by Bob DeMoss
Carlos swallowed hard. They must know about his skimming from the drug money. But how long had they been tracking him? Just tonight? Or for the past several months? For the first time in his life, Carlos tasted a fear so thick he almost choked. Like a slow Internet connection, he began to piece together a picture of his situation. He realized he was in way over his head.
He couldn’t run.
He couldn’t fight.
He had no defense.
For a second, he wanted to concoct a story, something about a destitute mother, a brother who needed an operation—that’s why he skimmed; anything to deflect the reality that he was in deeper than the ocean. And by the looks on their faces, that’s exactly where he feared he’d end up.
“You think you clever man,” Illya said. His right hand rapidly opened and closed the nutcracker as he spoke. The sharp clack, clack, clack sound of metal against metal made Carlos’s heart race faster. Illya added, “Zhenya . . .”
The two men traded what was in their hands: Illya now held the flashlight, Zhenya the nutcracker. Zhenya grabbed Carlos by the forearm. His fingers dangled helplessly in midair. With a twist, Zhenya yanked the two gold nugget rings off Carlos’s fingers and placed them in his suit pocket.
Zhenya then turned his attention to the two golden necklaces around Carlos’s neck. Still gripping his outstretched hand, Zhenya stripped the fine jewelry from Carlos with a harsh, downward pull. He placed them in his pocket with the other gold items.
Carlos thought the worst was over. They had what they wanted, right? They had the gold and they’d succeeded in humiliating him. He’d do anything they ask. So what more could they want?
Illya, still pointing the flashlight at Carlos, nodded to Zhenya and then sneered, “I say, Carlos not so clever no more.”
Zhenya jammed the pinky finger from Carlos’s right hand between the jaws of the nutcracker but didn’t clamp down immediately. His eyes remained riveted on Carlos.
Carlos, now aware of what was about to happen, fought in vain to pull away. He shouted, “NO-O!!” But he knew that the music from the party, which filled the air around this makeshift torture chamber, would prevent others from hearing his cry.
A nasty smile crossed Zhenya’s lips. He snapped the nutcracker shut around the fragile finger. It cracked like a brittle twig.
Carlos roared in pain; his scream was amplified by the harsh interior of the railroad car. The instant Zhenya released him, Carlos slumped to the wooden floor.
A minute later Illya spoke. “Nine left . . . not so bad . . . I make deal. You bring stolen money—all of it, Zhenya breaks no more. Seven thousand dollars. By noon, Saturday. But . . .”
Carlos whimpered, curled in the fetal position.
“. . . if you no do, Zhenya will fix all nine. Mi poneali drook drooga?” Before offering the translation, Illya kicked Carlos in the stomach with the point of his highly polished boot. He struck with enough force to send Carlos’s body briefly airborne into the side wall of the car.
“Do we understand each other?”
13
Saturday 12:45 AM
Dr. Julius Blackstone finished his work in the basement of the Pet Vet Wellness Center—at least for the time being. With a click, he switched off the overhead light above the table. He pulled off his rubber gloves with a snap and tossed them in a chrome hopper. He removed his gown, face mask, and safety goggles.
He turned and studied his two assistants, who were likewise engaged in their postop cleanup. They had been hand-picked by him, and he had full confidence in their skills. Naturally, he had personally trained them to be proficient in several key areas of expertise.
But were they trustworthy?
As far as he could tell, yes. Who wouldn’t be for how he compensated them? That was the beauty of money. People would do just about anything—for the right price. They were no different from other greedy humans. And he always paid them under the table, in cash.
But still—were they trustworthy?
The thought nagged at the back of his mind.
How could he know for certain?
“Listen, I want plenty of ice . . . Ice is our friend,” Dr. Blackstone quipped. “Thankfully, frozen water is still cheap.” He hung his gown and accessories on a metal hook mounted on the wall. “Kindly make sure everything is packed tight. I don’t want anything leaking in transit.”
“Yes, sir,” said the older of the two assistants.
