by Bob DeMoss
She could still picture the teen lying on the floor, cold and unmoving in his Tweety Bird shirt. If only there were a police station, or even a passing police car, she’d at least be able to report him to the authorities.
“Speaking of drugs,” Bruce said, pumping on his brakes to slow down for a stoplight, “I’ve been thinking about that syringe we found. The one by the stiff.”
He looked up in the rearview mirror. Their eyes met.
“That’s a crass way to refer to him, Bruce.”
“That’s what he was. Anyway, remember how I told you we got a zillion new syringes at the pet clinic without the standard black plungers?”
“Yeah . . .”
“You’ll never guess what color they were.” He paused. “They were red—just like the one the stiff, I mean, just like the boy had used.”
“I can’t say that I see your point,” said Jodi after a moment. “You think there’s a connection?”
“That’s what I can’t figure out. See, like, right now, for example, we’re spending a bunch of time making up batches of ketamine-filled syringes.”
“Keta-what?”
“Ketamine. It’s an animal tranquilizer. We use it all day long on cats and other, as Dr. Blackstone says, ‘subhuman primates.’ I’m told it’s pretty lethal stuff if you’re not careful. It even has a C-3 drug rating.”
“Which means?”
“It’s a class three, federally regulated drug,” Bruce said. “Only a trained vet can use it as an anesthetic. Let’s say you want to operate on an animal, you plunge the needle into a muscle.” He demonstrated by jabbing his forefinger into his thigh. “Release the magic potion and, presto, the beast drifts into outer space.”
Jodi watched as Bruce slumped forward, face against the steering wheel pretending to be knocked out—a stunt he could afford to do since traffic had come to a brief stop. He sat upright. “Seems we’ve carved out a neat little side business supplying other clinics with these syringes.”
Jodi was genuinely interested, but was more concerned about Kat. “And the point is?”
He stepped on the gas again. “Well, you can’t just walk into WalMart and buy the stuff. So I’m wondering, what if someone broke into the clinic and stole some of our syringes?”
“Let me get this straight.” Jodi ran her fingers through her hair. “You think that dead kid was shooting up with keta-whatever, which I don’t understand since it’s for animals, and you think he or someone, might have stole it from your vet clinic? All because the plunger was red, right?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I figure I’ll ask Dr. Blackstone in the morning . . . just to be sure. You know, he could test the contents and—”
“You know what I think?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I think it’s late and you’ve watched way too much TV.”
He laughed. “You’re probably right. Just the other day I saw this really cool special on—”
Jodi cut him off. “Bruce, stop the car. Please? Over there by the police station.” She pointed to a building two blocks ahead on the right of the car.
Ever since they had left the rave, Jodi was torn between her desire to help Kat and the belief that somebody ought to do at least something to identify the dead boy. If not her, who? She knew that after the rave was over and after everybody left, his parents would never know the truth about what happened to their son. The thought that his final resting place might be the second floor of an abandoned warehouse just didn’t sit well with her. She had full confidence that Bruce would be able to get Kat the help she needed; he was, after all, a quasi-paramedic.
“You crazy? We gotta get Kat to the hospital.”
“You can take her just fine. Me? I’ve just got to tell the police about that kid. And listen . . .”
“Yes—whatever you say, Nancy Drew,” said Bruce as he pulled the car to a stop.
“Call me on my cell once she’s there. I wanna know how she’s doing, okay?”
11
Saturday 12:38 AM
Jodi watched the red taillights of Bruce’s car disappear in the night. For a fleeting second she had second thoughts. Although Bruce wasn’t trying to be mean, his Nancy Drew jab had stung. She never considered herself to be a detective, nor did she ever want to be one.
Maybe she should just drop the whole thing. Of course, it was a little late for that option—now that it was after midnight and she had no car.
