Janet fought the temptation to grill Martha. Janet had been the breaking news reporter on the Demore story. She needed new information to keep that lead. Destruction, death, and scandal, especially when it happened to those idolized, always brought in the ratings, and nobody in Southwest Florida got better ratings than Janet Poulet.
***
Major Kant was seriously concerned about her newest accident investigator, Trooper Jim Demore. Jim sat in her office, obviously tired, but looking stoic. Her brief conversation with him a moment earlier had done little to alleviate her concerns. Trooper Demore had a sterling reputation, both as a police officer and as a military reservist.
She found herself relieved when Demore had finally checked in with the troop headquarters, albeit several hours later than expected. She had been happy to rearrange her schedule to accommodate his urgent request for a meeting. No one had ever attempted to assassinate one of her troopers prior to this and, frankly, it pissed her off. She did not know what other problems, aside from almost having his ass blown off, Trooper Demore might be having, but she knew she would do anything in her power to help. She looked through the pictures Demore had given her. She had already read the note. The DVD sat off to one side, awaiting its turn.
The photos showed only Jim, the dancer, and the background. After sorting through the last photo, Major Kant placed all thirteen copies back into an envelope. She frowned her concern.
“Jim, in my eighteen years with the Highway Patrol, I don’t think I have ever seen anything like this,” her voice serious, but not harsh. “You did the right thing, bringing this to me. Tell me what happened.”
“That’s the problem, major. I don’t know what happened. I remember that I had an appointment in Tampa with a person of interest in the Briggs case. A dancer named Kat Connors. Next thing, I wake up in my car on Picnic Island with the envelope containing those photos, the DVD, and the note sitting on the passenger seat. I went straight to the State forensics lab in Ft. Myers. I go to school at night with one of the technicians. I gave her everything. I also asked her to test my blood.”
“You know I have to let higher headquarters know about this.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jim replied, his voice heavy with fatigue. He continued, “Major, I have never had to go to a topless club to meet women. This is nuts, ma’am.”
Major Kant smiled. Demore was a handsome kid. Hell, if I wasn’t his boss I might go cougar-town on him.
“You asked the lab for a blood test? You think somebody doped you?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense. I remember driving toward Tampa, then waking up in my car on Picnic Island.” Jim looked frustrated. “Somebody did something. I need proof and I need to know why.”
Major Kant nodded her head in agreement.
“I can’t argue with that Trooper Demore. This will get ugly if it gets into the press. Do you think the explosion is tied the Briggs investigation? The assassination attempt failed. Maybe this is Plan B. Someone certainly doesn’t want you digging any deeper into Briggs.”
“I guess it’s possible. Although right now the only link is time proximity. Not much of a link.”
Major Kant poked at the offending envelope still sitting on her desk.
“No doubt somebody did something. I’ll run interference with the bosses for as long as I can, but don’t be surprised if you end up driving a desk while we sort this out. Let’s hope, for your sake, we find out just who did what.”
“I’ll find out, major. If getting shot to shit in Afghanistan couldn’t stop me from coming back to work here, a few dirty pictures sure as hell won’t.” Jim stood up. He ignored the ache in his knee. “They just gave us proof that there is more to Briggs than just an accident. That, and they’ve really pissed me off. There’s no way I’m getting off Briggs. Not until I find out who killed him and why. That’s a promise, ma’am.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Jim watched Kat Connors dance for him to Cobra Starship’s “Good Girls Go Bad.” Her movements were slow, flowing just behind the beat, and super sensual. She danced on a high stage and Jim floated toward her, suspended in midair. He allowed the seduction of the dance to draw him closer. Kat stepped off the stage into empty space and her arms snaked around him. He looked down, seeing his own body naked and aroused.
Kat pulled his face toward hers and her tongue came out to greet him. Jim tried to pull away. The end of her tongue rose up revealing a serpent’s head. The serpent’s face morphed into a man’s. The man’s age could have been thirty or fifty, Jim couldn’t tell. A black beard roamed across his face and a scar drifted down from the left temple, eventually hiding itself in the coarse facial hair. The man’s eyes were black pools that drew the surrounding light into them until all that Jim could see was the face. It spoke to him, but the voice was Kat’s.
