by Karen Pullen
Flea market, garage sale, thrift shop customers. Shabby before it was chic. She took a bite of sourdough bread, chewy and yeasty.
When they finished, Fern stacked the dishes and took them to the sink, a single porcelain basin with double sideboards, as old as the house. “Want some dessert? I’ve got ice cream, Cherry Garcia.”
“I always have time for my dear friends Ben and Jerry.”
“Tricia Scott was here earlier.”
“The day after Justine’s death, and she’s visiting?”
Holding the ice cream scoop, Fern paused. “I know. I couldn’t read her. She left her book for me.” She pointed at JESUS ON THE JOB. “What do you think?”
Stella opened the binder. “Kind of uncomfortable if you don’t share the boss’s faith.”
“You’re right. And it’s not all benign. There’s a message of activism.”
Stella turned the pages. “Onward, Christian soldiers? This book will offend some people. Are you sure you want to do the cover?”
“It’s a commission.” Fern cleared the table and slid the dishes into a tub of sudsy water.
“Did Tricia talk about Justine?” Stella asked.
“Tricia said her son was distraught.”
“Did she get along with Justine?”
Fern shrugged, momentarily entranced by the dots of color dancing around the room, a magical effect caused by the setting sun passing through the beveled glass panes in the back door. The rainbow flickering across Stella’s shining dark hair kindled a memory of Grace, Stella’s mother, sitting in the same place, turning the pages of a book. Fern had to say something. “You’ve always had your mother’s hair and eyes, but these days, when I look at you, it’s almost like I see her. Same eyes, shoulders, straight back. When you talk, you sound exactly like her.”
Stella kissed Fern’s cheek. “You know, someday I will find out what happened to her. For both of us. And now I have to go to work.”
CHAPTER 5
* * *
Sunday Early Evening
The pink-gold setting sun gleamed in slivers through an eggplant storm cloud. Gusts of wind rocked the truck and rain splatted on the windshield. I pulled my hood up so I wouldn’t have to watch Fredricks eating, and tried to psych myself up to buy drugs.
The State Bureau of Investigation had been teaming with the Essex County Sheriff’s Department for months. The team divided into two groups. One group knew the neighborhoods and the networks; they traced money, recruited informants, and set up wiretaps. The addicts and dealers recognized them. The other group worked undercover, making drug buys to gather evidence so arrests could be made. I’d been assigned to undercover because, as my boss put it, “You don’t look like a cop.” I was five-three and even wearing a gun holster barely tipped the scales at one-twenty. I could dress like a high school tramplet and easily look ten years younger. In a room full of undercover cops, I was always the only young white female. Gosh, was I special.
“When you’re ready,” my boss Richard had said, after each of the three times I’d formally requested a transfer to homicide. “I hear good things, Stella. Keep it up.”
Easy for him to say. He didn’t have to hand over perfectly good taxpayer money to criminals and pretend they were doing him a big favor. Night after night, I’d been buying drugs in all kinds of neighborhoods—convenience stores, low-rent streets, bars, high-rise apartments, fast-food places, health clubs, gated communities. Every single town in North Carolina had its share of dealers, most of them carrying a weapon and as ready to pop it as spit.
Anselmo hadn’t called, leaving me to wonder about Justine Bradley’s death. Probably the medical examiner didn’t work on Sundays. Or someone had confessed. Or the sheriff didn’t want SBI help. A lack of information, the feeling of being left out, made me edgy and agitated, and I didn’t want to leave the truck. It was a confiscated pickup the SBI had kept for drug stings, shabby, dented, a plausible vehicle for a drug addict. I liked it. It was peppy and unpretentious. Cozy even.
I hugged my arms and looked out the window at the lights of the apartments. Inside, people were watching TV and washing dishes and rocking babies to sleep, normal things people do even in a crappy complex like Evergreen Place. “Evergreen” must refer to the crabgrass, now drinking the rain and preparing for tomorrow’s growth spurt.
“We’re gonna make four buys tonight. Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll be fine,” Fredricks said through a mouthful of grilled mahi-mahi sandwich. Fredricks was my partner, my mentor, protector, guide to the underworld.
