“That’s not the way it’s done,” she said. “I’ve already been given instructions.”
“Yeah, well, things change. People get fired. People quit. Your pickup location is no longer valid, so they’re having me make deliveries today.” I laughed. “Hey, you ought to appreciate the special service. No extra charge.”
The line remained silent.
“You want the stuff or not? Makes no difference to me.”
“Not at my house,” she said after a beat.
“Fine, pick a restaurant.”
“Boca Bay on Eastwood?” she asked. I knew the restaurant and, based on the selection, guessed that she probably lived in Wrightsville Beach. It was close to her home, but not too close. And a relatively upscale, busy place. Lots of tourists.
“Sure,” I agreed. “I’ll be at the bar. I’m wearing a red tank top and tan jacket. And be there in half an hour. I’ve got four deliveries after you.”
Boca Bay is a basic seafood and pasta restaurant with great Mediterranean dishes, fresh sushi, and a unique tapas menu. I sat at the bar and ordered some Spanish brochettas and a Beck’s Light. A lone woman slid into a bar stool right on time, to my right, leaving an empty stool between us.
“You Pat?” I said.
Frowning, she nodded yes and slid a pack of Dentyne Ice chewing gum my way. It was the kind of gum sealed in a blister pack, and I could see folded bills stuck between the chewing gum and cardboard wrapper. “I’m in a hurry.”
The bartender appeared. “My friend will have a glass of wine.” I looked at Pat. “White okay?” She looked like a Chardonnay kind of woman. Late forties, maybe fifty. Different color hair and plumper build than Karen, but the same designer labels, manicured fingers, pampered skin, and expensive jewelry. Sizable emerald-cut rock on her ring finger. Another well-kept, upper-class druggie.
“I told you I’m in a hurry,” she said when the bartender moved away to pour her wine. “Give me my stuff.”
Her wine arrived. I thanked the bartender. Ignoring the wine, Pat stared at me. I finished my last tapas and decided against ordering more. My clothes were starting to feel snug.
“Here’s the thing, Pat.” I took the pack of chewing gum and leaned over so I could speak without being overheard. “I can pretend that you didn’t just give me money to complete an illegal drug transaction, if you decide to talk to me. Or you can talk to somebody else in an interrogation room.” Hey, it was all I could think of. And it worked.
“Son of a bitch,” she said, breathing fast. Her body instantly went jittery. “Are you going to arrest me?”
“No.” I didn’t correct her assumption that I was a cop and purposely adjusted my linen jacket to give her a peek at the Ruger holstered behind my hip. “Enjoy your Chardonnay. Have a bite to eat. Let’s talk.”
Either Pat wasn’t too bright or her brain was foggy from all the drugs. She should have realized that if I were a cop and I knew who she was, I’d know where she lived. I’d have just shown up at her house. Her elevator didn’t seem to be going all the way to the top, but that meant progress for me. Another piece of the big picture that might explain Morgan’s dilemma. And the fact that Pat had shown up for a delivery meant that she still used the network. While she certainly didn’t look like your average junkie, she was desperate enough to meet a stranger to score her dope.
Pat’s fingers drummed the bar top as she shifted in her seat. She eyed the door, thought about darting, thought better of it. Studied me. Pushed aside the wineglass and asked the bartender for vodka on the rocks.
“If I tell you what I know—which isn’t much, by the way—do I get immunity? I’ll stay out of trouble?”
I had to work at keeping a straight face. She’d been watching way too much television. And she’d never even bothered to ask who I was or who I worked for.
“Yes,” I told her. “That’s the way it works.”
Pat’s details of the network confirmed what Karen had told me earlier. The difference was that this woman was hooked on OxyContin, a powerful painkiller. She made a buy about once every week, she said, using grocery money. I guessed that she bought more than just the pain pills, but I didn’t push it. I was happy that I’d lucked out with the timing. Pat confessed that she was supposed to pick up her latest supply later in the evening, at a convenience store. She told me which one and what time.
