Scar Tissue (Mr. Finn Book 2)

by Trace Conger

  Brooke and Becca were getting the real shit-brown end of the stick with this whole thing. Daryl deserved his part since he willingly helped Adler, even if he did it to protect Brooke and Becca. Regardless of his motives, he’s a big boy and he made his own bed. Brooke and Becca didn’t make shit, and now they were paying for it. I thought it was time they got some good news for once, so I headed over to Cincinnati Savings and Loan.

  Ten

  OLLIE STONER WALKED THROUGH THE double-swing gates in front of the Downeast Correctional Facility in Machiasport, Maine. His prison-issued white t-shirt reached to his knees. Ollie waved to the idling pickup parked at the sign that read INMATE DISCHARGE. He waited for two guards to close and lock the gate, before he kicked it with his worn leather boot.

  “It’s a federal offense to vandalize prison property, Ollie,” said one of the guards.

  “We might have to throw you back in,” said the other.

  Ollie wrapped two aging fists around the gate. “You two guys.. You know what you can do? You can go fuck off. That’s what.” Ollie tugged on the t-shirt. “You coulda least given me a shirt that fits. I could trip over this thing. Then I’ll sue ya to pay for my medical expenses.”

  “Blame your kin, Ollie,” said the guard. “They were supposed to drop something off for you to wear home. Can’t send you home in your blues.”

  The old man turned and started toward the idling vehicle.

  “See you soon, Ollie,” said one of the guards.

  “Not likely,” said Ollie without turning around.

  A middle-aged man in jeans and a button-up flannel shirt jumped out of the pickup, ran around the front of the vehicle, and opened the passenger door. “Hey Pop,” he said as Ollie climbed in and closed the passenger door.

  The man returned to the wheel. “Where do you want to go?”

  Ollie rolled down the window, threw up his middle finger to the guards, and then turned to his son. “Take me to the yard.”

  AN HOUR LATER, THE PICKUP rolled into the Stoner Salvage junkyard off Route 191 in Meddybemps, Maine. Stoner Salvage had been in operation since the 1940s. It sat on 61 acres about five miles west of Meddybemps Lake. The junkyard was a mosaic of rusted vehicles, scattered tires, and mounds of used items that had reached the end of their lives. Sun-bleached oil drums, faded shipping containers, and the green grass that sometimes crawled its way up through the scrap piles provided the only patches of color in an otherwise brown and gray landscape.

  Ollie climbed out of the pickup and pointed at the main office, a building flanked by two rusted-out railway boxcars.

  “Go call your brother and tell him to get his ass over here,” he said. “I’ll meet you back here in a bit.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  Ollie looked across the mountains of scrap that reached into the Maine sky. “I’ve got to make a withdrawal. Now git.”

  He watched his son walk into the office, then he turned and jogged deeper into the junkyard. He passed rows of abandoned automobiles and piles of wooden beams and pallets. He turned left and continued past heaps of tangled bed frames, mildewed mattresses, and broken furniture parts. Ollie stopped next to roached-out Buick, which hadn’t moved in half a century.

  He looked around to see if anyone had followed him, then he grabbed the handle and opened the car door with a metal-on-metal screech. Ollie looked around again, then ducked his head inside the vehicle and leaned into the back seat. A moment later, he emerged with empty hands and an empty stare. He brushed the dirt and gravel from the vehicle’s hood and then heaved himself up, placing his leather boots on the crooked bumper. Ollie Stoner looked up at the sky and then buried his face in his hands.

  By the time he returned to the office, William and Peter, his twin boys, were waiting for him.

  “Good to see you again, Pop,” said Peter stepping toward Ollie with his arms out.

  Ollie pushed him backward and grabbed a box cutter from the desk. He pushed the black button forward and the dull blade emerged from inside the handle.

  “Either you two been messin’ with that old Buick in the yard? The one my daddy put there?”

  “No way,” said William. “You told us to leave that one alone. Why?”

