by Diane Kelly
Mia shrugged. “I never vote. I don’t think it really matters. All of the candidates are pretty much the same.”
Voter apathy. Not unusual, though a person like me who worked for the government found it frustrating at times how little people seemed to care. At least in this particular contest it might not make that much difference. Both Senator Sutton and Essie Espinoza had good ideas and reputations. Voters really couldn’t go wrong either way.
During round two of drinks, our topic ventured back to men, with everyone contributing their dating woes, including Mia’s boyfriend with the mommy issues to Summer’s last Internet date that ended with the guy’s offer to suck her toes.
I choked on my drink. “Ew!”
Raven snorted. “That’s nothing. I once had a guy offer to—”
I poked my index fingers into my ears and recited, “La-la-la!”
Though Raven’s lips continued to move, I had no idea what she said, and for that I will remain eternally grateful. Whatever the guy had proposed to do to her sent everyone but me into a giggle fit.
I turned to Frankie. “I never did ask. How’d the aerial ladder training go?”
She cringed. “Honestly? Climbing to the top of a high ladder with over forty pounds of gear on wasn’t easy. I felt like my air tank was going to pull me backward. But nothing like the fear of plummeting to your death to motivate a woman to hold on tight and move fast.”
“Good for you,” I said, raising my glass again in salute. I could relate to her ordeal. During my K-9 training, we officers had to don bite suits and experience a dog attack. I’d wet myself. Fortunately, it had been a hot day and the suit already reeked of sweat, so nobody noticed. Well, nobody other than Brigit, that is. She’d twitched her nostrils near my crotch and given me a look of disappointment.
By midnight and round three, we’d switched to nonalcoholic drinks such as soda or tea and devolved into a debate over the relative merits of shaving versus waxing, and liquid eyeliner versus pencil.
Summer stirred the remnants of melted margarita in her glass. “Liquid eyeliner takes too long to dry and I always end up smearing it.”
Frankie disagreed. “But pencil wears off too easy.”
Summer shrugged. “Then you reapply.”
While my spare time was generally spent in much more intellectual pursuits such as reading, watching the Discovery or History channels, or checking out the exhibits at a local museum, I had to admit the inane conversation was relaxing and entertaining, even if pointless. It felt good to kick back, to forget for a few moments about Miranda Hernandez lying in a hospital bed with machines doing the jobs her organs used to do. To forget about my failure to keep drugs out of the hands of young men and women who were barely more than children. To forget about my former partner whose slipshod approach to policing had led to a drug dealer being put back out on the streets.
It also felt good to be part of a group, fully accepted for who I was. Such had not always been the case. When I’d been a young girl, my uncontrollable stutter led to stares, teasing, and pity, making me horribly self-conscious. I’d retreated away from other children and into books, discovering a love of mysteries, putting together the clues and trying to figure out whodunit before the final reveal. As a twirler for the high school band, I’d been accepted as part of the crowd, but I’d remained the quiet girl on the fringes. Same for college. I’d hung with some girls from my dorm, but I was always on the edge of the group, barely there. It wasn’t until I’d had success on the force that I’d really begun to find my place in the world and to realize my stutter didn’t define me. I’d become more confident, more comfortable, more me.
My phone jiggled with an incoming text. I’d expected it to be Seth checking in on how our girls’ night out was going, but the readout indicated it was Detective Jackson. Any chance you can meet me at station? I’d like your input.
I texted her back immediately. On my way. I had no idea why she was summoning me, but my guess would be it had something to do with the girl who’d passed out at the Fourth of July event. A queasy feeling invaded me at the thought that she might have taken a turn for the worse. I looked up at the group at the table. “Duty calls. I’ve got to head in to work.”
Frankie nodded. “One of the others can take me home.”
I bade everyone good-bye and headed out to my metallic-blue Smart Car. Two guys on their way in cast looks at my bare legs. I was equally offended and flattered, a conflicted feminist. I swung by my house and picked up Brigit. Habit, I guess. It’s not that I thought she’d be able to add to the conversation. But it just seemed right to have her along with me when I was performing police work.