I’m not your flipping sweetheart, I thought, gritting my teeth. No way, not ever. “How do you like my outfit?” I wore a frayed denim skirt, green hoodie, lace-up boots. I’d penciled eyeliner on thick like a raccoon, and attached fake eyelashes. My hair hung loose and tangled.
“It’s good, real good.You don’t look anything like a cop.”
“But do I look like a customer?”
“Everyone looks like a customer. Now remember, lay on a thick drawl. Slouch. Cuss. Make faces.” He illustrated, chewing on the inside of his cheek, pursing his lips. “Hide your selfesteem.You’re a despicable addict.”
“And I don’t care.”
“That’s right.You just want to get high. Let your eyes wander like you can’t focus. Time to go, sweetheart.”
I opened the truck door. Through the rain I could make out two folks lurking under a lighted mail shelter. They weren’t waiting for the mailman—only one reason they were outside on a night like this. I trotted over there.
The man and woman were gaunt and pale, shivering in the chilly weather and smoking cigarettes. “What’s up?” I asked, slouching and chewing on my cheek.
“Whatcha need?” He coughed wetly from the exertion of speaking. His arms were heavily tattooed with red-and-black swirls.
“Rock,” I said, “a fifty,” and the woman vanished down the sidewalk.
He took my money. “You from around here?”
I nodded. “Verwood.”
“I have a buddy in Verwood. You know Loren Baird?” Like we were meeting at a barbeque. Soon we’d be sharing our favorite movies, restaurants, and investment tips.
“No, I don’t.” I wondered how old he was. He looked at least forty except for dark plentiful hair. Addicts wear out real fast, so maybe he was in his twenties. Mrs. Crack Seller appeared out of the mist and handed me a small plastic bag. We were under the light, the rain had let up some, and I knew Fredricks was getting decent video, if he’d finished his dinner.
“Thanks,” I said. No reason not to be polite. They smiled. She was missing quite a few teeth. They’d be easy to pick out in the photo books. “I’m looking to buy coke, a key. Can you hook me up?” I’d been instructed to use these street sellers to reach up the chain for bigger buys.
The woman’s all-black eyes scanned my face. “Who are you?”
She had the cheekbones of a famine victim.
I laughed to cover my nervousness. “I’m Stacy.” My cover name.
“You don’t look like no dealer, Stacy.”
“I came into some money. Wanna make more, you know?” I wiped my nose on my sleeve and sniffed loudly.
“And jail wouldn’t work for Mo and me right now.” She opened her parka to show me a sizeable baby bump. Whoa, lady. Add Child Protective Services to the list of state agencies interested in your habits.
“I’ll cut you in. Five percent.” I wrote my cell phone number—the state phone I used for drug agent work—on a piece of paper and gave it to them. They now knew my face and if he had a cocaine connection, I might hear from him. He would soon have family responsibilities and a thousand bucks could buy a lot of diapers, if he didn’t spend it all on meth.
I trotted back to the truck, put the rock in a baggie, and recorded the date, time, and location. “Did you get the buy?” I asked, cleaning my hands with a baby-wipe.
Fredricks had finished the sandwich and was sucking up a mocha latte. “Sure ’nuff. Want to
look?”
The camera screen showed the couple clearly; they’d been nearly facing the truck, standing under the light. My face was hidden by my hood. Excellent.
“Good job,” Fredricks said.
“I forgot to cuss. Where to next?”
He started up the truck. “Downtown.” Squeak, squeak went the wipers, and I heard a distant rumble of thunder. The night was murky, like my mood.
“Gotta shop after this. I’m making a special dinner for my wine club Saturday,” Fredricks said. He was driving slowly because of the rain.
“What are you having?” I was curious. I’d been to one of his special dinners, a five-hour-long event. Too much wine, too much food, too much pretentious conversation about wine and food. He took pictures of each dish for his scrapbook. I’d avoided his house ever since.
He got a dreamy look. “A fall feast. Wild mushroom bruschetta. Roasted winter squash purée. Cornish game hens stuffed with wild rice.”
