Jonathan laughed, but it was an ugly sound. “If either one of you thinks it’s going to be that easy, you’re both idiots. He might not let us out.”
TWELVE
I held out the pill to the pharmacist, the single light blue pill I’d found in Morgan’s office safe. The fellow seemed friendly enough, and the pharmacy chain’s advertisements boasted a caring, helpful staff. Maybe their TV commercials were true.
“I was hoping that you could identify this for me,” I said. “It has numbers there, on one side.”
“Is this one of your prescriptions?”
I gave him a story about my elderly father combining his prescriptions into a weekly pill dispenser box—I’d just spotted such a device hanging on a counter display—and explained that he’d thrown away the original prescription bottles.
“Are his prescriptions filled here?”
“Yes.” I figured it to be the right answer.
“I’d be happy to pull up his information and help you out,” the pharmacist said. “But your father will need to be here. The data on an individual is confidential.”
I argued that I didn’t want confidential information. I only needed a single pill identified. He spouted another roadblock answer.
“Your television commercials are completely wrong.” I snatched the tablet off the counter.
I found another drugstore two blocks away, one whose pharmacist was much more accommodating. She examined my pill, flipped through a reference book, and was back at the counter in less than five minutes. “It appears to be alprazolam, one milligram. Generic substitute for Xanax.”
“What’s that for?”
“Mostly anxiety or conditions of nervousness.”
I looked at the single pill. “Prescription only?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “It’s a controlled substance.”
“So this is something that people might abuse?”
She put the pill back in its plastic bag and handed it to me. “People can abuse pretty much any drug known, including over-the-counter stuff. Alprazolam is one that can be addictive, like painkillers.”
I chewed on that information as I drove to the Barnes Agency. Had Garland been dealing prescription drugs to restaurant customers before he died and storing his product in the small safe? If so, that could explain the list—they were his buyers. But the earless thug had mentioned the wife, and the list was in Rosemary’s handwriting. Rosemary passed away a year ago. Brad said the DEA had been working on his current case for more than a year. The time frame fit. But if Garland or Rosemary were selling dope, where had the drugs come from? I recalled the photo in Morgan’s office. Garland had the appearance of a man who could be into anything: name-brand silk shirt, smooth black skin, great smile, bushy eyebrows over mischievous eyes. An ex-athlete, college professor, banker, or crime lord. But Morgan’s mother looked like a well-kept, classy woman with warm eyes. Rosemary had one appearance, and it wasn’t that of a drug pusher. Then again, I know as well as anybody that looks can be deceiving. During my days with SWEET, it was my job to deceive.
I thought again of the blue pill. It could have come from a valid prescription, written by the family physician. But who would keep a personal prescription inside a locked safe? Spud’s massive portfolio of drugs was kept in plain view, on the kitchen counter.
I pulled in to find the agency’s small lot packed with nine vehicles. Four belonged to Rita, JJ, Trish, and Andy. I didn’t recognize the others. I opened the front door to lots of happy chatter. And moaning. The latter sounds came from a woman sprawled facedown on Andy’s massage table. He worked on her lower back.
“Hiya, boss,” he said, glancing up. “You here for the party?”
“I retired, remember? I’m not the boss of anything. And I wasn’t aware of a party.”
Andy leaned back and made a face as though he’d been hit with a mean comment. My response probably had sounded petty, defensive. But it was true. Nobody had invited me. I felt left out and was reminded of how much I missed having Ox around. Probably I was a different person without him. Probably I was a downer to be around. No wonder they hadn’t told me about the party.
“Don’t mind her,” JJ said from behind a desk. Her feet were up and she sipped something from a champagne flute. Real glass. Probably real champagne. “All those shuffleboard games at the senior center have made her grouchy. Jersey hates to lose.”
“Ha, ha.” I scanned the front office to see several unfamiliar faces, all women, all smiles and gossip, as though they were at an Avon party.
