“You look like you could use a drink, too,” he said. “You want some? I’ll hold it to your mouth.”
Theresa nodded her acceptance. Jonathan put the flask to her lips with one hand and shoved the hypodermic needle into her neck with the other. She squealed in shock and coughed up the vodka. The office had been acoustically designed for privacy and was nearly soundproof, at least when it came to the human voice.
Jonathan returned to his desk chair, put his elbows on the desk, and rested his chin on top of laced fingers while he waited for the drug to take effect. It happened quickly. Theresa’s lids closed slightly, and the muscles in her face sagged.
“Are you ready to be truthful with me, Theresa?”
She nodded. A bit of spittle ran from her mouth. She tried to wipe it away with her shoulder but didn’t have the coordination to turn her head that far.
“Good. Now, let’s start from the beginning. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer. Everything you tell me will help you and your boyfriend. Help you. So you can get married and be together. I’m here to help. All right?”
She nodded again.
“Answer aloud, please.”
“Yes.”
In the employee break room, Drs. Haines and Pratt discussed the logistics of shutting their doors and made a list of other plastic surgeons they’d feel comfortable referring patients to. JJ and the DEA agent dressed as a nurse played cards. Two male agents were stationed outside the building on watch duty. Jersey Barnes sat quietly, waiting for the shrink to finish interrogating Theresa. And Brad paced.
“What’s taking so long?” he said.
Jersey consulted her watch. “It’s only been thirty minutes, Brad. Give it a rest. You’re making me tired just watching you.”
He yanked out a chair and sat down to face her. “You do realize that because of you, everything going on is completely against protocol.”
“Yeah, well, because of me you actually have a number of solid leads,” Jersey said. “You know, those little pieces of crucial information that help you put away the bad guys?”
Brad stood. “If you were a guy, I swear I’d kick your ass right now.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
JJ flicked a playing card at them. “Chill out, you two.”
Jonathan smiled. The injection had worked as he’d hoped it would. He had only one final question to ask before he needed to sober her up and turn her over to the DEA agent.
“Where is Denny right now, Theresa? Is he at the beach house, or is he waiting for you somewhere else?”
She watched Jonathan with bloodshot eyes before focusing on the window behind him.
“You’re doing fine, Theresa. Look at me. I want you to be a good girl and tell me where Denny is. Where is Denny right now?”
“Denny is … Denny is …”
“Yes?”
“Denny is …” She tried to point, but her hands were still restrained.
A blast sounded and glass flew inward. Theresa slumped in her chair. A patch of glistening bright red spread across the front of her shirt and pooled in the creases of her lap.
Jonathan scrambled off the floor in time to see the dead woman slump farther forward. Somebody pounded on the door. Realizing what he had to do, Jonathan busted out the remaining jagged glass and hurled himself outside. The time for atonement had come.
THIRTY-TWO
The divine image Group was closed for the safety of the doctors and patients. Argo’s was closed for the safety of Morgan and the patrons. A generic reason was given for both establishments, but anyone driving by the physical locations would likely see the security guards on duty. Shocked people speculated and gossiped, I guessed, but something else would soon come along to snag their attention. It always did.
We’d gathered at the Block—the whole lot of us—to brainstorm. Brad, Leo, Michael, Spud, Fran, and me. Morgan was at the restaurant, making calls to those who had dinner reservations. And Dr. Jonathan Rosch was MIA. His neighbors hadn’t seen him, his ex-wives hadn’t heard from him, and his house revealed nothing except an open gun safe. Which nixed the theory that Denny, the shooter, had kidnapped him. Besides, the doctor’s car was gone. Presumably, Jonathan had driven home to grab one of his long guns and was now on the hunt for Denny. Based on the boxes of shotgun shells in the safe, the doctor used only 12-gauge shotguns to shoot trap and skeet. But a 12-gauge can blow a hole through somebody’s midsection at close range much easier than it can bust a clay pigeon at thirty yards. If Jonathan managed to find Denny, we figured, he planned to kill the man.