I didn’t like Cornish game hens. They looked like roasted babies. The bruschetta sounded good though. “Dessert?”
“Rosemary apple galette.”
“What’s a galette?”
“Like a pie, but not in a pie pan.”
“A pizza?”
He chuckled. “Yup.” He began a drone about wines. Peeno chard pooly fussy mumbo jumbo. Shut up shut up shut up. I felt really cranky.Was it the prospect of another week with Fredricks? The bench seat pulled all the way forward so his short legs could reach the gas pedal? His shirt stretched tight across his bursting belly?
Fredricks parked across the street from a twenty-four-hour convenience store and gas station. Unhappily for the immigrant families who invest all their money and eighteen hours a day in them, convenience stores are hubs for street sales. I rolled down my window and surveyed the scene through the drizzle. A couple of kids were hanging out in front, each with one hand gripping a cell phone, the other shoved into a pocket. Handling dope? A wad of cash? A gun? I began to worry, to feel hot. I sunk into my seat and pulled my hoodie neck up to my ears and took a deep breath of my own smell, not too bad yet.
“A special agent doesn’t care if it’s raining,” Fredricks said.
“It’s not rain I’m worried about.” I opened the truck door and scampered across the street, watching the boys’ eyes follow me, watching their hands in their pockets. “Hey,” I said.
“You new,” said the darker boy. He had a wanna-be mustache and a complicated corn-row hairstyle.
“Whatcha got?” I blinked and unfocused my eyes.
“Name it,” the other one said. He had a shaved head shaped like a bullet.
“Got any grass?” I showed them a fifty-dollar bill.
They looked at each other. Baby Mustache said, “Maybe,” and took the money. He sauntered to the corner of the building and around, out of sight.
Bullet Head looked me over. “You a working girl? For the dope?”
Ah, that’s what I love about this job, I thought, the scintillating conversation. “My old man’s waiting in the truck,” I said, tipping my head toward Fredricks.
“He a big guy.”
“You said it.” We waited. I studied the litter in the parking lot: foam cups, broken glass, bottle caps, a dead pigeon.
Baby Mustache returned. “Nothing but blow, baby.You want it?”
“How much?” I had a budget.
“One-fifty for an eight-ball.”
“Sure.” I would have bought whatever they were selling, but tonight’s special was blow. I handed him the extra money and took the eight-ball of coke, pushing the baggie into the sleeve of my hoodie. I thanked them politely and memorized their young faces. From the heavens came an explosion of thunder and lightning, and I dashed for the truck. I don’t like lightning. Even Fredricks was preferable to lightning.
Fredricks pulled a praline from his pocket and began to work on a corner of the wrapper with his teeth. He spit a piece of it aside and peeled the wrapper off. He broke it into pieces and offered me one. “No thanks,” I said. His snacks were the kind that stick to my hips.
We drove a couple more blocks to a cinder-block house on East Waters. Fredricks parked in the yard, strewn with bottles and fast food trash. “This place is a squat for addicts,” he said. “Stay in the truck, let them come to you.” He adjusted the mini-cam between our seats.
The door opened and a tall heavy woman with frizzed beige hair and hollow eyes emerged and walked to our truck. She smelled of tobacco and piney air freshener. It was impossible to estimate her age. She looked us over, seemingly unimpressed by Fredricks’s physique and my eyelashes. “Whatcha want?”
“Ice,” I said, “a gram.” She went back into the house.
“She has a record,” Fredricks said. “Her name’s Dana DeGrasso. Try and set something up with her.” In a few minutes she came back. It was raining harder than ever and she stood there getting soaked. I pushed my umbrella out the window to her and she popped it open.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Keep it,” I said. I gave her fifty dollars. “Any chance of getting more?”
“Another paper?”
“No, like a kilo.”
“Honey, you want a serious party. We don’t have that here.”
“Know where I can get it?”
“Yeah, maybe. I can ask around.” I left Dana my cell phone number. If she could set up a bigger deal soon, she’d stay out of jail.
Fredricks was working his way through a pack of raspberry licorice sticks. He was a steady, methodical chewer, and the gluey sound was more than I could take. I hummed under my breath, oh my God I’m going to kill you, kill you, kill you.