“As you can imagine, that would be a disaster on several levels,” Dr. Blackstone said, stretching his arms. “Come to think of it, toss out the old shipping cartons. Use the new ones tonight. They’re in the storage room. Make sure everything is red labeled.”
“Got it. What time is the pickup?” the second assistant asked, scrutinizing his watch.
“About an hour, so time is of the essence,” said Dr. Blackstone.
“We’ll be ready, sir.”
His eyes moved between the two helpers. “You’d better be.” His tone reflected an edge produced by both his mood and his own exhausted state. Dr. Blackstone turned to leave but paused by the outside door. His voice softened slightly. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is a big day.”
Jodi collapsed in the backseat of the late-model, blue-and-white squad car. Her head rested against the window. She was thankful for its cool surface. She closed her eyes and wished her mind would stop replaying the last thirty minutes. Talk about a real disaster zone, she thought. She’d never felt so embarrassed and stupid.
Upon their arrival at the warehouse, everything had appeared pretty much as when she’d left it; the bizarre-looking outfits, the sweaty bodies swaying in the laser lights, the ear-splitting music. If anything, the crowd was larger, and perhaps a bit rowdier, Jodi thought.
She and Officer Dexter had stood just inside the entrance, allowing their eyes to adjust to the darkness within. After several moments, Jodi pointed to a doorway across the room and to the left. Officer Dexter had grunted as he hiked up his belt around his waist and took the lead through the crowded dance floor. She had no choice but to fall in line, feeling as conspicuous as a baby duck following the lead of its parental unit.
The moment they began to climb the stairs she knew something was amiss. The lanterns in the stairway were gone, requiring Officer Dexter to use his flashlight. At the top of the stairs, she scanned the room in complete disbelief. She was dumbfounded to find it empty—with a capital E. She kept throwing her hands up in the air as if somehow the crowded room would reappear before them.
“You sure this is the right spot?” Officer Dexter had asked, huffing after the workout of climbing the steps.
“Well, I . . . yes, I’m positive. See that broken glass by the window?”
He trained the beam of light in that direction.
“That’s where we found him.”
“Who? The victim?”
“Yes. And . . . and over there were kids leaning against that wall smoking, like, dope or something plastic-smelling.” She took several steps in the direction of where the kids had been sitting. She turned and faced him. “I mean, there were kids everywhere up here. You’ve just got to believe me—”
He scrunched his nose. “Then how do you explain—”
She shook her head from side to side. “I can’t.”
They stood motionless for a long minute. The music below pounded the floor with a thump, thump, thump.
“Miss Adams”—he cleared his throat—“you’ve had your fun, now we had better be going.”
“Fun?”
“Well, the way I figure it, you dreamed up this whole dead boy story so as to get us down here.” Officer Dexter had redirected the light into her eyes, now that she was the focus of his interrogation.
She squinted. “And why would I do that?”
“Well, as I recall, you burst into the station all worked up over the drug situation and—don’t get me wrong—I’m against drugs, too, you know. I’m all about ‘Hugs not drugs’ and all of that so I appreciate
your concern. However, like the chief already explained, our hands are tied—”
“May I ask what that has to do with—”
“See, his answer wasn’t good enough for you, so as a ploy to drag us into this situation you made up that story about the victim. At least that’s the way it strikes me.”
Jodi looked down, defeated. “So you don’t believe me?”
He lowered the flashlight. His tone was all business. “Miss Adams, I have an obligation as an officer to maintain the integrity of any investigation. If that investigation starts with a fraudulent assertion of fact, well, let’s just say we’ve got to drop it. In this case, the facts don’t support your claim.”
Jodi sighed now. The memory turned her stomach. She looked out the window of the police cruiser. To make matters worse, she recalled how she and Officer Dexter had met Reverend Bud as they left the warehouse. After accusing him of just about everything in the book, all Reverend Bud said was, “Hey, it took guts to bring the fuzz here.”
