by Karen Pullen
COLD HEART
A STELLA LAVENDER MYSTERY
COLD HEART
KAREN PULLEN
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2017 by Karen Pullen
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Pullen, Karen, author.
Title: Cold heart : a Stella Lavender mystery / Karen Pullen.
Description: First Edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc., 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016037255 (print) | LCCN 2016042135 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432832575 (hardback) | ISBN 1432832573 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432834654 (ebook) | ISBN 1432834657 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432832469 (ebook) | ISBN 1432832468 (ebook)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3246-9 eISBN-10: 1-43283246-8
Subjects: LCSH: North Carolina. State Bureau of Investigation—Fiction. | Drug enforcement agents—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3616.U46 C66 2017 (print) | LCC PS3616.U46 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016037255
First Edition. First Printing: January 2017
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3246-9 ISBN-10: 1-43283246-8
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Visit our website– http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/
Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 21 20 19 18 17
For my mother, Juanita H. Williams, who would’ve liked it.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Invaluable feedback on the many drafts of Cold Heart came from patient writing friends Laurie Billman, Sam Brooks, Antoinette Brown, Toni Goodyear, Louise Hawes, Marjorie Hudson, Linda Johnson, Ruth Moose, Joanna Catherine Scott, Judith Stanton, and Frances Wood. Shirley Burch’s advice kept my SBI agent reasonably well-behaved. I’m grateful to the Weymouth Arts Center in Southern Pines, NC, for several writing residencies, to Deni Dietz and Five Star for providing a home for Stella, and to Gordon Aalborg for his editorial guidance. I’m blessed with the encouragement of family, especially my husband, Mac. Thank you, all.
CHAPTER 1
Saturday night
Fredricks and I perched on stools at Clemmie’s bar and nursed fizzy water. We were going to buy drugs, if we ever got a table.
Fredricks is a pudgy, bald cop, fifteen years my senior. My mentor, my instructor. I’m supposed to take direction from him. Usually I buy product and he backs me up. This night was different since the informant had sent us to a restaurant and Fredricks thought a couple would be less conspicuous. We didn’t look like the other couples at Clemmie’s bar, the ones sipping margaritas and lemon drops, furiously flirting. But no one seemed to notice us.
Fredricks loves eating in restaurants. In our idle moments, he bores me stupid with foodie talk, so naturally he was absorbed in the menu. After one look at it, seeing produce babies—beets, carrot, lettuce—and their prices, I closed it and glanced at the mirror behind the bar to study the couple sitting on my other side. The man had a lovely smell, clean like a waterfall, and every so often he’d lean into me, then apologize. I didn’t mind; I was trembling, the way I always do before a drug buy, and his warm back steadied me. His attention was on his girlfriend, a stunner with the kind of white-blond silky-straight hair I will never have. Such is the unfairness of DNA. He reached out and smoothed her hair, tucked it behind one delicate ear. They smiled at each other, eyes locked. I sighed and turned to Fredricks.
“What’re you gonna have?” he asked.
“What can I afford?” North Carolina state employees get eighteen dollars for dinner.
“Come on, Stella. Live a little.” He read the appetizer list aloud.
I interrupted him. “What’s a White Elf mushroom?”
“From the oyster mushroom family. Earthy, buttery flavor with notes of—”
“Stop. I’ll have a salad. Caesar.” Even that was over the allowance, up-priced by the addition of Parmesan and prosciutto crisps.
“I’m thinking the seared scallops with pea vines and cauliflower puree,” Fredricks said. “Or maybe the pork loin. Turnips and baby kale.” Listening to Fredricks talk about food was like listening to a football junkie review the weekend’s games. Mind-numbing.
“Another club soda?” The bartender asked this without a flicker of irony, as if he were actually pleased we were taking up space with our two-dollar fizzy water.
“Uh, no thanks,” Fredricks said, just as the restaurant’s pager buzzed, signaling that our table was ready. He dropped a dollar on the bar, I added a second one, and we slid off our seats. I cast a fond glance at my neighbor in the mirror. He looked at me, nodded when he caught my eye. Approving of our fifty-percent tip, perhaps, or my leather miniskirt—my legs have been known to slow a man’s breathing.
The dining room was decorated in happy Caribbean colors—teal, lime, orange. Hushed steel-pan jazz and the faint clink of silver on china permitted softly spoken conversations. Fredricks made small talk about his kids, ex-wife, and new girlfriend until our plates arrived and I had to watch him eat, a sight guaranteed to dampen one’s appetite. Just as well, because, according to the plan, I was supposed to leave half my meal and ask for a to-go box. “Why make the sale right here in plain sight?” I whispered, crunching a Parmesan chip. “It’s risky for him.”
“Less risky, actually. No one gets robbed.” He patted his mouth with the linen napkin.
We’d been told to ask for the manager. Here he came, walking swiftly, smiling as he drew near our table. His Claude Monet tie harmonized with his golden tan, white teeth, eyes blue as a Carolina sky. He was what my grandmother Fern—whose lifelong hobby is the male gender—would call a pretty one.
