Now what? Once Lars told Reilly what he’d mumbled to me about Gardenia and the Coke bottle, Reilly would probably go to question Gardenia. But she’d just lie and slip through his fingers. I couldn’t let that happen. Okay . . . if I couldn’t prove my theory to Reilly, at least I could prove it to myself. And I knew who just might be able to help me get that proof. Leonard, Mom’s paramour and ex-CIA agent. Poisoning was a threat that spies faced all the time—so the agency could well have a secret field test kit that would detect any substance known to man.
I felt my back pocket for my cell phone. It wasn’t there. Oh yeah, it was still at The Oasis. I walked up to the receptionist at the front desk. “Could I please make a phone call?”
“There’s a courtesy phone over there.” He pointed to a side table along a wall.
I reached it in a couple strides and picked up the receiver.
Of course, I didn’t have Leonard’s number in my mental memory. But I did have Mom’s home number, since that hadn’t changed since I’d lived there as a kid. I called the house, hoping Leonard would be there. I didn’t want to deal with Mom and all her inevitable questions. Thankfully, Leonard himself answered after a couple rings. Good—now dealing with Mom would be his problem.
“Leonard, it’s me, Harriet. I’m at East Boca Medical Center.”
“Are you all right?’
“Yes, I’m fine. But I need your help.”
“At your service. What can I do?”
“I need to have the contents of a Coke bottle analyzed for an unusual stimulant—not the typical stuff that a normal drug test would detect.”
“No problem.”
We arranged to meet in the hospital’s parking lot in fifteen minutes. Awesome. Mom had hooked a good one this time. And this gave me time to go see Lior.
I returned to the front desk.
“I’d like to visit a patient,” I told the guy there. “The Contessa von Phul has arranged for him to stay in the Presidential Suite.” It never hurt to drop the Contessa’s name. “Can you tell me which way it is?”
“I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Harriet Horowitz.”
He tapped his keyboard and stared at his screen. “I see that the Contessa has put you on the patient’s visitors list. But the patient is no longer here.”
“What?”
“He’s been discharged.”
And he hadn’t called me? Oh yeah, I didn’t have my phone, so maybe he had. And dammit, his number was stored in there—not in my brain. So I couldn’t call him. Well, the good news was that he must be recovered, since he’d been discharged. I’d see him just as soon as I saw this case through to its bitter end.
I walked outside to wait for Leonard. Taking a seat on a bench underneath the lighted portico, I pulled the Coke bottle from my jacket to examine the cap for a needle puncture. I couldn’t see one. In fact, I couldn’t see the cap clearly at all. The white writing on the red background was tiny. I moved to try to find better lighting. That didn’t help. I moved the bottle closer, then further, from my eyes, but that didn’t bring it into focus either. I gave up.
I wondered why Gardenia hadn’t taken the bottle from Lars. Probably in the heat of the moment, all she wanted was to deep-freeze him. Plus, she couldn’t afford a struggle—the odds were against her. Lars was a fit kid, while Gardenia was an overweight, diabetic, older woman.
I watched the headlights of cars entering the parking lot. At last, I saw Leonard’s classic red ’63 Corvette Stingray pull in. He drove up to where I sat and leaned over to push the passenger door open for me. I climbed in.
Leonard’s gray eyes, which matched his silver brush-cut hair, gleamed. Clearly, the man was thrilled to be on the case.
He pulled into a parking spot away from the building and snapped on the overhead light. “Let’s get to work,” he said.
No whys or whats. That was Leonard—straight to the point, no questions asked.
I handed him the Coke bottle. “First of all, can you see any pinprick in that cap?”
“Not without my reading glasses.” He pulled a silver-rimmed pair out of the breast pocket of his shirt, perched it on his nose, then took a look. “Sure enough,” he said. “You can’t see it?”
“No, I guess it’s too small.”
He peered at me over the top of his glasses. “Here, try these.” He took off the glasses and handed them to me.
Say what?
I grabbed them, shoved them on, and looked. The bottle cap was now crystal clear. In its center was a tiny round hole. Oh my god . . . Dirty Harriet needed reading glasses. What an indignity on the eve of my fortieth birthday. “Let’s get this stuff tested,” I snapped, returning the glasses.
Leonard reached behind his seat to the little storage area that was there in place of a back seat and pulled out a hard-sided briefcase. He set the briefcase on his lap, flipped it open, and removed a small laptop. “Here, you hold onto this,” he said, handing it to me.
“Now this here”—he patted a weird-looking metal box which was connected by a plastic tube to a glass jar, all within the briefcase—“is a portable, high-performance, liquid chromatography system. It analyzes . . .”
Please. Spare me the chemistry lesson.
“Great!” I cut him off. “So . . .”
“So you turn that computer on.”
That much I could do. I pressed the power button.
Leonard hooked a USB cable from the laptop to the metal box. “All right, give me the solvent,” he said.
“Solvent?”
“The Coke bottle.”
“Oh.” I handed it to him.
He poured the contents into the glass jar, then flipped some switches on the box. It hummed. Reaching across me, he tapped some keys on the laptop.
