’t want to snort or smoke something because they’re afraid, or it makes them feel like addicts, will take a pill because they think it’s safer and it feels more legit. You know, sort of like taking a prescription. The pills will look like an oxycodone pill, or you can cut it with Xanax or other pain pills. They’re even stamped with the dosage amount of eighty because that’s a typical dose of Oxy. ‘Shady eighties,’ they’re called on the street. As I said, they can cost about twenty-five bucks a pill and a typical addict will take twenty pills a day.”
“Five hundred bucks a day. Expensive habit.”
“I’ve arrested dealers who routinely sell a minimum of a thousand pills a day. That much is called a ‘boat’ on the street. And there are dealers who do a lot more than that.”
Decker looked at the powder. “Do you think the plan is to make pills from the powder?”
“That would be my guess. Which means this powder is going to a pill press operation probably somewhere close by. I mean, why else ship the stuff to a place like this?”
“How much space would it need?”
“You can do it in your bedroom, or the back room of a legit business. But they would need to bring in equipment. That would include a pill press, quarter- or half-ton or bigger, depending on your output requirements. A quarter-ton unit can produce three or four thousand pills an hour. And you need people to process and package the stuff. You have to be careful while handling it. I’ve had local cops go in on drug busts and touch the fentanyl without using gloves. Next thing you know they’re on the floor turning blue. It’s that dangerous.”
“Well, there are a lot of empty buildings around here. In fact, I was thinking about the empty house where your two guys were found. With a whole house, you could probably have a bunch of pill presses going. And that would explain why the power was turned on even though no one was living there.”
Kemper’s eyes widened. “You think?”
“Like I told you before, they probably had a drone flying over the street that night.”
“Yeah, but you never told me why.”
“I think maybe they were moving out equipment and then moving in the bodies. And they wanted to make sure no one was watching or coming that way. Best way to check for that was by aerial surveillance. And that’s what drones can do really well.”
“Then we need to go over the space again, to see if they left behind any trace of a pill press operation.”
“I’d check the house next door too, where I shot Brian Collins. That place is empty as well. And has the electricity turned on too.”
“And the old man who lived across the street?”
“Dan Bond might have heard something and they needed to get rid of him. They probably picked that street because it was nearly empty. In fact, only three people lived there, including him. And Fred Ross is the father of the guy with all the drugs.”
“So what’s your suggestion? Do we go in and bust Ted Ross?”
“We bust him, chances are good everybody else gets away. And you can’t get a search warrant based on what I told you, because I had no probable cause to do what I did today in his office.”
“But when he checks his stash, won’t he know a bottle is missing?”
“He might think they just shortchanged him. But we’ll need to watch him. If it looks like he’s on to it, we’ll need to pick him up.”
“Okay, I’ll get people on that. What are you going to do?”
“We know the endgame here now—drugs. Now I just have to find the rest of the pieces.”
“Do you think all the other murders are tied to this?”
“Yes, I do. But there might be something else going on here.”
“Like what?”
“As soon as I know, I’ll tell you.”
Chapter 57
I TAKE IT you couldn’t make bail?”
It was the next day and Decker and Jamison were sitting across from John Baron in the visitors’ room at the Baronville jail.
Decker had told Jamison what he had found in Ted Ross’s office and about his meeting with Agent Kemper.
Baron was in a white prison jumpsuit. He was unshaven and his hair was in disarray. He looked like he hadn’t slept much.
“That’s right.”
“No, that’s not right. Cindi Riley tried to post bail for you after your hearing but you refused.”
“It’s not her problem. She hired me a lawyer. She shouldn’t have to waste more of her money on me.”
“Very noble of you,” said Decker. “But I don’t think nobleness is going to get you out of this. But the truth might.”
Baron said sharply, “Meaning I’ve lied to you? I’ve admitted that.”
“I’m not necessarily talking about you. I’m speaking more generally.”
“So why are you here, then, generally speaking?”
“It’s pretty clear to me that Bradley Costa came to town because he thought he knew where a treasure left behind by your namesake was located.”
“And I thought I made it very clear that I don’t believe that there is a treasure. It would have been found by now.”
