T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril

by T. Lynn Ocean

  “Yep.”

  Brad sized me up. And back down. It was appraising, not leering. At least he had some class. “You’re like a female version of me. Too bad we never got the chance to work together. Could have been fun.”

  “Yeah, well, my assignments took me all over the place. Besides, as I said, I’m retired. And you, well, you’re just a young thing, babe.”

  “Touché, Jersey Barnes.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Shall we meet somewhere to talk after you finish up with your client?”

  “Are you going to keep following us?” I seriously doubted that I could lose him while driving the meat wagon.

  “Depends. Where you going?”

  “To take a look around Morgan’s father’s house.”

  Brad shook his head. “Nah, I’d rather go grab a bite of lunch. I’ve already been through Garland’s place. Nice pad.”

  We agreed to meet for dinner at Dock Street Oyster Bar, one of my favorite downtown joints, and I had no doubts that Brad would show. I pulled out of the gas station and waved good-bye through the sunroof. As I said, it’s a tricked-out hearse.

  “What the heck was that all about?” Morgan said.

  I told him that Brad was a drug enforcement agent.

  “What does he want with me? I don’t get it. I’m an accountant who inherited a restaurant. I didn’t ask for any of this. Hell, I don’t even know what this is.”

  “Neither do I,” I told Morgan. “But I’m always up for a good challenge.”

  Brad was right about Garland’s home being nice, and I told him so when I saw him later. We literally parallel-parked alongside the street at the same time, dropped coins into our corresponding meters, and walked the few blocks to Dock Street Oyster Bar together, like a real couple on a real date. The server tried to seat us in a corner booth, but neither of us would sit with our backs to the entrance. We ended up sitting side by side, in the same bench seat, but decided we looked stupid. Plus, it was difficult to talk. We moved to the bar area, where we both had a clear view of our surroundings, and asked for ice waters and beers. I ordered a dozen steamed oysters with a side of garlic bread, and Brad opted for the jerk-spiced grouper.

  “When did you toss Garland’s house?” I asked.

  Brad reminded me that anything we discussed was off the record and asked for an assurance that I wouldn’t muddle up his investigation. I assured him.

  “We’d just gotten a warrant to search the home the day, he, uh … passed away,” Brad said. “We’ve been tracking a pharmaceutical drug ring for more than a year and had reason to suspect that the owner of Argo’s was involved by association. We’d identified several end users who ate at the restaurant on a regular basis. Initially, we thought an Argo’s bartender or server might be involved, but by process of elimination, I ruled that out.”

  “And Morgan?”

  Our waters and beers arrived, and after declining the mugs, we paused conversation to down the cold water before reaching for the beers. Our actions happened in unison, as though we’d practiced.

  “Good grief,” I said, “you’re a male—”

  “Version of you,” he finished my sentence, and threw the dazzling smile at me. “I was thinking the exact same thing about you. We’re very much alike, I’d bet.”

  We clinked the mouths of our beer bottles together.

  Brad studied my face for a beat. “Okay, here’s the deal. We—my boss—could care less about the individuals who are getting prescription drugs to have a little fun. At least when it comes to criminal prosecution. We want the sellers. The traffickers. If we can nail down one of the middlemen, it will lead us to the top dog. That’s my big picture. That’s my job, to track this thing to the top.”

  “How does this involve Morgan?”

  “I’m not sure it does. We don’t know whether or not Morgan is aware of the drugs that were filtering through Argo’s. But we are certain that Argo’s is a link in the puzzle.” Brad blew out a long, heavy sigh. “This is turning out to be the most frustrating case I’ve ever worked. Believe it or not, it’s actually easier to bust people dealing cocaine, pot, or methamphetamines. The prescription drug market—painkillers and such—is a whole different ball game.”

  I took a swallow of my Red Stripe, noticing with amusement that our bottles had exactly the same amount of beer left in them. We even drank at the same rate. “Out of curiosity, where do the pills come from? I thought it’s a regulated industry.”