“Surrender to your desires.”
The voice reeked of seduction, as tantalizing as her naked, writhing body. The scar on the side of the man’s face pulsed and squirmed under paper-thin skin.
“Join your flesh with mine,” her voice invited.
As her voice tempted, her hands explored. The pleasure centers of Jim’s brain and his flesh merged into a single erotic point. He wanted to surrender, desired to surrender, ached for the release her body promised. When was the last time he’d felt this way with Linda?
The man’s face pushed closer, grew larger. Now full size floating in front of Jim.
“Surrender to my flesh,” Kat’s voice beckoned.
The heat and stench of the man’s breath assaulted Jim’s nostrils. This isn’t right. Kat’s voice, Kat’s body, but some dude’s face?
“Surrender. Join with me,” Kat purred. “Taste me. Taste my pleasures. Surrender.”
The man’s eyes pulled Jim in against his will. Kat’s voice penetrated Jim’s mind and gently stroked his brain’s hedonic hotspots, the pleasure centers. If he surrendered, he could rest for a while. If he surrendered, there would be sweet release. But, first the dude had to go, then someone needed to fix the CD. The song repeated the first few bars, each repetition growing annoyingly louder. Not a CD. Just the damn ringtone on my cell phone.
The spell fractured. An angry voice replaced seduction.
“Give me what I want,” the man demanded, his voice now harshly masculine, commanding, filled with an undercurrent of evil intent. “Surrender to us now.”
“No,” Jim shouted. “Hell no.”
As his voice reverberated in the echo chamber of his dream, the man’s face aged, became hideous. Putrid flesh hung off his skull. The lips cracked and turned black. A reddish black fluid oozed from those cracks and from the corners of the mouth. The eyes remained dark and bottomless.
“We will have you.”
The face snarled and snapped at Jim while Kat’s arms remained entwined around his body. The voice became a guttural growl.
“We will feast on your soul.”
Using all the strength his spirit could muster, Jim jerked his body free and awoke with a start. A moment of confusion reigned as he glanced around the Spartan hotel room. He looked at his watch. The catnap had lasted twenty minutes. Sweat drenched his body. He felt filthy and violated. And God-awful tired. He reached for the ringing phone.
“Florida Highway Patrol, Trooper Demore,” Jim answered, much too loudly.
The familiar voice sounded startled.
“Jim, it’s Saffi. You were drugged.”
Drugs. That explained the blackout and the pictures. Did it explain the dream?
“What drug?” he asked.
“Well, we have something of a mystery there. The lab found two substances in your blood. One we know. Rohypnol. They slipped you a roofie.”
Jim didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Jim?”
“How could they do that?” Jim’s voice sounded distant, hollow. “I though the manufacturer of Rohypnol modified the drug with a blue dye to make it noticeable when mixed
in a drink? Every law enforcement agency in the universe got the bulletins on Rohypnol.”
“Maybe a counterfeit. Made without the safeguards? Illegal as heck, but it’s out there. The second drug has a structure similar to some neurotoxins, either venom or some kind of nerve agent, definitely synthetic, but we can’t positively identify it. That one has to go to the Defense Department.”
Jim sat quiet for a second, lost in thought. Synthetic venom? That can’t be good.
He remembered, once in Okinawa, when he had ordered a drink that had a pickled Habu snake in the bottle. Native to Okinawa, the Habu harbored a neurotoxic venom. Some lunatic had turned a neurotoxic snake into a bar drink. Youthful insanity combined with a testosterone-driven sense of immortality, a combination that created a level of bravado that only another jarhead could understand, caused Jim to take one shot from the bottle, and for the entire next day, he felt like he was living underwater. It was one of those “never again, what the hell was I thinking” experiences.