“Huh? Want one, sweetheart?”
“Gosh no, I just brushed.”
He consulted his notebook. “Let’s pick up oxys, what you say?” Ten minutes later we were in a newish golf-course development called Victory Ridge. The oxy lady lived in a neighborhood of traditional colonial-style houses, each on its own quarter-acre. To look less hookerish, I wiped off the eye makeup and put on a raincoat to cover the frayed miniskirt.
Her shiny black door was bracketed by a pair of rosemary topiaries. I clacked a gleaming brass knocker. A dog began to bark, reflexively, like Merle does. Sort of a “who’s there and did you bring treats?” bark, not threatening.
The oxy lady opened the door. I’d bought from her twice before. Lynn had very short dyed-red hair and a wide smile. She wore a white linen pants suit, the kind that wrinkles the instant you sit down in it. Apparently she had been standing since she put it on.
“Come in, come in! It’s Stacy, right? Good to see you again.” She motioned me into the kitchen where there was more light, and studied me closely. I studied her right back, noticing her necklace, a custom-made gold pendant in an abstract design, studded with colorful gems. Her dog, a black Lab, nosed me sweetly until she told him to stop.
“What a lovely necklace. Are those emeralds?” I asked, pointing to the little green stones.
“Oh no, honey. They’re green diamonds. And this”—she pointed to the larger blue-green stone in the middle—“is an opal. These pink ones are sapphires.”
“I’ve never heard of green diamonds, or pink sapphires.”
“They are rare, yes.” As in pricey. Well, that must be what she spent her profits on. According to Fredricks, her markup was around four hundred percent. “So, what do you want tonight?”
“Oxys? Whatever you have.”
She left the room and I patted the dog until he went to his bed in a corner and collapsed creakily. The kitchen had pickled oak cabinets, granite countertops and a six-burner two-oven stove. Fredricks would be jealous of this kitchen. A double-door stainless steel fridge was plastered with snapshots of little girls riding bikes, swimming, digging into a birthday cake as they grinned into the camera.
She came back and handed me a small bottle of tablets, forty-milligram oxycodone. “There’s a dozen in there.”
“How much?” I sa
id.
“Five hundred.”
I pulled the money out of my jacket pocket. “Thanks. Listen, this is getting expensive. Any way I could sell for you?”
Her twinkle dimmed a bit. “For a cut?”
“Increase your volume.”
“No. Just find your own source. It’s not that difficult.”
“You mean the Internet?”
“No. Get prescriptions, fill them. All legitimate.”
“Not easy though, not in quantity.”
She winked. “Depends on who you know, right? Like everything.”
“Doctors, you mean. Who writes yours?” I asked.
A frown creased her face. “You ask a lot of questions, Stacy. Find your own.”
I laughed. “I’ve tried. I can’t get more than a few pills. And it costs to see a doctor.”
“Well, this is my business. I’ve worked hard to develop my sources and I’m not going to give them away.”
She sounded like she ran a tea room. I decided to back off. “No problem.” There were other options. The task force could tail her to see what pharmacies she visited, then subpoena the pharmacies for her prescriptions to get names of the doctors signing them. Or, arrest her, turn her. She would cooperate for a reduction in charges or jail time.
Maybe she’d trust me after a few more visits. Trust, to be repaid with betrayal.
“Homeward, Fredricks,” I said, climbing back into the truck clutching my bottle of pills. Home to wait for the call, an invitation to the prom, the request to investigate Justine Bradley’s death. I wanted out of the feathery eyelashes, away from this truck and the smelly pretentious food and thwack-thwacking wipers and stricken looks on gaunt faces.
Fredricks drove slowly on the rain-slicked pavement. Outside, street lights quavered like a mirage in the darkness and drizzle.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
MondayVery Early Morning
A phone call woke me from a disturbing dream—I was lost in a cave, squeezing through damp tunnels of rock, hardly able to breathe, as my headlamp dimmed and flickered. I didn’t have time to think what the dream might mean as I groped for the phone.