  “Unethical overseas pharmacies. Burglaries of pharmaceutical hot zones by employees of nursing homes, medical clinics, mom-and-pop drugstores. Pilfering from military medical supplies and hospitals. Valid prescriptions written by crooked doctors. Even individuals. Another DEA agent found a caregiver who, using her employer’s health insurance card and a fake driver’s license, was visiting walk-in clinics. She’d see six or eight different doctors in one day and fill prescriptions for muscle relaxers and painkillers, paying in cash. She had a standing group of customers ready to buy the pills from her.”

  “Wow. And I thought our drug problem in the U.S. was mainly drug cartels.”

  He shrugged. “This is just another piece of the pie, and I happened to draw the short stick to get this assignment.”

  Our food came and we dug in, not talking for a few minutes. We may have made food appreciation noises.

  “I can’t give you any further details,” Brad told me. “I do think Morgan is clean. But there may still be activity at the restaurant, and weak though it is, it’s a thread.”

  The garlic bread was perfect, and my oysters were fresh and tasty. I shelled one and dunked it in cocktail sauce. “Why not tell Morgan what’s going on and enlist his help?”

  “I didn’t want to put him in unnecessary danger,” Brad said. “Of course, now that he knows DEA is keeping an eye on him, who knows what could happen? If he mentions something to the wrong person, one of two things will happen. Either the person bolts and I lose my thread, throwing yet another dead end at a yearlong investigation. Or Morgan unwittingly puts himself on the firing line.”

  “Far as I know, he keeps to himself. No friends, no girlfriend, doesn’t socialize with the restaurant help. To play it safe, though, I’ll stress to Morgan the importance of keeping quiet about this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “I wonder what Morgan plans to do once the estate is settled. It’s just him and his sister, and from what I gather, they stand to inherit a big chunk of change.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You doubt what?”

  Brad finished chewing a bite of fish, swallowed, wiped his mouth, drank water. “Let’s just say that Morgan won’t be getting an inheritance anytime soon.”

  “His father was broke? Or in debt?” I’d checked the tax records, and Garland’s house didn’t have any liens on it. And the place was amazing. Loaded with collectibles, artwork, and antiques. Not to mention a room full of wines from around the world. Morgan made me take several bottles as a thank-you gift for my help. I’m not big on wine, but a few of my friends are. And in my world, freebies are a good thing.

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that.” Brad shook his head. “I’ve already told you much more than I should have, so now it’s your turn. What is your involvement with Morgan?”

  I told him that I was friends with the judge and she’d enlisted me to introduce her brother to Wilmington and basically keep an eye on him while he got settled. The explanation sounded reasonable enough to my ears, but Brad didn’t seem to buy it. He gave me a look.

  “Hey.” I gave him a head tilt. “It’s the truth.” Sort of.

  I felt sure that Brad was withholding pertinent information, so I didn’t feel too bad about holding out on him. He didn’t need to know about the one-eared man. He certainly didn’t need to know what I’d found in the safe, which I now decided might be a list of Argo’s drug customers. And I didn’t mention to Brad that somebody had searched Morgan’s apartment and car. Heck, for al
l I knew, it was Brad who’d done it. We changed the subject and ordered two more beers and finished our meals and split a single piece of pie.

  Dock Street had filled up by the time we were contentedly full. We gave up our table and went for a walk. The fall days were growing shorter, and the post-sunset hour had thrown a pinkish cast over the river. If we kept going, we’d come across the Block. I wasn’t up for bringing Brad to my bar. My home. He seemed to sense that I didn’t care to walk farther. We found an empty bench and settled into it, staring at the Cape Fear, the glow of lampposts and storefronts casting a golden glow over the evening.

  “Tell me about you, Jersey.”

  I gave him a sideways look. “You’ve already done a background. What else do you want to know?”

  “Cut me some slack here.” He turned his head to look at me. “You know what I mean.”