She turned and faced the three-story brick building. She scanned the structure and decided the place was so old it must have been built by the Pilgrims. Thick ivy clung to the right side of the building, covering everything in its path from the ground to the bottom of the third-floor windows. Six well-worn steps led up to the towering, nine-foot twin oak doors.
Jodi climbed the steps. She gave the right hand door a shove with her shoulder; the hinges creaked a tired melody as it swung open. Inside, the place smelled of wet newspaper and dust. She took several steps into the room where a policeman sat behind a massive wooden desk reading a paperback. His desk sported a phone, a pad of paper, and a pen.
He didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence.
“Excuse me, sir.”
While she waited for a response, she noticed the walls were painted a pale blue; peeling in some places, flaking off in others. Several feet to the left of his desk, a second officer in a folding chair leaned back on its two rear legs against the wall. His eyes were closed, his hands folded across his sizable stomach. Both men wore standard police-issue blue shirts and black ties, although this one’s was loosened around the neck.
Jodi turned back to the officer before her and then strained to read his nametag. It read: Sergeant Schmidt.
“Um, sir. I hate to disturb your reading,” said Jodi, annoyed by his lack of basic courtesy. “But I need some help here.”
He turned a page and read some more before casting a look at her over the top of his thick, brown-framed glasses.
“Whatcha got that can’t wait until the end of my break, sweetie?” He stuck a stubby finger between the pages to reserve his place.
Sweetie? Jodi folded her arms at the insult. “Well, with all due respect, by the looks of this place”—she uncrossed her arms and then placed her hands on her hips—“I guess I’m not surprised that a few thousand kids are stoned out of their minds at that rave around the corner.” She pointed with her right thumb over her shoulder. She almost added, while you’re reading your book, but didn’t want to be disrespectful.
Sergeant Schmidt turned his head to the left and grunted, “Dexter, you still have your cape?”
“Cape?” Officer Dexter rubbed his face.
“Yeah, the one they gave you when you graduated from Superman Training Academy.” Sergeant Schmidt burst into a blast of laughter so hard, he started to cough—a raspy, smoker’s cough. He cleared his throat. “Listen, missy . . .”
“Jodi, Jodi Adams.”
“Right.” His jaw tightened, his face appearing pained at the interruption. Another grunt. “Ms. Adams, if what you allege is true—”
“It is.”
“I’m sure you believe that is the case.”
She shook her head. “I saw kids dealing drugs right in front of me. I was asked if I wanted ecstasy probably four or five times. I know what I saw.” Her hands were outstretched, palms up as she spoke.
He removed his glasses and massaged his temples. “Dexter . . .”
“Sir?”
“We got how many men on duty tonight in this precinct?”
“Let’s see. There’s me . . . and there’s you. Yeah, two as far as I can tell.”
Jodi was about to scream. “I don’t believe this,” she said under her breath. Sergeant Schmidt’s hearing was evidently better than his vision.
“What’s not to believe, missy? Facts are stubborn things and our hands are tied. We simply do not have the manpower to mobilize for a drug bust of that magnitude.” He put his glasses back on. “And you can thank the mayor for t
hat bit of reality. Now, if you don’t mind . . .” He started to read his book.
Jodi took a deep breath. Her priority, after all, was the dead boy, not the flagrant sale of drugs.
“Actually, I’m here to report—or whatever—a dead boy.”
This time the sergeant looked directly at her through his glasses. His eyes, like those of a walleyed bass fish, filled the lenses, thick as Coke bottle bottoms. She heard the echo of Officer Dexter’s folding chair landing on all four feet across the room.
“That’s a rather serious statement to make, Ms. Adams.”
Jodi licked her lips. “Well, my friend Bruce and I both saw him—the “vic,” or whatever you guys call him. I’d guess he was maybe seventeen years old.”
“When and where?”
“Tonight, at that rave I told you about. I don’t know, maybe thirty minutes ago.”