On the drive over, I slowed as I passed a seedy apartment complex. I knew from experience that the road here had a number of deep potholes the city had yet to fill. While the holes posed no problem for my squad car, my tiny Smart Car was another story. Hit one too fast and I could end up windshield-down on the asphalt.
A black-and-white cruiser in the parking lot of the complex caught my eye. Derek sat behind the wheel, looking up at Flynn Blythe, a tall, skinny ex-con with a short gray braid at the back of his neck. Blythe was a sorry statistic, a repeat offender. He’d been in an out of prison a half-dozen times during his sixty-five years on this earth, the length of his braid in his collection of profile mug shots depicting how long it had been since his last release. While his first arrest had been for selling LSD in the early seventies, most recently Blythe had spent a decade in the prison in Huntsville for illegally possessing a firearm and for selling crack, a drug that was considered yesterday’s news by the time he was released. Blythe was on parole, but didn’t enjoy having what he called a “babysitter,” and gave his poor parole officer a hell of a time, though always stopping just short of a violation that would land his bony butt back in the slammer. We officers checked in on Blythe on occasion, to make sure he was keeping his nose clean. Looked like it was Derek’s turn tonight.
I weaved my way through the obstacle course of potholes and continued on my way. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the W1 station, parked, and the two of us went inside.
Detective Jackson’s office door was cracked only an inch or two. I knocked lightly. Rap-rap-rap.
“Come in!” she called.
I opened the door and Brigit and I stepped inside.
She smiled down at my partner. “Hey, Sergeant.”
Brigit wagged her tail in greeting.
Jackson motioned at the door. “Shut it all the way.”
I pushed the door closed behind me and turned to find her looking me up and down. She’d seen me in civilian clothes before, but they’d always been fairly businesslike and conservative. She’d never seen me in a denim miniskirt, wedges, and an off-the-shoulder blouse. My heavy makeup, dangly earrings, and trio of noisy bangle bracelets seemed to throw her, too.
She tilted her head. “You look…”
What was she going to say? That I looked like a bimbo? I only hoped she hadn’t lost respect for me, that her image of me as a smart, discerning woman hadn’t changed.
“… different,” she finished.
“Different?” I repeated.
She raised a shoulder. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that you look nothing like an off-duty cop.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “I was out having drinks with friends.”
A soft smile flickered across her lips. “Girls’ night out, huh? I remember those days. Sorry I had to interrupt it.”
She gestured for me to take a seat. I perched on the edge while Brigit snuffled around the room, checking things out.
The detective twiddled her pen in her fingers. “We’ve got three more kids in the hospital. Two are TCU students. The third was an old high school friend visiting from out of town for the weekend. All had a bad reaction to Molly when they were dancing at a nightclub near the university tonight.”
“Oh, no! That’s awful news.”
�
��Tell me about it. This has got to stop. The media is riding Chief Garelik’s ass, he’s riding Captain Leone’s, and the captain’s riding mine in return. I’m going to see what information I can get from these kids tomorrow, but if they don’t cough up some names we’ll need to send someone in undercover at the university. Clearly there’s a link there. Someone who’s dealing or has a connection to a major supplier.”
“Sure seems that w-way.”
“You’ve worked with the rookies doing your K-9 demonstrations. Who would you recommend? It’s got to be someone who can pass for a college kid, but who’s also smart enough to pull this off. Someone who can think on their feet and improvise.”
A lineup of the most recent police academy graduates popped into my head and I mentally scanned the faces in the image.
There was the blond country boy with the thick east Texas accent. He had a youthful look about him. Problem was, he lacked the confidence that would come with experience, and, for lack of a better term, came off as a bit of a hick. Many of the students who attended TCU, which was a pricey private school, came from well-heeled families in the state’s larger cities. He’d stick out like a sore thumb.