  I looked ahead, leaving him to stare at my profile. “I retired from the government to open my own agency. Then I got great people to run the agency and I retired from that. I’m hoping to play and enjoy my retirement, but I’m finding it difficult to leave home without a weapon. I love this area. My father lives with me, in an apartment that is attached to mine. I have a white Labrador retriever named Cracker. I like to work out. I drink a lot of beer but am trying to cut down. My favorite food is everything. And I have an unreasonable fear of dead people.” I smiled. “That’s pretty much it.”

  Brad laughed. “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Committed?”

  Was I committed? I wanted to be, if Ox and I could keep the special bond we’ve had since high school without allowing sex to get in the way. If we could be together romantically, as a couple, and not dominate each other. Separately, we complemented each other in a beautiful way. Together, either we’d meld into something incredible that was off the charts, or the relationship would turn volatile and explode into a hundred pieces that could never be repaired.

  “It’s complicated,” I finally said.

  ELEVEN

  Morgan didn’t know if the hidden microphone had served its purpose for his father, but it had certainly opened his eyes. He was glad he hadn’t destroyed it on first impulse. Truth was a good thing, and the tiny wireless microphone in the Green Table’s candleholder had served up the truth about Maria. Now it was time to set things right and remove the peppercorn-size electronic. Especially since a drug enforcement agent was snooping around.

  Each time Morgan made an early morning trip to Argo’s, though, he got sidetracked. Once he’d even unfolded the ladder and pulled out a couple of tools. Maybe the phone rang, or he might have gone shopping for new restroom light fixtures, or perhaps some tables in the main dining area needed rearranging. He couldn’t recall, specifically, what diverted his attention every time he arrived at Argo’s with good intentions. Like any addict, he justified his lack of action by thinking of the next day. The Green Table’s secret wasn’t going anywhere. He could always get rid of it tomorrow, in the day’s maiden hours. Tomorrows were a great thing. They kept coming.

  Meanwhile, he found himself ensconced in the small office more and more. A sympathetic friend, the office was his second home, his private domain. He felt hidden and safe from the world. He made it a point to be seen coming and going from Argo’s and sometimes told employees that he’d be out running errands when he was really nestled in his swiveling leather desk chair like a moviegoer playing hooky from work, snatching a break from reality. He came and went through the rear delivery door, and when the restaurant buzzed at full capacity, everybody was too busy to pay him much attention anyway. The thrill, the high, the sheer addictiveness of eavesdropping on strangers, had crept up in baby steps until it enslaved him like an opiate. The gratifying rush was the high point of his day. Some conversations were more interesting than others, but all were good escapes. Even the garden-variety birthday dinner groups proved more interesting than his own life.

  “Have either of you ever wondered what would have happened if there were air bags back then?” Morgan heard one of the doctors say. He thought it might be Jonathan but couldn’t be sure. It was one of the Divine Image Group doctors. He squinted at the overhead view on the monitor. Yep, Jonathan, the one with the bald head who was the psychiatrist. The one who probably made his living by matching his patients’ symptoms to the current popular three-letter abbreviated disorder of the day. The three men were in for their usual Friday night meal. On Fridays, Morgan knew, the Divine Image Group closed shop at three o’clock. Which gave the doctors plenty of time to have a drink somewhere before hitting Argo’s when the doors opened at five.

  “Man, oh man, this fish is good,” Leo said. “The only fish my wife knows how to cook is salmon, and she smashes that up into patties that taste like plasterboard.”

  “I’m serious,” Jonathan said. “Think about it.”

  Checking the monitor, Morgan noticed that the man’s food hadn’t been touched, although he was near the bottom of his third Scotch and soda. “Simple air bags could have changed everything when that car ran off the road and wrecked. If the driver had been cushioned”—he had trouble pronouncing the word—“he wouldn’t have been so disoriented. And if that were the case, he might’ve shot us straight out. Without bothering to talk first.”