“The fuzz?”
“Yeah, you know, the cops,” Reverend Bud had said, nodding in the direction of Officer Dexter. “He must feel as out-of-place as a pig at a barbecue, you know what I’m saying?” He had laughed.
To his credit, Officer Dexter had ignored the friendly jab.
Then, of all the strange things, Reverend Bud had handed her a business card inscribed with his name, address, phone number, and the words “Peace, Love, Unity, Respect.” Along the bottom edge of the card he had imprinted: This Entitles the Bearer to a Free Tab of Ecstasy.
What would she ever need that for? She almost tossed it on the floor. She stuffed it in her purse instead so as not to litter. She’d junk it later.
Right now, aside from the intense desire to crawl into bed and disappear under the covers, Jodi wished she could ask Phil Meyer what to do. Phil, the ex–Navy Seal husband of her social studies teacher, Rosie Meyer, had piloted the houseboat over spring break. He always knew how to handle any situation—at least that was her observation of the man. Talk about a rough character.
Jodi figured he could probably bust the rave single-handedly. She was tempted to call, but it was the middle of the night and she was in no mood to risk further embarrassment by waking him.
Besides, something else gnawed at her.
Why hadn’t Bruce called yet? Surely he would have arrived at the hospital by now. Did he have some kind of car trouble? What if he’d stalled out again in that old car? She desperately wanted to know what was up with Kat. Were the doctors able to stabilize her? Was she conscious? More important, would she make it?
Jodi reached for her purse and took out the phone to examine it. “I’m such a dorkus,” she said to herself.
It had been off the whole time.
Officer Dexter pulled the car to a stop in front of the police station. “Would you like me to call a cab for you?”
“Sure thing. Great. Thanks.” Jodi opened her door and stepped onto the sidewalk. She thought about mentioning to Officer Dexter that Kat was in the hospital because of the monkey business upstairs. Surely Kat would be able to back up her story about the victim. Somehow the whole idea seemed like a waste of time now that her credibility was shot—at least in the officer’s eyes.
Officer Dexter waddled around the car.
Jodi said, “Listen, about this whole situation—”
“Aw, don’t worry about it. I was just busy taking a nap. These overnight shifts are murder, you know what I’m saying?” He smiled, and then added, “While you wait, we’ve got the world’s best stale coffee inside if you’d like a cup.”
“No thanks.” His offer sounded about as appetizing as week-old cold pizza. “I’ll be fine, really.” She forced a thin smile.
“I’ll call that cab. Good night, Miss Adams.” He turned and left.
Jodi powered up her cell phone. It indicated she had two messages. She punched the icon for messages and listened. The first was from Bruce:
“Hey Jodi. We’re at the Abington hospital in the . . . Excuse me, what building is this?”
She heard Bruce calling to someone in the background. His hand partially covered the mouthpiece.
“Sorry about that. We’re in the Toll Pavilion. Gee, this sure looks like the same place Kat was airlifted to after her accident on the boat. Anyway, she’s in room 210. They got her all hooked up to a zillion tubes and stuff. The doctor said she was seriously—”
The message stopped cold. What’s with that? Jodi wondered. She waited for the second message to play.
“Jodi, it’s me again. Must have hung up accidentally. Anyway, she’s dehydrated and in critical condition. She looks pretty bad if you ask me. They’re running a bunch of tests, but it’s too early to tell what’s going on. She’s alive and that’s a plus, right? Well, I’m going home now—hate to leave her, but visiting hours are over. Besides, I really need to grab some sleep. Like I said, gotta work in the morning.”
Jodi heard Bruce fumbling with the phone as if he were about to hang up but then heard him add,
“Oh, you know what’s really weird? I heard Kat mumbling something in the car over and over . . . probably three or four times. I finally figured out what she was saying: ‘I didn’t do it.’ Go figure. I think she was just majorly delirious. Gotta run. Ski-ya later.”
Jodi put the phone in her purse.