A young black female recruit could fit the bill. She was smart and insightful and kept calm under pressure. Unfortunately, though, I recalled she’d mentioned her mother’s ongoing battle with cancer. Going undercover limited an officer’s ability to interact with the people from their real lives. She was unlikely to be interested in the gig.
My mind’s eye skimmed to the end of the row. Each recruit had a reason for me to reject them. One had spilled the beans about the surprise birthday cake for the captain and obviously couldn’t keep a secret. Another lacked the tact needed to make friends at the college. The final one was a nerd who’d memorized every city ordinance and the entire Texas Penal Code. He’d never fit in with the college party crowd.
“What about me?” I asked.
Truth be told, the thought of posing as a student didn’t excite me much. I’d been there, done that, got the T-shirt. While I’d had some fun times at college, made some good memories, I’d moved on from that phase of life and had no interest in going back. There’d been so much drama, so much time and energy focused on getting laid, and so much puke from kids who couldn’t hold their liquor. I’d held more than one girl’s hair back as she’d emptied her stomach into the community toilet. I enjoyed being an adult. Still, I’d taken this job as a cop with the hope and plan of eventually making detective. I’d reach that goal sooner if I played nice, worked hard, and brought down as many bad guys as possible, even if it meant going back to school and holding more hair back out of more puke. Besides, I’d never done undercover work and would love to get some experience.
“You?” Jackson snorted. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I wasn’t kidding her, but was I kidding myself? Could I do this? Pretend to be someone I’m not to take down a drug dealer?… Of course I could!
“I haven’t been out of college long,” I reminded her. “I know the drill. And you know there’s no officer more dedicated than me.” It wasn’t bragging. It was the truth. My job wasn’t just a paycheck to me. It was a virtual obsession.
“You are dedicated. I can’t deny that.” Jackson unabashedly looked me up and down. “Honestly? I wouldn’t have thought you’d fit the bill at all. But seeing you like that—” She gestured to my outfit. “I don’t think it’s such a stretch for you to pass as a college kid.” She looked at my face and squinted, still assessing me. “How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-five.”
She put her hands palms down on her desk and sat up. “Well, you’re nineteen again now, Officer Luz. I’ll get you a driver’s license and student ID with an alias. I’ll also contact the university, see if they can get you Miranda Hernandez’s bed in the dorm.”
My heart slithered down to my ankles. When I spoke, my voice squeaked. “Miranda died?”
“No,” the detective said, “she’s still hanging on. But given her tenuous condition her parents withdrew her from school for the second summer session. No sense paying all that tuition, room, and board if she can’t go to class.”
I exhaled in relief and my heart hopped back into place. “Could you lead with that, next time?”
“Oops.” The detective cracked a mirthless smile. “It’ll be a few days before the doctors can accurately assess the full extent of her organ damage. But she looked pretty bad to me.”
I could only imagine how traumatic all of this must be not only for Miranda, but also for her parents. Would her organs recover from the hyperthermia? Would she need a transplant? Only time would tell. “Did she tell you anything?”
Jackson’s smile performed a 180, becoming a frown. “Not in words. She was too sedated for conversation. But her parents gave me some information and I read between the lines. Miranda’s only seventeen, an incoming freshman who decided to start in the summer session. Judging from how overbearing her parents are, I’m guessing she was eager to get away from home as soon as possible. That might be why she tried the Molly. To spread her wings a little, experiment. I get the feeling she didn’t have much freedom growing up and that her parents kept her on a short leash.”
Brigit’s ears perked and she raised her head at the word “leash.”
Jackson stroked my partner’s back. “Sorry, girl. Bad word choice.” She looked back up at me. “Miranda’s parents have no idea where she might have obtained the drugs. They know she’d made some new friends this summer, but she didn’t give them a lot of details.”
“What about the two who were with Miranda on the Fourth of July? The red-haired girl and the boy?” I asked. “Did you get in touch with the EMTs? Find out if they knew the kids’ names?”