  The third member of the Divine Image Group, Michael, refilled wineglasses. Ordinarily the server would have hovered near enough to know exactly when the glasses were less than a quarter full. But earlier, the group had told Deanna they’d like privacy during their meal. “If you want to bring up today’s technology,” Michael said, “what about fiber samples and DNA matching and all that high-tech forensics garbage? Surely they’d have found something to tie us to the scene. For that matter, what about 911? If everybody had cell phones back then, one of us would have called for help right off the bat.”

  “That might have been a good thing, if the cops came.” Jonathan’s chin arched up as he waited for the last of the Scotch to roll into his mouth. He spotted Deanna and motioned her with an empty lowball glass. “Maybe then we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  Leo scraped up the last flakes of salmon with a chunk of bread and stuffed the wad in his mouth. “Yeah, well, we wouldn’t be where we are, either. I rather like where I am. I like my Mercedes and my mountain house and the fact that my wife doesn’t have to work and my boy is going to Princeton and my girl will be going to Europe next summer with her senior class. If you want to start playing the weepy what-if game, take a minute to stop and think about how much we’ve given to this community.”

  The table quieted when the men saw Deanna approach. She served a fresh Scotch, refilled water glasses, scraped crumbs from the table, cleared plates, disappeared.

  “Whoopee,” Jonathan said. Thick and slurred, the single word traveled slowly through the thin wire in the ceiling. Morgan adjusted his earbud. “I listen to pampered people bitch about their lives and dole out antidepressants. And then you two give them new noses and suck out their fat. How … meaningful.”

  “What we give our patients is confidence, and don’t you ever forget that.” Leo’s finger went up. “And anyway, as far as giving back, I was talking about all the donations we make for good causes. New playground equipment at three parks. State-of-the-art kennels at the animal rescue. Landscaping around the low-income housing. The orthodontics program for needy kids. Shall I keep going?”

  On the monitor, it looked like the boozed-up doctor shook his head no.

  “He’s right, John,” Michael said. “You’re a good doctor, and you help your patients deal with their lives. And Leo and I are good cosmetic surgeons. We make our patients happy. The three of us do more for this community than any medical group I’m aware of.” He downed some water. “Besides, it’ll all be over soon. Another year and we can get out.”

  Leo burped, wiped his mouth, drank some wine, shook his head as though confused. “I still can’t figure ou
t how he found us. It’s never made any sense. How did he know it was us, and how did he track us down after all these years?”

  “You sound like a damn broken record,” the shrink said. “How many times are you going to bring that up? How did he know? How did he find us? How did it happen? How, how, how?”

  Leo’s head rolled back and to one side in a “whatever” gesture. “It’s a valid question. It was pitch black that night. Nobody saw us. The only two witnesses were dead. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Jonathan sucked some Scotch and slammed the glass onto the table. Morgan jumped in his office chair.

  “My ID card. It was my ID card, okay? My freakin’ student ID card.”

  Michael’s voice dropped a few octaves. “What are you talking about, John?”

  “The next day, after it happened? I couldn’t find my student ID. It was in my shirt pocket the night before, at the party. I know I had it. And I searched everywhere. Your car. The frat house. Our apartment. Everywhere.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Leo said. “You were staggering drunk that night. You were bent over puking your guts out, you drank so much.”

  “It must have fallen out of my pocket,” Jonathan said, sounding far away.

  “He had to have been following that car, then, when we ran it off the road,” Leo said. “He saw the wreck and stopped, but we’d already gone.”

  “Yes,” Jonathan agreed, as though he’d already been through the scenario a thousand times in his head. “He caught up with the car all right. The money was gone, but he found my ID.”

  Riveted, Morgan held his breath.

  “And he waited all these years to come after us,” Leo said. “Son of a bitch, John.”

  The shrink swirled his melting ice, tried to get the remaining traces of liquor from them. “So sue me. I’m not the genius who took the duffel bag.”

  Leo sighed, and the sound seemed to last forever in Morgan’s ear-bud. “Look,” Leo reasoned. “We’re all in this together. Another year, everything will be paid back. We’ll be done with this lunatic. We’ll get out and get on with our lives.”