“At the rave. Hmm.” Sergeant Schmidt leaned back in his swivel chair, hands folded behind his head. “As a police agency we do not have the luxury of speculation. We deal in facts, as I’m confident you can appreciate.”
She nodded in earnest.
He cleared his throat. “As such, I cannot have one of my officers climbing through abandoned warehouses sifting through garbage on a wild-goose chase. What makes you think the victim is dead?”
“We checked for a pulse and didn’t find one. Plus, his body was cold when I touched him.” Jodi rolled her head around her shoulders trying to release the throbbing at the base of her neck.
“Any sign of a struggle?”
“No.”
“Any blood?”
“No.”
“Any wounds?”
“No.” She had a hunch where he was going with this line of questioning.
“I see.” Sergeant Schmidt made a fist with his right hand and used it to cover his mouth as he coughed. “Did you consider the distinct possibility that he was just sleeping?”
“With no pulse?”
“It’s entirely possible you missed it. Frankly, people don’t just die from dancing too hard.” He had no smile. “Just making an observation.”
Jodi started to respond, to tell him about the syringe they found, but he waved her off. “Listen, I can appreciate your sincerity. You’re to be commended for doing your civic duty. We’ll make a note of your report for the file.”
File? What file would that be? He didn’t ask for the location of the building, or the location of the boy in the building, or what he was wearing—or for that matter, even a basic description of the boy. Jesus, what now? she wondered.
“Excuse me, Sergeant Schmidt.”
He grunted.
“I was just wondering if you had one of those ride-along programs in this department.”
His eyes narrowed as he rubbed the stubble on his chin.
Jodi continued. “I mean, the warehouse is just a few blocks away. It’s just on Christopher Columbus. Maybe Officer Dexter and I could ride over there, you know. I could take him right to the spot.”
He scratched the side of his head. “This isn’t the only case we’re dealing with—”
“It wouldn’t take but a few minutes,” Jodi pleaded.
“Hang on . . . hang on.” He turned to his left. “Dexter, feel like getting some fresh air? Maybe take her for a ride to humor her?”
“Sure, whatever.”
Sergeant Schmidt rolled his chair back several inches, opened his middle desk drawer and withdrew a single sheet of off-white paper. He held it up for Jodi to see as if presenting a piece of fine art.
“This here is what we call our Waiver Form. Fill out the top part. Sign and date it on the bottom line.” He slid it across the desk and tossed her his pen. “I’ll need to see a picture I.D. . . . driver’s license . . . learner’s permit. Something along those lines.”
Jodi snatched her I.D. from her purse, held it out for him to examine, and then tucked it back in place. She knelt on one knee and started to fill in the requested information on the edge of his desk.
“Keep in mind, by signing this paper you release us from all liability in the event of an accident, shooting, or other altercation that may jeopardize your safety. In other words”—he paused to cough—“we are not responsible for what may happen to you. Is that understood, Ms. Adams?”
12
Saturday 12:44 AM
With the help of two other workers, Carlos Martinez took less than fifteen minutes to completely clear the chill room. The ravers who had been partying, resting, or, in some instances, engaging in sex, were moved to a room in another section of the enormous warehouse.
Gone were the lanterns that had previously lit the second-floor area. Gone were any traces of recent activity.
Gone, too, was the body of the boy with the Tweety Bird shirt.
His task complete, Carlos began to provide stimulants to the crowd. He had sold product at several other raves for Reverend Bud, but tonight was by far the biggest score he had ever made.
Thanks to Reverend Bud working out the deal like a well-oiled machine, sales had been extraordinarily good. He provided the drugs and fixed the prices. Carlos and the others who, as Reverend Bud put it, “spread the love around,” were permitted to keep 20 percent of everything collected. Sure beat flipping hamburgers for minimum wage.
Carlos, unlike the other dealers, never used the drugs himself. He preferred instead a clear head to work a little scam of his own. He found it easy to con or, in many cases rob, the stoned partygoers of their drugs. It was a simple task in the dark environment. He, in turn, resold the stolen narcotics and kept 100 percent of the profits.