“This software contains a database of just about every pharmacological and toxic agent on the planet,” Leonard said. “So the molecular compounds of your liquid will be compared to the database for a match.”
The metal box stopped humming, and the laptop beeped.
“There you go,” Leonard said.
A line graph consisting of a series of red, orange, and yellow spikes appeared on the screen. What the hell did that mean?
Then a smaller window popped up labeled “Chemical Composition.” The first item listed was “Coca-Cola: 50%.” This was followed by a long list of scientific mumbo jumbo. Great, that wasn’t much help.
Okay, wait. I just had to compare this list with the ingredients of Turbo Brain.
“Leonard, can I borrow your phone?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, handing it over.
I Googled Turbo Brain. “Our product is a proprietary blend that includes . . .” All the items on that list also appeared on the laptop. Of course, the Turbo Brain site did not include the proportions of each ingredient, nor all the components, since that was a trade secret. But what was there matched.
I knew it! Gardenia must have used her syringe to withdraw half the Coke from the bottle and replace it with Turbo Brain. That was a hell of a bigger dose than two drops. “Thanks, Leonard.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best.”
“Anytime, Harriet. By the way, you know you must never mention this equipment to anyone.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll handle the rest from here,” I said. Or rather, my Inner Vigilante would. That goddamn Gardenia was pure evil. And I was going to bring her down. I bet I knew where to find her, too.
I got out of the car and tramped back into the hospital lobby to the courtesy phone. A woman was just hanging up. Good for her, because my Inner Vigilante did not possess patience as character trait.
I needed Enrique’s number . . . and it sprang to my mind immediately. When my Inner Vigilante was loose, my mental acuity was
laser-sharp. I might need reading glasses, but I still had my edge when it mattered. I punched in the numbers, and Enrique picked up.
“That school principals’ convention,” I said. “Is it still going on at your hotel?”
“Well, hello to you, too,” he said.
“Just answer, please.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing’s the matter with me. Convention—happening?”
“Yes. They’re having a closing banquet in the ballroom right now.”
“Is there a Gardenia LaFleur registered?”
I heard keys tapping. “Uh-huh.”
I hung up and strode outside to my Hog. I was ready to kill that bitch.
Chapter 19
I RUMBLED ALONG the mean streets of Boca. The engine’s revolutions throbbed in my ears, and I felt every pebble in the road. The sky was now pitch-black. The lights of oncoming cars radiated bursts of incandescence. I zigzagged through traffic with a flick of my wrist and a shift of my body weight. Up ahead loomed the tall tower of the Boca Beach Hilton, the lights in its windows shimmering like constellations in the night.
I pulled right onto the walkway by the front entrance, shut down the bike, took off my helmet, and marched in, ignoring the squawks of the valet behind me.
I’d been in the place before, so I knew where the ballroom was. I headed straight for it, passing guests and staff in the hallway. I heard the laughter and the clinking of glasses and silverware before I burst through the carved double door.
Round tables occupied by diners filled the space, draped with white tablecloths and stacked with half-eaten meals. Smells of baked chicken and fish turned my stomach. I hadn’t set foot in a ballroom since I’d shot Bruce in front of five hundred witnesses at a wedding reception. Fear of reliving that trauma had kept me away. Now, I didn’t care.
The guests chattered like chipmunks, taking no notice of me. I scanned the tables, row by row. There she was, holding court at a table right in the middle of the room. The miracle worker who had elevated at-risk kids into the academic stratosphere. She wore a royal purple suit, with a matching purse hanging from the back of her chair. Her face was animated as all eyes at the table were on her. She looked nothing like the grief-stricken mother figure I’d seen at The Oasis.
Rage rose from my gut to my chest to my head and propelled me to her. This woman had caused the deaths of innocent children. All for power and glory. And hell, for all I knew, money—maybe she was skimming from the grants her school received as reward for its stellar performance.
By the time I reached her, I had reined in my rage just enough to say, “Ms. LaFleur, may I have a word?”
“What is this in reference to?” she asked, looking around at her tablemates.
“You might prefer to discuss it in private,” I said. I had no desire to cause another scene in a ballroom.
“Who are you?” Gardenia said.
Okay, I guess she wasn’t budging from her throne. We’d have to have it out right there before an audience. “Well, Gardenia,” I said, “I’m the one you tried to kill in the Meditation Maze. But you missed.”
There was a collective gasp around the table.
“And I know all about the Turbo Brain in the Coke,” I said. “What you did to those poor kids.”
“What are you talking about?” Gardenia said.
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. You tried to hook your ‘children’ on reading by pairing it with huge doses of Turbo Brain. Unbeknowst to them. And hey, it worked great in the short term. The students read voraciously, and their reading scores skyrocketed.”
The tablemates started whispering.
“But guess what?” I snarled. “Substance use has a way of getting nasty in the long term. Dependence reared its ugly head. Your ‘kids’ lost interest in anything but getting their next fix. They got no pleasure from food, for one thing. That’s why one of them died of anorexia while at The Oasis.”
Gardenia glared at me.
“They didn’t care about sports or sex, either,” I said. “You know, normal adolescent interests. That’s why your lacrosse team sucked. And why none of them could be bothered with sex while at The Oasis.”