Kat was alive. There was still a chance she’d make it. Jodi whispered, Thank you, Jesus. More than anything, Jodi wanted to see Kat for herself—right then. But Bruce had said visiting hours were over. She considered chancing a visit anyway. Then again, without a car, and with limited cash for taxies, she resolved herself to visit Kat in the morning instead.
At the same time, she was puzzled by what Bruce had said that Kat had mumbled.
Kat “didn’t do” what?
Jodi was considering several options when a new idea hit her like a ton of bricks. Maybe Kat was claiming she didn’t give the drugs to the boy who had died. If she had, that would make Kat an accessory to murder. What’s more, Jodi and Bruce had witnessed the scene, so they could be called to testify against her.
Was that it?
14
Saturday 7:45 AM
Bruce arrived at work fifteen minutes before his shift. His eyes were red and slightly puffy from a restless, fitful sleep. Thoughts from last evening had plagued him throughout the night: If the syringe from the dead boy came from their clinic, how would the guy have come into possession of it? Did he steal it? That was one possibility—but not a likely one.
He knew the clinic had an alarm system. He also figured as an employee he would have been informed had there been a break-in. So, how did the guy get ahold of it? And, what was the substance in the syringe that killed him?
Then again, Bruce was perfectly willing to admit that, as Jodi had suggested, he could be all wrong. Maybe the syringe wasn’t from the Pet Vet supply. To satisfy his curiosity, and knowing full well that Saturdays were ultra busy, he arrived early for work.
The supply room containing cases of the unused syringes was located on the main floor. Bruce found it open, as was typically the case at this time of day. He stepped inside, located a brown cardboard box marked Ace Medical Systems Syringes on the third shelf. He withdrew a sealed, individual sample of the unopened product.
One side of the sterile wrapper was transparent, the other side a white paper with green type. The contents were described as a 3ml 21G1 Luer-LokTM Latex Free syringe. Bruce compared it to the syringe he had taken from the boy last night. It was an exact match. Same red plunger. Same reference number. It even had the same lot number. There could be no mistake.
Out of concern that their facility may have been compromised, Bruce knew he had to inform Dr. Blackstone as soon as possible. He placed the unused syringe in the box and returned the box to the third shelf. Behind him he heard footsteps.
“May I inquire what you are doing, Bruce?”
Bruce spun around, surprised to see his boss in th
e doorway. “Oh, hi, Dr. Blackstone. Actually, there’s something I was about to come and see you about.”
“Yes, and what might that be? I haven’t much time this morning. Be quick with it.” Dr. Blackstone folded his left arm over his right. This kept his watch in plain view. Bruce observed a few bloodstains on Dr. Blackstone’s white lab jacket. Not unusual since animal surgery was part of the scope of their work at the clinic.
“Well, last night my friend and I went to . . . to this rave. That’s like a giant dance party.” Bruce, unsure whether Dr. Blackstone would know what a rave was, started to explain further. “See, there’s a DJ, and kids from all over—”
“What you do with your free time is no concern of mine.”
“Right. But see, I found this.” Bruce pulled the syringe from last night out of his pocket. He fumbled for a long moment to unwrap it. As he worked, he heard Dr. Blackstone exhale a puff of impatient air.
“Well . . . you see . . . sir, it looked a whole lot like one of ours, which didn’t make sense.”
“I agree. And I’m sorry to cut you off, but—”
“If I can just say . . . I compared it this morning to one of those.” Bruce pointed to the box on the shelf. “It matches perfectly. And so, what I can’t figure for the life of me is how some kid ends up with one of our needles at a rave downtown Philly, you know?”
Dr. Blackstone leaned his head to one side. “May I see the syringe you’re holding?” His fingers beckoned with a rapid twitch.
“Sure thing.” Bruce handed it over. “See, what bothers me is that we only use these syringes to tranquilize the animals with a ketamine solution before surgery, right?”
Dr. Blackstone held the syringe up to the light. “That’s correct.”