And why not? Who would a raver complain to in the middle of the night? The police—who were never around? Even if the cops showed up, what could they say? “I bought some illegal dope and got ripped off”? Hardly. Carlos knew he was taking a risk, but the payoff was too good to pass up.
But tonight the encounter with Jodi had rattled him.
He had first met Jodi two months before. During their near-deadly voyage on the Chesapeake Bay he had watched Jodi put her convictions into practice, even at great personal cost. She wasn’t afraid of self-sacrifice. And he came to see her motivation as being “into Jesus.”
That made him even more uncomfortable, especially since his guiding principle was the motto “Every man for himself.” You only go around once, right? Grab for all the gusto, even if that means taking from some loser who doesn’t know any better.
Eat—or be eaten. Sure, it was shallow compared to Jodi’s way, but it was his truth.
If he had any doubts about her sincerity, if he had wondered whether the whole houseboat experience was done for show, tonight erased all of that for him. The compassion and care for Kat’s well-being that Jodi demonstrated was more than he could process.
Maybe there was something to Jodi’s Jesus. Maybe.
He found it easier to shove the thoughts from his mind. Instead, he scoped the incoming crowd for his next transaction. Perfect. Two kids—definite newbies—had just entered. He wanted to get to them before the other dealers landed the score. As he approached them, Carlos passed two figures standing against the wall in the shadows.
Five minutes later, a hundred extra dollars were added to his private stash. He decided to step outside to see if Reverend Bud had arrived. He knew if his boss was around he would be hovering by the makeshift ticket stand.
Once outside Carlos felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned around, half expecting to see Reverend Bud, but was surprised to be staring at a very large, bald man. Beside him was another unfamiliar face.
“Carlos, yes?”
The accent sounded foreign. Carlos squinted. “Do I know you?”
“My name is Illya. This is Zhenya. Please to walk with us.” Illya’s rock-solid hand wrapped around the base of Carlos’s neck. He had no real choice in the matter.
“Actually, I’m . . . I’m about to meet with—”
“Carlos, first we talk, yes?”
; “Um, sure thing. So where are we going? I’ve really got to see Reverend—”
“No more words now.”
Carlos felt himself carried along, very much against his will, across the parking lot in the direction of a train track. The track, which, in years past, had serviced the warehouse, ran parallel to the street about one block from the building. A row of now abandoned railroad cars remained parked in place with weeds sprouting up and around the wheels. They moved with directness and purpose to the middle car. Zhenya reached up and opened a rusty sliding door. They pushed Carlos inside before stepping in themselves.
Carlos, his heart about to burst, struggled to stand. He’d seen the Russians from time to time with Reverend Bud in the past. He didn’t know the nature of their business and didn’t care to ask. Now he wished he knew. Especially since they didn’t appear to be the kind of guys who had a sense of humor. Their tight, all-business stares were as unsettling as their cold, narrow eyes boring a whole in his forehead. He knew this was no social visit.
“Listen, um, guys. There must be some mistake here. I work for Reverend Bud . . . you can ask him, for real.” Carlos felt beads of sweat roll down his forehead. The stale smell of urine, deposited by homeless drifters who used the railroad car as shelter, greeted his nose.
“Zhenya, door, please.” Illya removed his nutcracker and cracked open a Brazil nut while Zhenya closed the door. They stood in the darkness as Illya cracked another shell open. The sound ricocheted off of the hard, metal interior. A moment later, Zhenya flicked on a powerful flashlight.
“Carlos, in Mother Russia we say, ‘Bez izvenenii.’ I believe American say, ‘There’s no excuse.’”
“Uh . . . the thing is, like, I really don’t have a clue—”
“Shhh. I say you what I think,” Illya said. “I watch you. Your fingers become sticky for money. Our money. Understood me?”