I crooked my finger, he bent down, and I smelled pine, like Christmas. I whispered, “Gift certificates, please. Twelve hundred dollars in denominations of eighty. And a to-go box for my salad.”
His smile faded fast as he studied my face, then Fredricks’s. “How did you hear about our gift certificates?”
“You come highly recommended. We have a mutual friend,” Fredricks said, “from Ohio.”
“Who is . . .”
“Benedict, actually.” Fredricks was calm, scooping up a last morsel of pea vine and puree. No illegal drug transaction was going to interfere with his meal.
The manager handed Fredricks a black leather check folder. Fredricks signed the credit card slip and tucked it inside, along with an envelope containing twelve hundred dollars. I felt a little queasy, watching that much taxpayer money leave our control.
We waited. This was an iffy step in the exchange. Would he come back w
ith the drugs? I sipped water. Fredricks buttered the last piece of bread and ate it.
The manager returned, handing Fredricks our receipt and me a styrofoam box.
I didn’t open it until we’d climbed into our truck. Nestled under romaine and croutons and Parmesan was a little something special: fifteen eighty-milligram OxyContin tablets in a baggie.
“Check the video,” Fredricks said.
I’d worn a tiny camera clipped to my collar, disguised by a scarf. My phone had an app for camera playback. “It’s good,” I said. “He’s handing me the box. I guess I don’t get to finish my salad.”
“Ha. Can’t eat the evidence.” Fredricks burped quietly.
“Lincoln Teller owns that restaurant,” I said. Lincoln was a Gardner University football All-Star who went on to play for the Washington Redskins, and a current darling of the Triangle media. “Think he’s involved?”
“I hope not. Bad enough the manager’s dealing right out of the dining room.”
Our boss at the State Bureau of Investigation would want to control this case, which would attract significant media interest. Still, it would be several weeks before police could make an arrest. We’d attempt to insert an undercover into the kitchen, make more buys, and find the manager’s sources. My most fervent prayer: Dear Lord, may that undercover be anyone but me.
“Are we done?” I asked.
“Evergreen.” Fredricks started the engine and we rolled out of the parking lot.
“I hate that place.”
“Residents want us to clean it up.”
It was a beautiful night, the air soft on my skin and fragrant with honeysuckle. A night for hand-holding and slow kisses in the moonlight. And here I was, in the front seat of a rusty pickup driven by a squat middle-aged man, on my way into the shittiest building in Verwood. To buy drugs. I suspected every single apartment in Evergreen harbored a thriving drug business. And it was my job to patronize them.
I had to change. In my duffle, I found jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, and wrestled myself into them as Fredricks looked the other way. I wiped off all my makeup, pulled my hair back tight into a ponytail. “How do I look?”
“About fourteen,” he said. “Add some lipstick.”
I painted my mouth dark red. The zombie look. I hooked the mike to my bra and ran its wire to the one-way transmitter in my back pocket. My Sig was concealed in a holster behind my back, under the hoodie.
“Where first?” I asked.
“Over by that mail kiosk. See what they’re selling. Then you’re going to hit an apartment—B215—belongs to some dude named Scottie. According to a CI, he’s dealing heroin. Turn on the mike and let’s test it.”
Fredricks’s earpiece squealed with feedback, and he pulled it away from his head. “Ouch. Works. You ready?”
Was I ready? The familiar stomach churn. An adrenaline tremor in my hands. Heart rate elevated, metallic taste in my mouth. “Here I go.” I hopped down from the truck.
Evergreen had perhaps a hundred units, arranged in a “U” around a parking lot and mailboxes. Two teenagers lounged against the kiosk, smoking pot. Ugh. I hate pot; it makes my nose all stuffy. I bought a half ounce, and memorized their sweet faces. They were flirty, wanted me to smoke with them, and I felt a twinge of guilt. Undercover requires betrayal, and sometimes it gets to me. They’d be hauled into the sheriff’s office later, based on evidence from Fredricks’s film and my identification of them, charged with felonies, and given the choice of a year in jail or flipping—becoming informants. Making their moms proud.
I stuffed the pot into my hoodie pocket and walked around to a side entrance. The door was unlocked—broken—and I slipped inside, heard a woman’s angry yells, TV, the cries of a baby. A noxious smell of dirt, urine, frying meat. I climbed the steps to the second floor, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door of 215.
A big, big man opened the door. Tall and wide. He wore all black, like an undertaker, and a boatload of gold bling. His living room was a man cave, surprisingly neat for a heroin dealer. Leather sofa and recliner, oak coffee table sturdy enough for his massive feet.
He had an open, friendly face but I didn’t trust him an inch. Faces lie. I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders, tried to relax my expression. I knew I looked tense. Scottie was probably used to that look. “Hey,” I said, “heard I could buy good stuff here.”
He looked me up and down. “Do I know you?”
“I have cash. You sell china white?”
“Cute thing like you don’t need cash.”
The quicker this was over the better. I held out a handful of fifties. “How much will this buy?”