After an hour of spinning our mental wheels on where Jonathan might be and how to locate him, his partners decided to head home and make phone calls. At least that way, they reasoned, they’d be doing something.
As soon as they left, Brad ran a hand over tired eyes. “You do realize that my ass is on the line here, right? Our one solid lead is dead. Obviously, Denny was the shooter. I don’t know how he got past my people without being seen.” He drank some water. “If we don’t find the bastard before he kills somebody else, I can say goodbye to my career with the DEA.”
We were in the shoulder hours of the day—the slack time between lunch and evening cocktail hour—when a steady trickle of customers kept Ruby and the bartender occupied but not too busy to chat it up. They laughed and greeted and served and seemed to be having a good time doing it. Brad’s mood wasn’t quite as light.
“How so?” I asked. “You can’t always control the outcome of a grab.”
Brad stuck out his chin while he formulated a response. “Ever since you entered my life, Jersey, I haven’t controlled anything about this investigation. After months and months, I finally get close, and then bam! There you are. Screwing things up.” He searched the air, struggling to find words, as though his thoughts had floated away on a parachute. “Everything has been so ass backwards, unplanned, on the fly. If I tried to go back and do things by the book now … well, that would be impossible anyway. There is no going back.”
“Hey, I’m just doing a fav—”
“Do not pull that line on me again,” Brad said. “I’m sick of hearing about your favor.”
“Okay. Although you did agree that we would help each other out.”
“Some help you’ve been.”
“Don’t blame me for your shortcomings,” I said. “At least I’ve tracked down solid leads.”
Spud held up a hand. “You’d think the two of you was married, for crying out loud. Stop it already.” He smiled as an afterthought so everyone could appreciate his white teeth.
“He’s right, sweeties,” Fran said, her “s” still sounding thick from big lips. “Arguing won’t help anything.”
“Truce?” I smiled. Brad’s job really might be in trouble if we didn’t find Denny and shut him down before the body count went up. I could play nice.
“Truce.”
Spud’s mustache danced, and he took charge. “Assuming our boy is still in town, what’s he after? Denny knows we’re on to him. His girl is dead. His cocaine has been confiscated and is locked in an evidence room.”
“And with Theresa gone and the doctors no longer writing bogus prescriptions,” I added, “his Wilmington drug delivery service is probably out of business.”
“Right,” my father said. “I were him, I’d cut my losses and skip town. Take whatever money I’d stashed away so far and set up shop somewhere else.”
Brad rubbed his eyes again. The heavy lids gave him a rebellious, pouty sort of look that would be considered provocative in a magazine spread. “He’s not gone, not yet. I agree that his plan is to start a new prescription drug ring somewhere else. He’s got the niche marketing and the delivery system down pat. That kind of operation he can set up in any city, anywhere, ’long as he doesn’t upset the cart by treading on somebody else’s turf. That’s why Wilmington was a perfect setup for him. No organized crime.”
“But?” I asked.
“But he’s not going anywhere yet. Something tells me that he wants something first.”
Spud nodded his approval. And smiled. “Good instincts will bring you across the finish line. Back in the day, I acted more on gut feelings than anything else. Got me in trouble sometimes, but I sure helped scrape a lot of scum off the streets.”
There was much more to my father, I realized, than the bumbling, grumbling, frail-looking man who’d appeared on my doorstep five years ago. I suddenly wanted to delve into his past. And I wanted to know why he’d walked out on my mother and me, back when I still drew smiling depictions of him in Crayola. Back when he had normal-colored teeth.
“Hello?” Spud snapped two knobby fingers in front of me. “You still on planet Earth? We got investigating to do, for crying out loud. Quit daydreaming.”
I ate a sweet-potato fry. Even cold, it tasted good. “I’m here, Spud. I was just thinking about, uh, the doctors. How one mistake, way back when they were kids, changed the course of their lives.”
Before anyone could focus too much personal meaning on that, Brad spoke up. “Speaking of the doctors, Jersey, tell me. How did you figure out the Divine Image Group was a key player in this drug ring?”
“Basic legwork,” I lied.