  “Because there was $20,000 in two satchels in the back seat that ain’t there no more. And I’d like to find out where they gone to.”

  “No idea,” said William. “You think someone took it?”

  “Got a good idea that Albert Harding and Mitch Skinner are involved.”

  “How’s that?” said Peter.

  “Because they’re the only two dumb enough to steal from me.”

  William walked next to Peter and leaned up against a metal four-drawer file cabinet.

  “So, what do we do now?” said William.

  Ollie crossed his arms. “We start killin’ people.”

  Eleven

  IT WAS NEARLY 10:15 AM when I stepped into the Cincinnati Savings and Loan on Harrison Avenue. The duffle bag in my hand was bulky enough for the silver-haired security guard in black wingtips to notice. Besides me and the guard, there were three people waiting in line for a chance at one of two tellers. Two more customers filled out deposit or withdrawal slips at a counter against the left wall. Silver-beaded chains ensured they wouldn’t be pocketing the pens. I was still surveying the room when the brunette in a navy blue skirt and jacket and black high heeled shoes that looked too small for her feet approached me from her office along the right wall.

  “Hi. I’m Stephanie. Can I help you with something?”

  “I’m here to see Michael Cooper,” I said.

  “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Cooper?”

  “No. I’m more of a walk-in kind of guy. I want to talk to him about opening a savings account.”

  “Well, Mr. Cooper is the branch president and doesn’t really handle those sort of things, but I can get you set up.” She motioned to her office. “If you can follow me, I’d be happy to help.”

  “No offense, Stephanie, but I really need to see Mr. Cooper.”

  She took a step back and then shifted in her tight heels.

  “Well, Mr. Cooper sees customers by appointment only. But like I said, I’d be happy to help.”

  “Stephanie,” I jostled the bag in my hand. “I’ve got a hundred thousand dollars in this bag, and I’m ready to hand it to you guys to do whatever it is a savings and loan does with it. I’d normally just go to a bank like everyone else on the planet, but my ex-wife is insistent that I conduct my business here. Now, I’d like to open a savings account and deposit all this cash with you this morning, but only if I speak with Mr. Cooper.”

  She looked at the duffle bag, the security guard, and then back at me.

  “Why don’t you have a seat there,” she pointed to the five red, thin-cushioned chairs along the wall next to the front door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  She disappeared down the hallway beyond her office and returned a minute later.

  “Why don’t you follow me, Mr.?”

  “Finn.”

  “Right this way, Mr. Finn.”

  Stephanie led me down the hallway to an office. Michael Cooper’s brass nameplate was bolted to the open door. She ushered me in and introduced me to Cooper before walking out and closing the door behind her.

  Cooper was on the heavy side, probably the result of sitting behind this same desk day-in and day-out for the past twenty years. He wore a navy blue suit that was a close match to the outfit Stephanie wore. His neck bulged around his white shirt collar indicating either his red tie was too tight or his dress shirt was too small. I’d bet half of Albert’s retirement fund on the latter.

  “Have a seat Mr. Finn,” said Cooper, shaking my hand and eyeballing the duffle.

  I dropped the bag in front of the chair, took a seat, and crossed my legs.

  “Stephanie says you want to talk about opening a savings account with us?” Cooper grabbed a form from his file cabinet, placed it on his desk, and
clicked open a silver pen. There was something engraved on the side, but I couldn’t make it out.

  “Actually, I want to talk about cheerleading,” I said.

  Cooper glanced up from his form. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “My daughter Becca wants to join your wife’s cheerleading team… squad. At Cincinnati Catholic Academy. And apparently your wife doesn’t like my ex-wife, and because of that, she isn’t allowing Becca to join up. If it were up to me, I’d like to see her to get involved with gymnastics or swimming. Something that could actually help her develop a real skill. As far as I’m concerned, all you do in cheerleading is memorize chants and shake your ass. Totally inappropriate for a six-year-old girl, but if that’s what she wants, so be it.”