“I have to ask the clerk for a can of dog food,” Pat said. She’d moved into the high-backed bar stool next to me. “The people always change so they don’t know what you look like. The dog food thing is how they’ll know it’s me.”
The bartender cleared my plate, and I asked for an ice water. No more beer until I’d jogged at least two or three miles. Maybe four. The wheels continued to spin furiously inside Pat’s head. If she kept thinking so hard, I might be forced to order another beer to wait it out.
“You’re going to go and pretend to be me, aren’t you,” she finally said. “Then you’ll arrest that person.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Or you’ll get them to talk so you can find their boss,” she said, and downed half the vodka as though it were iced tea.
I stood to go to the restroom and knocked Pat’s handbag off the back of her bar stool. It fell to the floor, scattering contents. Makeup, tissues, hairbrush, and a clear plastic aspirin bottle that held multicolored pills.
“Whoops, sorry!” I bent to scoop it all up before she had a chance. I found her wallet and glimpsed the driver’s license. The woman gulping straight vodka was Pat Viocchi. It was an out-of-state license. She was either a part-time resident or a full-timer who hadn’t bothered to get it changed. And I still needed her local address. I could try to tail her, but the hearse would make that nearly impossible.
Squatting on the floor, I continued to hand Pat’s stuff up to her when I spied a checkbook. Standing up, I slid it in my back pocket. She may not have bothered to change her license, but she would most likely have put a local address on her checks.
“I’ve told you what I know, and I’m not going anywhere near a convenience store tonight. Can I go now?” Pat couldn’t sit still. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Sure, take off. But just out of curiosity, why don’t you see a doctor to get your prescriptions?” The same question I’d asked Karen.
Her nostrils flared. It was an unflattering look. “It’s easier and cheaper to get what I need myself.”
“Cheaper?”
“My husband is self-employed, so we don’t have traditional insurance. By the time I pay for a doctor’s visit and the cost of the drugs I need for my back pain, it’s about the same. Besides, the network doesn’t ask questions.”
I returned the pack of Dentyne, bills intact, to her. She left without paying for her drink. I finished my water, dropped a couple of twenties on the bar, and headed to the hearse. It was time to enlist help from my DEA friend.
FIFTEEN
Nice place you’ve got here, Jersey Barnes. Laid-back, open. Interesting decor. Great view,” Brad said. He’d agreed to meet me at the Block, and we sat in a booth, one with a wide-open view of everything. He ordered a flounder sandwich with pineapple slaw. We both drank beers. To heck with running first. “And your business partner is Duke Oxendine. He a Wilmington local?”
“Been doing more checking up on me?”
He held up his beer and we clinked mugs. “I have high-tech resources at my disposal,” he said. “May as well put them to good use.” “Find out anything else interesting?” I seriously doubted he’d be able to determine which agency I’d been with. SWEET flies so low under the radar, a snake couldn’t limbo beneath it.
Flashing the captivating smile, he shook his head. “Nope.”
“Good,” I said. “Then let’s talk about prescription drugs.”
Brad’s sandwich came out quickly, and while he ate, I told him what I’d learned about the network from the two women I’d questioned earlier in the day. All of it. His expression didn’t change, but
something flared in the hazel irises. Probably admiration. He was impressed.
“And you got the names of these people how?”
I told him.
He took another bite, chewed evenly, drank beer. “Do you realize how much you have compromised this investigation by running around playing Nancy Drew?”
Nancy Drew? What a jerk. So much for the look on his face being admiration.
“If I were you,” I said, “I’d be thankful for the information. And by the way, I’m a simple citizen helping out a friend. I can talk with whomever the hell I want to. I don’t have to clear my day’s itinerary with you first.”
His voice remained level, but the look flashed in his eyes again. “First of all, don’t sit there and tell me that you approached these women claiming to be helping out a friend,” Brad said. “Who did you impersonate? DEA? Local cop? Somebody else with a badge?”
I drank my beer. I hadn’t officially impersonated anyone. I just hadn’t corrected Karen’s and Pat’s assumptions.