“Bull. Those doctors have been eating at Argo’s for years, always at the same table. Deanna told me that. It dawned on me last night that the doctors and the Green Table was the one constant here.” Brad checked his wristwatch. “There must be a bug in place. Legalities and criminal charges against you and Morgan aside, I need to listen to everything you’ve got. All of it. We have experts that can probably pick up on something you missed.”
“Interesting theory, Brad.” I produced a smirk for his benefit. “If you’re so certain of that, why haven’t you already barged in to check it out?”
“As we speak, I’ve got four agents on their way to Argo’s with a warrant.”
“You son of a bitch.” My whole purpose was to keep Morgan safe and keep the judge happy. If Morgan ended up in jail on felony charges, he wouldn’t be safe and his sister definitely wouldn’t be happy. Last time I checked, recording a private conversation—when nobody involved consents—was illegal in North Carolina.
Brad read my face. “What’s the matter, Jersey? Worried?”
I found my car keys and stood to leave. Spud said that he and Fran would stay put and to call him on his new mobile phone if I needed to be bailed out. “Whatever you do,” he added, “don’t use that text-messaging garbage.”
I headed to the hearse, and Brad hustled after me. “I’ve got a job to do, babe, and nobody—not even you—is going to stop me.”
I turned. “Babe?”
Brad leaned back on his heels. “You prefer to do things on your own terms. Well, so do I. Babe.”
I slugged him and made solid contact with the bridge of his nose and left eye. In a loose fighting stance, I waited for retaliation. It didn’t come.
Brad shook his head, like Cracker does after eating a scrap of dropped hot wing off the Block’s floor. “Damn, you’ve got a mean right hook.”
I slid behind the wheel of the bodymobile. Brad got in the passenger’s side. “There’s an instant cold pack in the first-aid kit,” I said. “Compartment beneath your seat.”
He found the cold pack, activated it, and held it to his face. “Nice wheels,” he said. “I mean, for a casket cruiser.”
Wow. A term for the hearse I hadn’t yet heard. “It was custom designed for a drug dealer. All sorts of nifty compartments. Leather. Great speakers.”
Bobbing my head to the beat of a classic rock CD, I cranked the volume and pointed the casket cruiser to Argo’s. Brad shut his eyes and kept the cold pack pressed to his nose. When we arrived at Argo’s, we practically stumbled over each other getting through the front doors.
Drug enforcement agents were already there, doing their thing with electronic sweeping equipment. Uniforms were posted at all the exit doors. Brad looked smug. My stomach twisted into one giant knot.
I spotted Morgan in the dining room, watching the agents move from table to table, inching in the direction of the GT. My mind already fast-forwarding to a list of lawyers I knew, I joined him. Morgan smiled. And winked at me.
Thank goodness. He’d removed the hidden microphone and receiver, as promised. The knot in my gut disappeared. I could enjoy the moment. An agent shadowing us, Morgan and I went into the empty kitchen and he prepared sandwiches of sliced prime rib with red onion and black truffle mozzarella cheese. We ate in one of the booths and discussed movies while Brad’s people scoured Argo’s.
THIRTY-THREE
As I figured he would, Garland decided to take me up on my offer of accommodations. He’d finally shown up—three days after I’d tackled him—complaining to Spud about the fact that his shoulder still hurt. After he’d had a long shower and more than twelve hours in a comfy bed, Garland’s next order of business was food. I found him and Spud downstairs, in the Block’s kitchen, tending to a row of gas burners loaded with sizzling pans. The aroma of roasting garlic and unfamiliar spices brought my taste buds to attention.
“What are the two of you doing?” I asked.
“Garland is teaching me how to make booey-base.” Spud’s tall white chef’s hat sat cockeyed on his head. “That’s a fancy name for fish stew, but if I can learn to make it from scratch, Frannie will be totally impressed.”
I’d never heard my father use the word totally in such a fashion.
Garland moved among the pans, turning and flipping and adding ingredients. “Your daily specials menu is rubbish. I’m making bouillabaisse and chipotle-lime bacon-wrapped jumbo shrimp,” he informed me.