“We don’t know for sure,” Saffi told him. “I’m sending a sample to the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology. See what they think. Whatever it was, it looks like it did a number on you. I guess it explains the blackout and the photos.”
“I guess it does. I owe you one, Saffi.”
***
Saffi smiled. Yes, you do. Big time.
Giving Jim the good news certainly helped offset the negative side of the rest of her analysis. It had taken Saffi a couple of hours after her meeting ended to get to the pictures, paper, envelope, and DVD. She had kept the originals and provided Jim with copies. She had found nothing that would help identify who was responsible. No fingerprints, no stray hairs, no nothing. Regardless, she had heard appreciation in Jim’s voice.
“Buy me lunch sometime,” Saffi told him.
The words just popped out. Oh Lord, Saffi. Why don’t you just ask him to marry you?
“I can do that,” Jim replied. “Can you fax the results to my troop headquarters?”
“Right away.” Saffi said, smiling into the phone. “Let me know about lunch. You’ve got my number.” Boy, does he have your number. Stop it, Saffi. You’re a good Christian girl, you don’t chase men. Well, at least not until Jim Demore.
***
Jim felt a sense of relief that he had rarely experienced. Probably, only the medical report that allowed him to return to duty with the Highway Patrol after rehabilitation from his war wounds came close.
“Thanks, Saffi,” Jim replied. “I’ll call you. Talk to you later.”
Jim hung up. The girl was his hero. Thank God for Saffi, science, and technology.
Jim was not quite sure why he felt he needed to thank God, someone he wasn’t even sure existed, but he figured that at this point, it couldn’t hurt. Considering what had happened and what still might happen, he would probably need all the help that God, Odin, and the rest of the universe could give him. He called Major Kant.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The telephone next to the cash register declared its need for attention. The custom ringtone had an ethereal quality. Martha St. Onge answered. The caller’s voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Jim Demore is going to keep working the Briggs’ case. He’s determined.” A pause. “I have to go. The major just opened her door.” The caller disconnected.
Martha hung up and dialed Janet Poulet. Martha’s number glowed on Janet’s caller ID.
“Tell me we have a story,” Janet said.
“Our sister, Starshadow, works for the FHP. In the Ft. Myers office. You have a story. Courtesy of the FHP itself.”
The coven’s broad web once again handed her an exclusive. Martha had put a name with the story, Corporal Jim Demore, Florida Highway Patrol Homicide Investigator. Janet Poulet broke the Trooper Gone Wild story during the early news at four p.m.
***
“I want him on administrative leave today.”
“Sir, we have a good reason to believe there was no misconduct on Trooper Demore’s part,” Major Kant said.
“No misconduct?” The director was almost screaming. “I saw the video, major. He and that woman were not exactly on a church picnic. The porn industry puts out tamer stuff.” The director paused long enough to catch his breath, but not long enough for Major Kant to respond. Kant closed her eyes, anticipating the next blast.
“Nobody’s gonna give a rat’s ass if there was actual misconduct. I’ve already had a dozen calls about this, including the governor himself,” he continued, the volume a touch lower. “This is a public relations nightmare. What the hell was he doing in a strip club in the first place?”
“Corporal Demore went there to question a person of interest in the Briggs case.”
“Person of interest? God, I hate that expression. It sure as hell didn’t come from a cop. Probably from some dip-shit reporter, or possibly a lawyer.” the director said. For a moment, he sounded as if he was talking to himself. “Person of interest? As far as I’m concerned, you’re either a suspect, or a witness, or nobody.” He paused again. “You said the Briggs’ case?”
“Yes, sir,” Major Kant replied.
“Close it,” the director commanded.
“Sir, the case is nowhere near complete.”
“Doesn’t matter, major. Close it. I’ve read the preliminary reports. Even if Briggs had been racing, how are we going to prove it? Maybe Briggs was just trying to pass someone who didn’t want to be passed. Has anyone found out if there was another vehicle?”