“And second of all,” Brad lectured, “yes, you do need to clear your itinerary with me when it involves a yearlong investigation of mine, dammit.”
I showed him my heartfelt smile, to throw him off base. “Sorry.”
“That’s it? Sorry?”
Ruby came by the table, and I knew she was soaking up every word she could hear without being blatant about it. She removed Brad’s plate and delivered two fresh beers. I thanked her and purposely didn’t introduce the two of them. There was enough local gossip flowing through the Block without me adding to it. Not getting her scoop, Ruby flounced off.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I answered. “Nancy Drew is sorry.”
His posture relaxed. “Okay, okay, that comment was uncalled for.”
“Well, I apologize, just the same. I should have told you what I was up to.” Probably.
He frowned, but only one side of his mouth went down. It was kind of cute. “You’re only saying that to pacify me.”
“Did it work?”
Brad smiled, both sides of his mouth up. Like that, the anger was gone. He looked at his watch. “I don’t have time to chew your ass any longer anyway. If Pat was telling the truth about the convenience store, I don’t even have time to get a team in there. This is not a good situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“An informant like this—if she’s the real thing—is too valuable to screw up. If I knew in advance, we’d have done some O and S before approaching her.”
“Understandable.”
“Once I had a line on her next pickup, I’d take precautions to make sure nobody was tipped off,” he lectured. “Plus, we’d have several eyes and ears on the minimart. A soda or bread delivery van. A broken-down car across the street. A vagrant walking the streets.” He shot me a disapproving glance. I felt visually scolded. “For starters,” he added to make sure I knew that was just the beginning of how he’d have handled things much differently.
“You told me you kept hitting dead ends,” I said. “At least now you’ve got something to work with.”
“Let’s hope.” He made the lopsided frown again, checked his watch. “And let’s roll.”
He retrieved a gym bag from his SUV and changed in the rest-room, emerging in a Carolina Panthers T-shirt, shorts, and ball cap. We headed to the convenience store in his vehicle.
“How come you get to dress undercover and I don’t? Shouldn’t I have a Panthers shirt on, too?”
“There’s no game today, and women only wear the duds to support game days, if then. Guys will wear this stuff anytime.” He looked sideways at me and grinned. “Besides, that skirt and low-cut top works quite well. Nice legs, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“You carrying?”
“Of course.” I lifted the edge of my skirt to reveal a thigh holster. Similar to a stretchy bellyband holster, it holds the Ruger SR9 snuggly to the inside front of my left thigh. The pleats of my Liz Claiborne skirt concealed it perfectly.
“For some reason, that was a total turn-on. Wow. Show me again?”
“You flirting with me, Agent Logan?”
“Yes.”
“Still mad at me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You need me, if I’m going to pretend to be Pat,” I said, feeling a touch guilty about the fact that I was enjoying the flirtatious banter. Sure, I had felt it right away when Ox left for Connecticut: scathing emptiness. But our longtime connection and more recent exploration of each other’s bodies had never been verbalized into a commitment. Besides, flirtatious banter with another man was just that—talk.
“I don’t feel good about this,” Brad said. “I ought to throw you out of the car right now and get a female undercover to go in with me.”
We both knew there wasn’t time for that, and I didn’t bother to irritate the situation by reminding Brad of that fact. We arrived fifteen minutes early and backed into a parking slot at the side of the building. Two people were filling up at the gas pumps. A single car was parked off to one side, probably an employee. And a motorcycle was parked on the other end of the building, partially hidden by outdoor ice machines. Our plan was to act like a happy couple and shop for beer and snacks while we scoped things out inside. At Brad’s signal, I’d inquire about dog food, and if all went according to plan, he’d grab the clerk. Absolutely nothing was to go down if there were customers present.