“We’ve started having a little get-together every few weeks,” Rita said, and introduced the strangers to me. “We sample wines. We let Andy work his magic. Everyone gets fifteen minutes on the table.”
“Really.” Rita’s management style certainly differed from mine. On the other hand, billing hours had remained steady since I’d turned over control. And my two partners certainly looked relaxed. Not stressed, considering the types of clients and assignments the agency takes on. Maybe the addition of Andy to our small team had been a good thing.
I eyed Trish. “Have you had your fifteen minutes of shame yet?”
She nodded, a circular sort of neck roll that resembled a dance move. “Just finished. He worked on my shoulders. I feel like rubber.”
“Okay, Gumby. Think you can focus long enough to discuss business? You know, that stuff you do called contract work, for which I pay you? The reason we are meeting here”—I checked my watch—“in five minutes?”
“You rarely ever pay me in actual cash,” Trish reminded me. “Personal use of the agency’s old clunker of a surveillance van is hardly monetary compensation. For that matter, it seems that every time I climb behind the wheel, the fuel gauge is sitting on empty. Hello? Have you looked at the gas prices lately? I’m actually paying to work for you each time I fill the tank.”
We moved into the blue room, out of earshot. I noticed the addition of new toys: a lightweight night vision scope, a wiretap detector, and a colorful sports watch. A pang of curiosity made my fingers twitch, and I picked up the watch. It was a videocamera. The stem to set the time was actually a miniature lens, and the square faceplate was the screen. I’d always loved checking out new gadgets and weapons. I supposed I still could, although it didn’t make much sense to be up-to-date on the latest covert camera equipment when I’d never use it in a practical application. It would be like learning to shift the gears of a race car, knowing I’d never drive on a real track. Pointless.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Trish prefaced, “but you’re like … really tense or something. Lighten up, will you?”
“I’m fine,” I said, but the barb hooked my subconscious and hung there, a seed that might sprout into something for me to think about later. Any conclusions would probably have to do with Ox. Or rather the absence thereof.
Trish did the head roll thing again. “Here’s what I’ve got on your new DEA friend.”
Brad Logan had been with the DEA for eleven years, she said. After graduating college, he successfully sold high-end real estate before—in a strange new direction—he applied for a special agent opening and got in. He had a clean bust record. He worked well both solo and in teams. He was single when he went in, married a nursing supervisor, divorced six years later. One male child, eighteen, in his freshman year at UNC Charlotte. Brad owned a town house, rode a Harley, liked to surf. And he was most likely coming to the end of his undercover days.
Brad’s was a high-danger position. For that very reason, Trish said, field agents often get assigned to a different position after ten years. Or they retire and find a new career. If the formula held true for Brad, the current drug ring case he worked might be his last hurrah before changing career paths. For his sake, I hoped he’d go out with a win. For the judge’s sake, I hoped the DEA’s interest in Argo’s restaurant would quietly go away.
Trish cleared a space on a table and sat, feet swinging. “I think you’ve found yourself a basi
c DEA guy who also happens to be a hottie. No ulterior motives. No personal ties to Argo’s or Morgan’s family. Just a man doing a job.”
Thinking I should put a few chairs in the blue room, I copied Trish and slid my butt onto the opposite table. Although the Barnes Agency wasn’t typically a party pad. Meetings were normally held in the front main office. “I sure would like a few specifics on the case he’s working. Other restaurants, if there are any, names, types of drugs.”
“Then you’ll need to get it directly from Brad. Why not seduce him and then search his place?”
“That’s a thought.” Seducing him might be fun. And get my mind off Ox.
“Or use Soup.” Trish did an imitation of our friend Soup sitting at his electronic command center, like an orchestra conductor, blissfully happy in his element. “Soup could probably hack into their system and have a full report to you by tomorrow.”
“Sadly, Soup is in Amsterdam. Vacationing. Even the best hackers in the country need to cut loose and take a break once in a while.” Soup is an ex-fed who now worked for himself and, thankfully, represented only the good guys. I missed having Soup on call. I was missing Ox and Lindsey and, now, Soup. I needed to get a grip.