“Plenty,” he said. He left the room, coming back soon with a bundle. As he handed it to me, he took hold of my arm instead of the money, pulled me over to the sofa. Jesus, I hate to be manhandled. “Quit,” I said, curling in on myself. I wasn’t going to tussle with him; he was too big.
He breathed beer fumes into my face. “What’s a sweet kid like you gonna do with china white?”
“Same as anyone. Party,” I said. Between his weight pressing me into the sofa corner and his hand clamped like a vise on my arm, I couldn’t move. “Hey, can I get some space here?” Oddly, I wasn’t terrified. Maybe because Fredricks was listening and would be on his way, maybe because of the Sig pressing against my spine. This was going to be resolved one way or another.
“Wait a sec.” He heaved himself up, and I felt a momentary relief until I saw he was unzipping his pants.
“Jesus, no,” I said. “Take the cash, man.” I jumped up. He was big but slow, and I got around him and headed for the door. It was locked and as I fiddled with the deadbolt he grabbed me around the waist. His erection pressed into my backside, and he could feel my holster. Mutual alarming surprise.
“What’s that, honey? You wearing a weapon?” He slipped his hand under my hoodie, I finally got the door open, and in burst Fredricks, fire in his eyes. Despite his bulky physique, my partner has moves. Within seconds Scottie was on his stomach, cuffed, and Mirandized.
“If you’d left her alone, we could’ve cut a deal,” Fredricks said.
Scottie rolled onto his side and gave me a stink eye. “Damn. You a cop? I don’t believe it.”
“Thanks for this,” I said, and slid the heroin bundle into an evidence bag. “I’ll mail you a check.”
CHAPTER 2
Sunday
Sunday was my day off, and I was antsy. I’d had a restless night, disturbed by thoughts of Scottie’s bulk and the baby-faced kids.
I didn’t want to spend the day at home, alone with puppy-sized dust bunnies and the neglected gloxinia dropping its shriveled furry leaves. It was an energy-sapping house, and I lacked the energy to do anything about it. I decided to visit my grandmother, Fern.
Merle, a yellow dog of indeterminate breed, watched my every movement for a sign he might be included in my day’s plans. When I asked, “Want to practice?” he wriggled with rapturous delight and wagged his tail so hard it knocked a wine glass off the coffee table. “Practice” meant searching for socks scattered in my grandmother’s woods. Each find garnered a chewy treat, thus combining Merle’s two favorite activities—going out and snacks.
I grabbed my car keys and set off for Fern’s farmhouse.
Five minutes later I crashed into a squad car.
Verwood’s only traffic feature is a one-way loop around the county courthouse. In England, it would be called a roundabout. In Boston, a rotary. We call ours the Circle of Death. Sometimes it’s tricky to join the flow of traffic, but once you are in the circle you can relax, since you have the right-of-way. So I relaxed, and reached for my water bottle in the drink holder, just as a county sheriff’s squad car leapt in front of me, its siren shrieking. I slammed on the brakes. Bam! My ’98 Corolla smashed into the rear of the squad car. Merle, all ninety pounds of him, thudded against the back of my seat.
I directed a few choice words at the puddle soaking my lap, blottin
g at it with some napkins I found in the glove compartment. The squad car’s door opened and—oh no—my favorite Essex County cop stepped out. Lt. Anselmo Morales walked over to my window. His nice crooked smile was nowhere in evidence, and behind wire-rim glasses his black eyes flashed irritation.
“You okay, Stella?” He bent down to get a closer look at me, and I smelled soap and cloves. Merle began a full-body wiggle, begging for a pat on the head. I knew just how he felt.
“You didn’t hear the siren?” Anselmo’s voice was a no-nonsense baritone with a hint of Hispanic accent.
“I heard it. I was reaching for my water and didn’t react fast enough. I’m terribly sorry.” This humiliating story would tweet-percolate through the law enforcement gossip grapevine at the speed of light.
“There’s no damage to either car but I’ve gotta write this up anyway. Right now I’m answering an urgent call, so you can pick up your citation at the law enforcement center. Next time, don’t drink and drive.” He took off, siren blaring.
Recently Anselmo and I had worked together on a homicide investigation. I worshipped him silently. He was intelligent, dedicated, easy to look at. But, alas, married. “Delicious,” I said, turning to check on Merle. He gazed thoughtfully into my eyes, no doubt intrigued by the food adjective. “Such a lollipop.” His tail thumped on the seat in agreement.
Fern lives on Clark Rudman Road, eight miles outside town. My car’s shocks couldn’t handle the ruts on her lane, so I parked next to her mailbox and walked two hundred yards to her house. Hillary and Bill, Fern’s curious donkeys, peered at me over the fence as a rooster’s rude cries disrupted the midmorning quiet. Merle bounded ahead to harass the thousands of moles tunneling in her field.
Someone else had braved the lane’s ruts. A car bounced past me on its way out. I thought I recognized the driver, Harry Edwards, a local lawyer. Only one reason he was leaving her house at nine a.m.—he’d spent the night with her. I’d always suspected he was one of her lovers, since he did her legal work for free. Fern’s men tended to be a grateful bunch.