  Cooper glanced back at the duffle. “I thought you were here to open an account with us.”

  “I want to settle the cheerleading thing first,” I said.

  Cooper grinned and clicked the top of the pen, sending the tip back inside the silver cylinder. “Look, if you want to open an account I’d be happy to help you, but I’m not talking to my wife about your kid. You can reach out to her yourself if you’ve got a problem. I don’t have time to worry about cheerleading. I’ve got a bank to run.”

  “Technically it’s not a bank,” I said.

  Cooper smirked, but didn’t reply.

  “Look,” I said. “I know you’re a big deal in town and you’ve probably got lots to do, but if you could just call your wife and tell her to reconsider putting Becca on the squad, that would be great.”

  Cooper stood up. “Listen, buddy. I don’t care how much you want to deposit, I’m not having this conversation. If you have a problem with my wife or cheerleading or whatever, I suggest you take it up with her. You’ve already wasted enough of my time. Don’t make me call security.”

  I looked over to the door. “You mean that old guy up front? You ask him to run back here and he’ll stroke out before he makes it halfway down the hall.”

  Cooper reached for the phone on his desk.

  “All right,” I said. “Just one last thing.”

  I unzipped the duffle, grabbed the orange file folder Cricket had given me, and slid it across his desk.

  “What’s this?” said Cooper.

  “Have a look. But sit down first.”

  Cooper took his hand off the desk phone, opened the folder, and flipped through the pages. He was looking at a dozen naked photos of a middle-aged brunette named Connie Butler. Connie, while quite flexible as was evident in the photos, was not his wife. Cooper leaned back in his chair.

  “I like the one where she’s getting into the shower,” I said.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “I got them from someone who owed me a favor. He got them from your cell phone. From your text log to be more specific. And from your little chats with Miss Butler, it’s obvious there’s more to your relationship than just a few tit pics.”

  “How…”

  “My friend also looked into Miss Butler,” I continued. “Turns out she isn’t a miss. And she’s also on the Cincinnati Catholic Academy’s board. Isn’t that something?”

  “How did he get them?”

  “That’s not important, Cooper. What is important is that my daughter wants to be a cheerleader.”

  “You’re blackmailing me for a spot on the cheerleading team?”

  “Cheerleading squad. And yes, I am.”

  Cooper shifted in his seat, paused for a moment, and then leaned a thick elbow on the top of his desk. He wiped his forehead.

  “Look, Mr. Finn,” he said. “You might not be aware that I’m friends with the chief of police. I don’t think he’ll take kindly to someone trying to blackmail one of his close friends. I make one call to him and your life gets a whole lot harder.” He placed his hand back on the receiver.

  “That right? Well, I’ll bet that if I send these pics to your wife, she’ll make your life a fuck load worse than the chief of police can make mine.” Cooper didn’t respond. “And I’m willing to make that bet. Are you?”

  Cooper thought for a moment. Then he slid his hand away from the phone, placed the photos back into the orange folder, and slipped it into his desk drawer.

  “What’s your daughter’s name again?”

  “Becca,” I said.

  “And how do you suggest I convince my wife to sign her up?”

  “Don’t care. I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Maybe you can get the chief of police to help.” I paused. “Did you notice the photos are date-stamped? Going back two years? That’s a long time to be tagging the co-chair of the school board.”

  “I get it.”

  “Great,” I said. “My ex-wife’s number is in the folder. She gets a call within forty-eight hours telling her where to buy pom-poms or you start Googling divorce attorneys.”

  “And you destroy all the copies?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Okay. I’ll figure something out.”

  I stood up, slipped a business card from the brass holder on Cooper’s desk, grabbed the duffle, and headed for the door.

  “Wait. What about the deposit?” Cooper’s eyes were fixed on the duffle.

  “I’m not opening an account today.”

  “Then what’s in the bag?”

  I jostled the duffle in my hand. “My father’s laundry.”