Trish shrugged. “Well then, that leaves the option of getting it directly from the source.”
“I sense that Brad is not one to leave stuff lying around. Probably doesn’t even keep anything to ID him at his place. In fact, if I were him, I’d have a second place somewhere. Rented with cash under a fake name. A personal safe house of sorts.”
“Yeah, you government agent types are always borderline paranoid.”
I shook my head. “Not paranoid. Cautious and prepared. Big difference.”
Trish jumped off the table, ready to return to the festivities. “Need anything else from me?”
“No.” I followed her out of the blue room, and a burst of shrill laughter greeted us. I almost wanted to join the women. Have some quality girl time and forget about Morgan and Argo’s and the fact that I felt oddly disassociated without Ox in my daily life. I left the Barnes Agency without getting my fifteen minutes on Andy’s table. Driving to the Block, I decided to follow the only leads I had: the list of abbreviated names from Morgan’s safe and the list of dinner reservations I’d taken from the hostess stand. Surely I could find some matches between the two. It would be a start.
I also needed to scope out the autopsy report for Morgan’s mother. If drugs were running through her restaurant, she might have been a user. And if she was using, there might have been traces in her system when she died. Not only that, but I found it too coincidental that two people were dead, neither had apparent health problems, and both owned Argo’s. Ignoring curious looks from neighboring drivers, I rolled down all of the hearse’s windows and opened the sunroof. It was a perfect day for a window-down drive. If only the corpse caddy were a convertible. Wind whipping my hair, I dialed Dirk’s mobile number. “Trade you lunch at the Block for a copy of an autopsy report,” I said when he answered.
“Is this simple morbid curiosity coming from Jersey Barnes? The one who melts down at the sight of a dead body?”
“Doesn’t bother me a bit to look at a picture, Dirk. Just can’t stand to be near a dead person. Huge difference. Besides, it’s not politically correct to make fun of one’s phobia. Mine even has a designated name.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, “it’s also not politically correct to distribute copies of autopsy reports to civilians.”
“It will be a really good lunch,” I told him. “Or dinner. I’ll even spring for drinks and dessert. You can bring the wife.”
“Kids, too?”
“Yup. All of ‘em. The whole clan.”
“You know that teenagers won’t go anywhere without their friends.”
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll call it the Dirk Thompson Family Reunion party. Bring your friends and neighbors, too. Heck, bring your whole damn street. Just get me the autopsy report.”
“Wow, Jersey Barnes has a grumpy side,” he said, and paused for a beat as if trying to figure out why. “Give me a name of the deceased and a date.”
I did. “You get anything back on that gun from the Argo’s attempted robbery? Or prints from the safe?”
“The thirty-eight only had a partial serial number. Somebody filed most of it off. We fired a round through it, but no ballistics matches in the system. Dead end. A hunk of metal for the scrap pile. As for the safe, lifted a few clean prints. One belongs to a safe technician. His prints are in the system for a conceal carry, among other things. He’s clean. The other is unidentified. Nothing that leads us to your earless man, the one who allegedly tried to rob the place.”
I didn’t argue with his use of “allegedly.” Turning a corner, I passed a Jeep-load of young men with military buzz cuts sitting at a stoplight. Spotting me at the wheel of the hearse, they let out a chorus of catcalls and honked their horn.
“It wasn’t really a robbery attempt, was it,” Dirk said.
“It might have been.” I adjusted the Bluetooth headset hanging over my ear. “He was definitely a bad guy.”
Dirk chuckled, changed the subject. “How’s Spud? We haven’t had any public disturbance calls lately. He sick?”
“Spud is on a self-improvement kick. He’s grown a mustache. And he’s been hanging out with his new girlfriend, Fran.”
“The old lady on the scooter that plowed into his mannequin?”
“Yep.”