“But let’s assume there is a treasure, just for argument’s sake.”
Baron sighed, sat back in the molded plastic chair, and said, “Okay, it’s not like I have anything else to do right now.”
“If t
he treasure is located on your property somewhere, it would be difficult for someone to go up there and take it, I would imagine.”
“Depends on what it was.”
“I don’t think we’re talking paper. That would degrade over time. And I think your namesake would have wanted something that would be around for the long haul.”
“Why would he care? He’d be dead.”
“Because he was a son of a bitch,” said Decker. “He didn’t want his family getting his money. In fact, a letter I read from Nigel Nottingham to his son said that your ancestor considered his children unworthy of his fortune.”
Baron mulled over this statement and shrugged. “I didn’t learn how desperate things really were until my parents died. It wasn’t until then that I found out the house had been mortgaged to the hilt and there was really no cash in the bank. I just assumed that preceding generations had simply squandered it. But I did some digging and learned that there just wasn’t a lot of money left by Baron the First to his heirs.”
“So if he was so successful, where did all the money go?” asked Jamison.
“My father talked to me about it once. He apparently had looked into it as well. With him being a lawyer he knew where to look, so to speak. After examining the matter, he told me that Baron had largely cashed out from the businesses, meaning he had borrowed heavily against his assets. That was a double whammy for his heirs. The businesses would be heavily indebted and there was little liquidity to support that debt.”
“Maybe that’s what the treasure is, the missing money,” said Jamison.
Baron looked at her. “There’s no treasure, Alex.”
“Why not?”
“Because lots of my ancestors have looked for it. You saw all the holes in the walls. And the grounds were all dug up too. My father told me it was like someone had been mining on the property. If there was treasure, I’m sure it would have been found by now.”
“Why would they have even assumed there was a treasure?” asked Jamison.
Baron said, “I don’t know for sure, of course, but I guess because they couldn’t believe what they inherited was all there was. And maybe like Decker said, they thought Baron was trying to screw them.”
“The businesses were still operating when he died,” said Decker.
“Yes, but they all petered out from a combination of a lack of capital and Baron’s heirs not being nearly as good at business as he was.”
Decker said, “That brings me back to my original question. If there is treasure up there, it would be pretty hard for someone to look for it without you knowing, right?”
“Well, I’m almost always there. And when I’m gone, it’s only for a couple hours. And you can’t access the grounds without coming right past the front door.”
“And you still own the place, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“But if you get convicted of murder, what happens?”
“You damn well know what happens. I go to prison.”
Jamison interjected, “No, he means what happens to the property? The house?”
Baron’s brows knitted together. “Oh, I see. Well, I’m barely keeping my head above water. I wouldn’t be able to work in prison, so my income, little though it is, dries up.”
“You could sell some of your personal assets. Like the old guns you showed us.”
“It’s not just that.”
“What else?”
“Well, although Brad Costa denied my most recent request, I did manage to refinance the mortgage a year or so ago. The bank gave me a slightly lower interest rate, but there was language added.”
“What sort of language?” asked Jamison.
“A moral turpitude clause. The estate possibly could be designated as a historic site. That gives it value. But any sort of scandal would lessen the worth of the property, and that added value was factored into my refinancing request.”
Jamison said, “So are you saying that if you were arrested and convicted of a crime…?”
“The bank would be able to declare an event of default and they could foreclose and sell off the property to the highest bidder. Even if I could continue to make the payments on the mortgage.”
“But why would they care, if you could still make the payments?” said Jamison.
“Because the collateral for the loan is the house. If I committed a serious crime, they argued that it would diminish the marketability and value of that collateral. Thus they wanted the right to find me in default so they could try to salvage that asset.”
Baron eyed Decker. “You don’t seem surprised by this.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“If you didn’t commit the murders then someone was trying awfully hard to see that you were blamed for them. You knew or had contact with all four victims. This wasn’t apparent for all of them. It required some digging on our part. And you didn’t help yourself by lying to us.”
“Obviously.”
“So whoever did kill them didn’t want to make it seem too easy.”
“Why not?” asked Jamison.