“That’s what Demore was working on. The person of interest...sorry, sir...the suspect he went to see worked at a strip club in Tampa. Might have been the one driving the alleged other vehicle. Demore claims he has no memory of ever reaching Tampa. Said he woke up in his patrol car on Picnic Island and that the pictures, a DVD, and a note were in an envelope on the passenger seat of his car. I’m waiting for a report that may verify he was drugged. Possibly someone slipped him a mickey.”
“How convenient. How the hell did the media get hold of it?” the director interrupted.
“No idea, sir. We’re still investigating that. I’m sure you know about the attempt on Demore’s life. Maybe there’s a connection.”
“Put him on paid leave. Today. I can have the Florida Department of Law Enforcement look at any evidence you have. But I want that boy off the job. Today. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone went dead. Major Kant hung up. It looked like it was going to royally suck to be Trooper Demore today.
***
Jim stood in front of the squad room television monitor. He had drifted in to get a cup of coffee when a breaking news ticker began running at the bottom of the screen below the image of a female news reporter. The ticker read Trooper Gone Wild. Jim’s picture flashed up on the screen next to the reporter.
Jim had never met the woman, but he knew her reputation. The station she worked for had plastered her image on billboards, bus stops, and other public locations around Southwest Florida with emphasis on her “Emmy Award-winning” status. Jim grabbed the television remote control that sat on the coffee service table and turned up the volume.
“This is Janet Poulet for The Early News at Four. If your children are home from school, you may want to send them to another room. What we are about to show you is not suitable for young children.”
Jim’s picture flew off the screen as the camera pulled back to reveal Janet standing in front of a Ft. Myers’ topless club.
“The Early News at Four has exclusive coverage of a Florida Highway Patrol Trooper Gone Wild. These photos show Corporal Jim Demore, the Florida Highway Patrol Accident Investigator whose home was recently firebombed, out on the town at a local strip club.”
Jim’s jaw went slack as picture after picture flashed across the screen. Although the nudity had been blurred out, his face, with his eyes-wide-open zombie stare, could be clearly seen. A video clip replaced the photos. Jim watched himself being “entertained�
�� by the stripper. Off screen, Poulet continued her narrative.
“Although we have not yet identified the club or the stripper in the pictures and video clip that you are seeing, we know that Corporal Demore works out of Ft. Myers and is assigned to Troop F. Based upon the photos and this video, it seems that Corporal Demore’s lifestyle runs a little faster than the speeders he chases down the freeway.”
Jim watched as the video ended and Poulet came back on the screen.
“A representative for the Florida Highway Patrol told this reporter that they were not able to comment, as this was a personnel matter involving an ongoing investigation.”
His one consolation was that he was alone in the squad room. The story was as ugly as Poulet was attractive and the video and pictures were damning.
“Attempts to reach Trooper Demore were unsuccessful, but this reporter will not rest until we have uncovered all of the facts in this story.”
What attempts?
Jim doubted that it was the facts that were important. More likely, it was the opportunity to break a sensational story, to crush the competition, and get another Emmy. All at his expense. Poulet continued, looking even more serious.
“Law enforcement tells us that many of these so-called gentlemen’s clubs are frequently fronts for prostitution and drug rings, and are often controlled by organized crime. That information makes us wonder if the recent attempt on Trooper Demore’s life might be tied to some ongoing criminal activity and the trooper’s possible involvement.”
The pictures and video were painful enough. The reference to organized crime went over the top. Someone was trying to destroy him with what appeared to be a preemptive strike.
It was not until Jim’s first deployment to Iraq that he had come face-to-face with genuine, unrestrained evil. The occasional bloody and mangled individuals he encountered on the highways as a trooper were more attributable to stupidity than any type of intentional evil. In Iraq, however, he had seen the broken, bleeding, and battered bodies of innocent civilians — men, women, and children — tortured and murdered by sectarian and terrorist violence. That was evil. It had been a rude awakening for a kid from relatively peaceful Southwest Florida.
The Demon Pool Page 21