“Young lady, you are making no sense,” Gardenia said, her voice rising.
The whole room went silent.
I barreled right on. “Oh, and then there’s the little withdrawal problem. Another of your ‘kids’ died from seizures.”
The chatter started up again.
But I wasn’t done. “Then there was the final straw—violence. Once the kids were in The Oasis, they were no longer getting Turbo Brain. Which meant they weren’t getting their expected stimulation from Coke and reading. They thought they needed more and more of those things to get their “high.” So they fought over possession of those items and hoarded them. And ultimately one of the kids—I don’t who yet—killed Demarcus over a Coke bottle and a phone book.”
Gardenia looked around at her table companions, who were staring at her. As was everyone else in the room. “This woman is a patient from The Oasis,” she said. “She’s obviously mentally disturbed.”
“Like hell,” I said. “It’s over, Gardenia. The boy you shoved in the freezer today? Guess what? He’s not dead. He’s told the police he saw you serving Coke in the classroom, and how the kids reacted. And the cops have seized all the adulterated Coke bottles from the school.”
Okay, so that was a lie. But it fooled Gardenia. Her body folded in on itself, and her face went slack and ashen. Suddenly, she looked once again like the bereaved caretaker.
“I never meant to hurt my kids,” she sobbed. “I did it for them. They came to love reading. What principal—or parent—wouldn’t want that for their children?”
“Bullshit,” I said. “You did it for yourself. To get the glory of being a star principal. To reap the rewards of fame and fortune. You didn’t care what it did to the kids.”
“No, that’s not true,” she cried. “I didn’t know they would develop all those awful reactions. Once I saw the terrible effects, I made sure that our school counselor got them into treatment. And I visited them there every day to see how they were doing.”
“Oh, you’re a saint,” I said. “You had them sent to treatment. You just didn’t bother to inform anyone what they were addicted to.”
Gardenia reached into her purse and started to rise from her chair. “Liar!” she yelled. When she stood and withdrew her hand, her fingers gripped a needle and syringe. She lunged at me, needle aloft.
The guests screamed.
Suddenly, I was in another ballroom.
The wedding reception. Five hundred guests. Chandeliers gleaming, silverware tinkling. Then Bruce lunges at me with his fist. The guests scream. I grab the Magnum and aim it at him . . .
I reached into my boot, pulled out my Magnum, and aimed it at Gardenia.
More screams erupted throughout the room. The seated guests reeled back from the table, sending their chairs toppling.
Then a voice shouted, “Drop your weapons!”
Chapter 20
QUICKLY SWEEPING my eyes around, I took in Enrique, Reilly, and the two uniforms, Hernandez and Fernandez, surrounding us. All three cops had their weapons drawn.
I dropped my gun to the floor and raised my hands.
Gardenia stumbled backward into her chair. Her fingers loosened, and the needle and syringe fell from her grasp.
“Cuff her, Hernandez,” Reilly said.
Hernandez took a step toward me.
“No, not her,” Reilly said. “Her!” He pointed at Gardenia. “Gardenia LaFleur, you are under arrest for multiple counts of child abuse, the attempted murder of Harriet Horowitz, the attempted murder of Lars O’Malley, and the aggravated assault of Lior ben Yehuda.”
He recited her Miranda rights as Hernandez cuffed her hands behind her back. Fernandez donned a pair of gloves, picked up the needle and syringe, and placed them in an evidence bag. Then Hernandez hauled Gardenia off as she sobbed, “My children! My children!”
“Those of you at this table, stay here,” Reilly said. “Officer Fernandez will take your statements.” He walked to the front of the ballroom, ascended a podium that was there, and grabbed a microphone from atop it. A whining squeal boomed from the speakers. Guests cringed and covered their ears. After the noise subsided, Reilly announced, “Folks, the party’s over. Please leave the room in an orderly manner.”
A hubbub ensued as the crowd did as instructed.
I sank heavily into Gardenia’s vacated chair. Enrique pushed a glass of water toward me, and I gulped down the liquid.
“How did you . . . ,” I asked Enrique after I’d swallowed the glassful.
“You didn’t sound like yourself when you called me,” he said. “I mean, you’re normally bitchy, but this time there was an extra edge in your voice.”
Other women might have taken offense at that, but I knew I was a bitch on wheels . . . and proud of it.
“I knew something big had to be going down,” Enrique said. “And when I saw you enter the hotel on my security cam, I figured you were after Gardenia, since you’d asked about her. So I came after you. I got here just as the cops arrived. Are you okay?”
I nodded. “Thanks, pal.”
Reilly returned to the table. “Horowitz, you’re coming to the police station with me. I need a full statement from you.”
“Why did you come here?” I asked him.
“Lars recovered sufficiently to tell me what happened at the school. His account corroborated what you told me. I made some quick inquiries to establish Ms. LaFleur’s whereabouts and found out she was here. So I came to arrest her. Which would have gone off just fine without your theatrics. Now let’s go.”
“Lior,” I said. “I need to see Lior.”
Boca Undercover Page 17