“Because we would have come to the conclusion that someone was framing Baron.”
“And is that the conclusion you’ve now reached?” asked Baron.
“I’m getting there. How much is the mortgage on the property?”
“A lot.”
“So whoever wanted to buy out the mortgage would have to have deep pockets?”
“Yes. The bank will take less money for it, but not a lot less.”
“And Costa knew all this?”
“He was the one who did the new deal, including the moral turpitude clause. As I said, when I went back to him later for another extension at a lower rate and better terms, he refused.”
Jamison said, “Do you think Costa was planning to somehow buy the mortgage off and get the property that way? Then he would own the place and be able to look for the treasure at his leisure?”
“I think that was his plan, but I also think he already knew where the treasure was,” said Decker.
Baron sat up straighter. “What? Then where is it?”
“I’m not sure. But he nicked a letter from the historical society that I think provided him with the answer.”
Jamison said, “But, Decker, Costa couldn’t buy the property himself, could he? That would be like self-dealing. There have to be bank regulations prohibiting that.”
“I’m sure there are,” said Decker. “Which is why he was going to need a straw man.”
“Somebody to buy the property in their name and then let him go up there and get the treasure?”
“Yes. He probably offered the person a percentage of the take.”
“So now we have to find that person,” said Jamison.
“Yes, we do, because that person also murdered Babbot, Tanner, Swanson, and Bradley Costa.” He paused and looked at Jamison. “And I think they murdered Frank too.”
Chapter 58
AS THEY WERE driving back to the Mitchells’, Jamison blurted out, “If you thought they had Frank killed, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I told you before that I suspected his death might not be an accident.”
“Yeah, but now you sound a lot more sure.”
“That’s because I am a lot more sure.”
“But why would they kill Frank?”
“He saw something he shouldn’t have, probably.”
“But it was the robot that killed him.”
“But people control robots. And what if it did exactly as it was programmed to do, while Frank was standing next to it?”
Before Jamison could answer, Decker’s phone rang.
It was Kemper.
“We just did a quick down and dirty on the two houses. Both tested positive for traces of heroin and fentanyl. Decker, I don’t know how long I can sit on this.”
“We need just a little more time. Have you been keeping Ross under surveillance?”
“Yeah, he left
yesterday with his duffel. And I’m betting there wasn’t just gym clothes in there. He went into a number of buildings, including the gym. It would have been too conspicuous for us to follow him inside. He came back out each time with the duffel, but there’s no guarantee that the pill bottles were still in there. So there’s evidence that probably just went poof.”
“We’ll nail these guys, Agent Kemper.”
“We better. Because if we don’t my career is over. I just need you to understand that we’re running out of time.”
She clicked off and Decker looked at Jamison, who had obviously overheard the DEA agent’s strident tones.
“She sounds a little panicked,” said Jamison.
“Yeah. I guess,” Decker said vaguely.
“Don’t you ever panic, Decker?”
“Never saw the value.”
“We can’t tell Amber your theory about Frank. Not until we’re sure.”
“I know that.”
The skies opened up and a fine rain began to fall.
“God, Baronville is dreary enough without the bad weather,” observed Jamison as she drove along.
“Dreary with bright spots,” amended Decker. “Look over there at that bakery. Cindi Riley told me about it. The owner had a life insurance policy on her son. He overdosed and his policy paid out enough for her to open a business.”
“You really think something hinky is going on with that.”
“Hinky enough for us to stop there and get some coffee.”
Jamison pulled into the parking lot and they entered the Peacock Bakery. There was a neon sign out front in the shape of the colorful bird.
Inside, the place was neat and well laid out with whitewashed wooden tables, multicolored tablecloths, and glass cabinets filled with delicacies. Behind the counter was a large chalkboard mounted on the wall with the bakery’s menu written on it.
Jamison sniffed the air and moaned. “God, just the aroma makes me want to eat everything in the place.”
A woman appeared from behind a curtain at the back of the counter.
She looked thin and worn and her face was heavily wrinkled, and her hair was shot through with gray. But her smile was pleasant and her eyes twinkled as she looked at them.
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