“I spoke with the paramedics,” she replied, “but unfortunately they were in such a rush to get Miranda to the hospital that they only had time to ask them a few quick questions about their patient. What she’d taken, whether she’d had anything to drink, any allergies they knew of. That kind of thing.”
Darn.
“I’ve been in touch with the university’s police department,” the detective continued. “They told me that both of tonight’s victims who attended TCU lived in the same dorm as Hernandez. It could just be coincidence, but my gut and experience tells me there’s a connection. Someone in that dorm is either selling the drugs to the other residents or hooking them up with a dealer.”
“What about Graham Hahn?” I asked. “Did he live in the same dorm?”
“Nope. The address on file with the college indicated he lived in an off-campus apartment. They said he’s no longer a student there. He flunked out spring semester.”
Why was I not surprised? “Does there seem to be any other connection between Hahn and the victims?”
“None that I can find.” The detective turned her computer screen to face me. “This is one of tonight’s victims.”
She’d pulled up a Facebook page for a girl named Ashleigh White. Ashleigh’s profile picture showed a smiling girl with straight brown hair, a bright smile, and hazel eyes. She wore a purple TCU tee and ball cap. Her right hand was raised in the horned frog sign, her index and middle fingers crooked, the other fingers and thumb folded inward. She might lack the sense to stay away from drugs, but no one could say she lacked school spirit. Her friends list appeared below.
The detective scrolled downward. “I’ve been down this entire list and didn’t see Graham Hahn on it. He’s not on the lists for the other two victims, either. Besides, all of the kids tonight are only nineteen, lowerclassmen who just completed their freshman year. Graham was twenty-one. He was in his junior year.”
In other words, it was less likely they’d crossed paths than if all of them had been the same age and in the same class.
She reached over, pulled a stack of papers from her printer’s output tray, and held them out to me. I took the pages from her. They were printouts of the Facebook friends from Ashleigh White
’s page, as well as the pages for Miranda Hernandez and a boy named Colby Tibbs. He must have been tonight’s male victim.
“Look those over,” she said. “Take some time tomorrow to figure out which of their friends attend the university and familiarize yourself with the names so you’ll know who to cozy up to at the school.”
Could I really do this? Pretend to be a college student and infiltrate the party crowd on campus to track down drug dealers? Though I’d volunteered and been so certain a moment ago, now I wasn’t entirely sure. But if Jackson thought I could, I should have that same confidence in myself.
“What about Brigit?” I asked. The thought of being separated from my partner for an indefinite length of time tied my insides in knots. Who would take care of her? Would she be assigned to a new, temporary handler while I was undercover? If so, would that officer take good care of her? Buy the expensive treats she liked? Trim her toenails? Rub her belly? Let her sleep in his or her bed? Give her a kiss on the snout and call her sweetie-poopie Briggie Boo?
Jackson mulled the situation over for a moment. “Take her with you.”
“Won’t she raise suspicions?” Brigit wasn’t exactly a tiny Chihuahua like Elle Woods carried in her purse to law school in Legally Blonde.
“Ever heard of hiding in plain sight? Being so out and open will throw people off. Besides, it seems like everyone’s got a service dog of some sort or another these days.”
An overstatement, sure, but it was also true that the capabilities of canines had only begun to be tapped. Not only were they useful in many aspects of law enforcement, but they could detect bed bugs, cancers, even wildlife scat to help conservationists track animals less intrusively. Dogs helped those with mobility issues turn on lights, retrieve items, and even push buttons on elevators and at crosswalks. Service dogs assisted people who suffered from cerebral palsy, muscular dystrophy, Down syndrome, and autism. Dogs were now being used in physical rehabilitation, engaging in throwing games with patients. They were also used in psychiatric treatment programs and as emotional support animals. Dogs had been trained to help the hearing impaired by notifying their humans with a nudge when their name was called, or a doorbell, alarm clock, or smoke alarm went off. Companion dogs helped wounded veterans regain their independence and deal with PTSD. Dogs were even being used in courtrooms to calm nervous witnesses, such as abused children.