“Only in Jersey’s world,” he said, and hung up.
THIRTEEN
It wasn’t the same walking into the Block without seeing Ox there. I said hello to a few regulars before climbing the stairs to my home. I beeped myself through the security system to find Spud in my kitchen, staring intently at a ficus tree. Even his mustache was perfectly still.
“You okay, Spud?”
He continued to stare at the plant, as if in a daze.
Alarmed, I moved in to examine him, thinking he might have suffered a stroke. “Spud? Can you hear me?”
“I’m practicing reading an aura, for crying out loud. Do you mind?”
I found a bottle of Dos Equis beer in the fridge. Somebody had been to the grocery store. “Is this for your NAB group?”
My father explained that, yes, he’d learned the skill of aura reading from the New Age Babes. Every living organism had an energy field radiating around it, he told me, animals and plants. Learning to see the color of the aura was one way to enlighten the mind. A red aura around a person meant they were angry, he said, while a blue aura indicated calm.
“What color is the ficus tree’s aura?” I asked.
His head tilted to the side. “I detect a large aura, sort of a whitish yellow.” He broke his gaze and looked at me. “Healthy plants have a large, bright aura.”
“That ficus tree is fake, Spud. It’s a silk plant.”
“What?”
“It’s not real. So it can’t possibly have an aura.”
“Oh, for crying out loud! I been working on reading the stupid plant’s aura for fifteen minutes now. I thought I finally had it!”
“Better stay calm, Spud. Your energy field might go red.”
He turned the Barnes narrow-eyed glare on me. “Here I was all ready and set to impress Frannie with my new talent, and you go and ruin everything!”
I asked if Fran was a member of the NAB.
“No,” he said. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She’d probably be curious as to where he’d learned to read auras, I told my father. When she discovered his involvement with the New Age Babes—a group of all women—she probably wouldn’t be too pleased. She might even be jealous.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Spud muttered. “She’s the one who told me to join some social clubs!”
“Social men’s clubs, Spud. Not women’s clubs.”
“I’ll quit, then. This aura stuff is a bunch of crap anyway.”
“You’re their ne
wly elected president, remember?” I said.
“Oh, right. I shouldn’t quit.” His mustache twitched from side to side. “I’ll get Frannie to join!”
My father, always the deep thinker.
“She’s good people,” he continued. “We might be in love.”
I looked more closely at Spud. I’d never before heard him utter the L-word about anyone, ever. Not even to me, at least not that I could remember. He may have told me he loved me when I was a toddler or maybe when I’d begun to form whole sentences. But never after I had an understanding about what the word meant. And certainly not before he vanished from my young life.
“I think I need another pain pill,” he said.
So that was it. The pain medicine for a pulled leg muscle. I thought about taking advantage of Spud’s unguarded state of mind. I could ask why he’d left me and my mother. I could take a deep breath and do it, right now. Just ask him. Why.
He saw the question on my face. His wrinkles deepened for a beat, and he appeared much older than his eighty years. What I saw in my father’s eyes was very similar to the emotion I had detected in Ox’s eyes a few months back when I’d asked if he’d slept with his ex-wife: Don’t ask if you don’t want the answer.
Did I really need to know? Did it even matter now, why my father walked out of my life some thirty-five years ago?
Cracker howled at the sound of a passing siren, breaking the spell, instantly erasing the question on my lips. “Well, if you want to impress Fran with your aura-reading abilities, Spud, you might want to practice on the people downstairs in the Block,” I said. “At least you know they’re alive.”
“Why didn’t I think of that, for crying out loud? I’ll call the boys over so we can all practice together.”
Exactly what my pub needed. A group of crazily dressed geriatrics staring silently at the customers. And I’d put the idea in his head. Stupid me.
Spud found his cane and plodded downstairs. I called the judge. Luckily, she was out of court and answered her personal phone on the first ring. “Jersey, I was just thinking of you! Have you found out what’s going on with my brother?”
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril Page 9