  Twelve

  THAT NIGHT, I SAT IN bed, my laptop warming my thighs. I wanted to learn everything I could about Adler Browning before meeting him in the morning. I started with the criminal record databases to see if I could build a profile, but I was having difficulty focusing on Adler with the shower running in the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom.

  Jennifer Reynolds was the school nurse at my daughter’s Catholic school, but there was nothing Catholic about her. We met a few weeks ago when Becca got sick and purged her breakfast onto her classroom floor. Jennifer called me to pick her up, and the rest is history. She only stayed over a few nights a week and she was very enthusiastic when she was here. I hoped I’d find what I was looking for on Adler before she got out of the shower, because I knew I wouldn’t get much done afterward.

  After hitting the usual databases, I hadn’t found dick. I had uncovered several people named Adler, but no one with the last name “Browning.”

  It’s possible Browning was just a name Adler tossed Daryl to throw him off. I narrowed my hot zone to a three-hundred mile radius of Cincinnati. The closest Adler was a thirty-two year old who did a short stint for a string of burglaries in Sioux City, Iowa a year ago. It could be my guy, but it wasn’t a slam dunk.

  Aside from the guy in Iowa, I found no criminal records for anyone in the area named Adler. No local Adlers with open warrants, no court records, and no mention in the local papers. Nobody, and that was bad news.

  Almost every pusher has some shit on their record, but not this guy. He was as clean as a nun in a washing machine. That wasn’t good, because it meant that he’d never been caught. From the way he threatened Daryl and Brooke, it sounded like he’d played the hard ass before. He had some level of comfort with intimidating people. Problem was, when you act this way for long, you get careless, and the law catches up with you. And that lands your name in a database. In my business, you don’t worry much about the low-level criminals with records. They get caught because they’re stupid. You worry about the ones who have never been caught, the ones with no records. They are either smart or protected, and I didn’t know which category Adler fell into.

  I started to think that Adler wasn’t some low-level pusher like Daryl led on. Or if he was low level, he was in a solid organization, and that could be bad for Daryl. And me.

  The shower cut off and a few minutes later Jennifer stepped out of the bathroom wearing a gray Army t-shirt and nothing else. For some reason I was more focused on where she got the shirt than how good she looked in it. Neither of us had served our country, and I liked to think she picked it up at some retail
clothing store instead of lifting it from some past soldier boyfriend.

  She set a glass of ice water on the nightstand and climbed into bed.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Just some research.”

  “What kind of research?” She seemed interested.

  “You’re a nurse, know anything about fentanyl?”

  “Sure, we used it in the hospital all the time?”

  “You worked in a hospital?”

  She ran a hand down my thigh. “I wasn’t always a school nurse, Finn.”

  “So what do you know about it?”

  “It’s a painkiller. Pretty common stuff.”

  “Ever hear about it being sold on the street?”

  “Sure. We had to watch a slew of videos on drug abuse at the hospital. I remember something about drug dealers mixing it with heroin. To make it more powerful.”

  “How powerful is it?” I said.

  She sipped her ice water and rolled over to my shoulder. “It’s potent shit. Something like a hundred times stronger than morphine.” Her hand was on the move. It was cold from the ice water, and her touch sent shivers up my thigh. “I remember hearing a story about an old guy who picked up a few fentanyl pain patches at a pharmacy. He stuck them in his back pocket and drove home. Apparently his heated car seat activated the patches, and he absorbed several packs worth right into his ass cheek. He died before making it home.”

  “Sounds like something Albert would do,” I said. “Would it be hard to get? From the hospital?”

  “Why? Are you thinking about changing careers?”

  “No. It’s relevant to a case I’m working.”

  “I’d think so. Especially in a hospital. All that stuff is locked away. Most everything is monitored with barcodes these days. Nurses have to scan everything they give to patients, so there’s a clear record of where everything goes. I’d think it would be hard to sneak anything out of a hospital. Maybe if they were switching labels, but that’s pretty tough to do.”