I first hit the restroom and took a quick glance around the rear storage area. It was dark and quiet. No signs of activity. The manager’s office door was open, and it was empty as well. Both restrooms were empty. Brad had ducked inside the walk-in cooler, where all the beer and sodas were stocked into sliding racks that opened to glass doors inside the retail area. When he emerged, a nod told me it was empty, too. Far as we could tell, the clerk behind the counter was the only employee in the store. A single customer came in, bought two energy drinks and five dollars’ worth of quick pick lottery tickets, and left.
Brad and I approached the counter with a six-pack of beer and a bag of Doritos. A ruffled-looking man tinkered with a roll of paper tape in the cash register.
I smiled. “Long day?”
“Sorry, I’ll have this fixed in a jiff.” He looked up, returned my smile with bright white dentures through a frazzled expression. “I’m brand new. Haven’t even finished training yet. I wasn’t supposed to work tonight.”
“No rush,” I said. “How’d you get stuck working on your day off?”
“The other cashier no-showed. Manager’s husband is having a birthday party, so she’s not coming in. Guess that left me.”
A burly, darkly tanned, tattooed man in jeans and a leather vest came through the front doors and seemed to be more interested in checking me out than browsing through the rack of magazines in front of him. And he didn’t look like the type to read a magazine. Not one without nude pictures, anyway. Something was off.
I made sure to keep my face turned away from the man and pretended to look for my wallet. Brad hugged me to him and planted a kiss on my cheek. “I just realized we forgot the Cokes. And we probably ought to get another six-pack of Bud for the party.”
I returned the kiss, thinking that it wasn’t all that unpleasant. It felt rather nice, actually. “I’ll run to the bathroom while you get the rest of our stuff,” I said.
Leaving our purchases on the counter, we made our way to the back of the store. “Let’s get out of here,” Brad said. “Back door.”
We found the rear door obstructed by a stack of flattened cardboard boxes and locked by a keyed dead bolt. I wondered what the fire marshal would have to say about that but didn’t get a chance to ponder too long because I saw Leather Vest weaving his way through the aisles. His hand gripped something beneath his vest.
“He’s on to us.” I drew my weapon. The store’s front-door chime beeped and a group of giggling teenagers herded inside. “Crap. We can’t chance a stray bullet. Get us out of here.”
/> With a grunt, Brad threw a kick into the door right below the dead bolt. The frame cracked and splintered, but the door held. Leather Vest was hustling now, a visible handgun leading his way. “Thank God for rotten wood,” Brad said, and threw a second kick. The door busted loose from its frame.
“Pick me up!” I yelled, and ran in the opposite direction from where we’d left Brad’s Murano. I found the parked motorcycle—a Harley Softail with a custom paint job—and fired two rounds into the sidewall of its front tire. Cussing, Leather Vest rounded the corner of the building and took aim at me. From the other direction, Brad sped into the line of fire and slowed enough for me to throw myself into the passenger’s seat. We peeled out of the convenience store lot, taking a couple of hits in the rear of the SUV.
“Here I was,” I said, returning the Ruger to my thigh holster and strapping myself into the seat belt, “thoughtful enough not to ruin his twenty-thousand-dollar bike when I shot out the tire. I mean, I could have put some lead into the engine. Or the cowhide seat. And he thanks us by shooting up your car.”
“No biggie,” Brad said. “ ’Long as we still have all our body parts.”
In unison, we pulled out our cell phones, looked at each other, and laughed. I put mine away. Brad could call it in. He was the officially working person between the two of us. He dialed and identified himself as an agent, recited a number, and gave brief details of an unidentified shooter at Bob’s Mini-Mart. Suspect believed to have been riding a motorcycle, which was currently disabled.
“Hold for the description of the motorcycle,” he said, and waited for me. I recited the make and tag number, hoping it was registered to the man riding it. It would be nice to find out who’d been sent to intercept me at the minimart. And who’d sent him.
We drove erratically for five or eight miles, Brad taking lots of last minute turns to make sure we didn’t have a shadow. We didn’t. He pulled into a strip mall parking lot, did a quick walk-around to check out the damage on the Murano, returned to the driver’s seat.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril Page 11