“Alrighty, then.” I eyed the Block’s cook, who stood back, observing.
“Hey,” he said. “Opportunity knocked. Who am I to turn him away?”
I moved between Garland and my father. “First of all, Garland, you do realize that you are a fugitive of sorts? You’re supposed to be a pile of ashes inside a prayer bench, not out here whipping up gourmet meals! Second of all, Spud almost burned down the Block trying to cook Spam-and-cheese sandwiches. We promised the fire chief that he wouldn’t use any heat-generating appliances. And third of all, the Block’s customers—”
Garland shoved a spoonful of something in my mouth. “Taste this.”
Flavors of shallots and garlic and sweet red pepper exploded on my tongue. I closed my eyes to fully savor the moment of ecstasy. “My gosh, that is good.”
“You were saying something about me being dead?” Garland asked.
I found a tasting spoon and ate another sample. Even better than the first mouthful. “Just stay out of the dining area, would you? Brad—your DEA friend—has a tendency to pop in without warning. Obviously his people are still looking for you, since you bailed on their attempt at witness protection. Everyone else still thinks you’re dead. And I’m not in the mood to be accused of the accomplice thing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Garland did a half salute and went back to his food. “I’ve really missed playing around in a kitchen. That’s been the worst thing about being dead. That and not being able to talk to my kids.”
Ruby bustled through. “What’s going on back here? Our customers are salivating like dogs out there, from the smells. Did we get a new cook or what?”
“Or what,” I answered. “And the specials today are bouillabaisse and chipotle-lime bacon-wrapped shrimp.”
“Huh.” Ruby stared at Garland. “What’s a bouillabaisse?”
“Fish stew with several kinds of fresh fish, for crying out loud. And spices,” Spud said. “What planet have you been living on?”
Ruby pointed at Garland as though he were a foreigner and didn’t understand English. “Who’s that?”
“A friend,” I told her. “He’s helping out in the kitchen today.”
“Huh.” She plucked a shrimp from a big pan, took a bite, and let out a moan of pleasure. “How many orders of this shrimp can he mak
e?”
The Block’s regular cook grinned. “Fresh batch of shrimp just came in today. I’d planned to batter and fry it, but we’ll give ‘em something different tonight. We’ve got enough for thirty-five, maybe forty orders.”
“Fifty,” Garland said.
“Huh.” Ruby grabbed another bacon-wrapped shrimp and ate it on her way back to her customers.
“That’s if the help would quit eating it,” Garland muttered.
Spud adjusted his tall hat. “How much longer do I have to keep stirring the pots of booey-base? My arm is about to fall off, for crying out loud.”
An excited buzz spread fast among the Block’s regulars. Garland ran out of bouillabaisse by nine. The last order of shrimp went out at nine-thirty. Spud said he’d had enough cooking lessons for one night and clomped upstairs to bed, but Garland put the Block’s cook to work and whipped up single-egg crabmeat omelets for the late night partying crowd. I closed the kitchen at eleven, told the bartender to put out bowls of pretzels if anyone was starving, and hauled Garland—and a plate of mini omelets—upstairs to my kitchen table.
Cracker met us at the door, his nose working. I served Garland a glass of Pinot Gris, poured myself a beer, made a stack of toast, and we plopped down to eat our feast.
“I know you have lots of questions for me,” I said, “but I’d like to go first.”
Swirling his wine, he nodded approval. I took it to mean a yes for me going first.
“I’m assuming it was the DEA who faked your death. Possibly Brad Logan’s idea. What I need to know is, why?”
Garland sipped from his wineglass, looking much more like the famous chef than a street bum. The rest and a shave had done him wonders. “How much time do you have?”
I made a hand motion: All the time you need.
“I knew that something was eating away at Rosemary. She never did tell me what was going on.” He played with the wedding band on his ring finger, turning it in circles absentmindedly. “When I found drugs in her bathroom, I realized she had a problem. And here’s the thing that really got me: The prescriptions were written by one of my best friends.”
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril Page 23
