by Destiny Ford
He nodded in understanding. “I told the dudes to put a warning on the edibles. Businesses can’t survive if clients don’t have the proper information.”
I froze. “Wait. You told what dudes?”
“The cookie dudes!”
I’d been trying to find someone connected to Makhai, LLC and their production for weeks with no success. All of my phone calls to Saints and Sinners, and Isaac Handler had been left unreturned. I stared at Keanu, wondering if he might actually have all the information I needed. “Where did you meet these guys?”
He studied me with a suspicious eye. “You’re a reporter. I might get in trouble if I tell you.”
I shook my head, excited at the possibility of the lead. “You’ll be my super-secret source. I won’t tell anyone I heard it from you.”
He watched me for a few more seconds before deciding. “Super-secret?”
I nodded.
He crossed one foot over the other and lit a cigarette as he answered, “At the deliveries.”
I had to fight to keep my chin off the ground. “You were at the delivery locations?”
“Yep,” he said, taking a drag. “Word got out that a new company was trying to show people pot wasn’t dangerous.”
A new company…so was Saints and Sinners behind the pot cookies, or were they being sabotaged like I’d originally thought?
Keanu continued, “They needed help distributing. So, a bunch of us gave the cookies away.”
“How long ago was that?”
He pushed his brows together, thinking. “A couple of weeks before the fair. Stores were stocking the cookies within a week of us handing out samples.”
So that’s how they got people interested. A little sample would have made people feel awesome and want more—unless they were like me and the pot had just made them horny and pass out. The crazy incidents and people getting sick got worse over the three week period between when the cookies were first made available, and when I wrote the article. Once the cookies were easier to get, people were being affected more often.
“Did you ever meet the people you were working for?”
Keanu shook his head. “No, just the delivery drivers. They’re the ones I told that the cookies needed warning labels. They didn’t listen.”
The more I heard, the more I thought Saints and Sinners could be the bad guy in the pot cookie scenario, instead of the victim. I wondered if the delivery drivers were part of the scam, or just more minions. It seemed like Makhai, LLC and Isaac Handler were doing their best to hide their trail and not get their hands dirty. I still couldn’t figure out what Brigham Smith’s role was in this, though. They were fighting to stop drug legalization. Why would they have anything to do with pot-spiked cookies? The only thing that made sense was that B.S. got involved in the cookie company, but didn’t know what the ingredients actually were, and maybe someone was using the cookies as a way to cause a scandal for B.S.
Keanu kept talking, “The samples were dropped off in delivery trucks every Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday, and left for us at an old abandoned building outside of town. We each took our cookie share, and handed them out.”
I was impressed they’d managed to hand any out and not eat, or horde, all of the supply. “Where did you hand them out at?”
“To friends, and then other people we know. Not little kids, though. That’s stepping over a line.”
I was glad he had scruples on some level. Clearly, Makhai, LLC didn’t. They didn’t care who had access to the cookies. Kids with a little allowance money could have walked in the store and bought the pot cookies as easily as a pack of gum. “There was a Saints and Sinners cookie booth at the high school,” I said.
Keanu and his friends started cracking up. “It’s hilarious! The school was selling hash treats!”
“They’re not anymore.” I’d heard the school dismantled the booth as soon as the article came out.
Keanu frowned. “I know.” His eyes held mine in a bleary gaze. “That’s kind of your fault.”
I grimaced. “Yeah.”
He lifted a shoulder like it really wasn’t a big deal. “It was good while it lasted, though. And they asked us to do some fun stuff too, like paintin’ pot leaves on the steel factory, and changing the “BF” on the hill to say POT.”
My brows went up. “That was you?”
He nodded, pride showing on his face. “Me and my buddies,” he gave a clumsy gesture to the group he was standing with. They all nodded or waved in my direction.
“When did the cookie people tell you to do that?”
He took another drag on his cigarette. “They told us what they wanted done a couple of weeks ago, and said we’d just have to be ready with the paint and bags as soon as they called.”
I nodded my head slowly as I thought about it. The pot vandalism had occurred within twelve hours of my article coming out. I thought both things had happened pretty fast. They had. Because the whole thing had been planned.
“I wouldn’t tell anyone else about that if I were you.”
Keanu shook his head. “No way!” His voice turned gentle as he whispered, “But I like you, and know you’ll keep our secrets.”
I chuckled at Keanu. Despite his constantly drunk or stoned state, he’d been one of my most helpful informants since I moved back to Branson. “You can count on it.”
Keanu smiled so wide I thought he might strain something.
I thought about it for a minute, and wondered if anything had changed with the delivery schedule since my story broke about the cookies. “Are you still helping distribute the cookies?”
He shook his head and frowned. “We stopped getting samples as soon as people found out about the pot.”
So the distribution had stopped when my story came out. That made sense because the cookies had been pulled and were nowhere to be found. Neither was Isaac Handler and Makhai, LLC. And I wasn’t the only reporter looking for them. The story had gone national, and even I was getting calls and emails from other journalists trying to trace the cookie path.
The Saints and Sinners website had been pulled down right after my story came out, the pot vandalism had been organized long before my story was released, and billboards against pot and hemp oil legalization had gone up almost immediately after my story was released. It was like everything had been organized weeks ago, before the pot cookies had even been given to the public. The common thread with all of those things so far seemed to be Saffron Star PR. I needed to go back to the office and see if our private investigator had any information on Concerned Citizens for Health and Saffron Star yet. “Thanks for your help,” I said to Keanu as I started to push my cart away.
“No problemo, reporter lady!”
I got back in my Jeep and took some notes about what Keanu had said, then ran home to put my groceries away. It said something about the state of my life that I entered my house with my bags in one hand, and pepper spray in the other, just in case. When I was satisfied I wouldn’t have to burn anyone’s eyeballs, I put the groceries away, locked up, and went back to the Tribune office.
“The grocery store must have been busy. You were gone for a while. I thought I might have to come rescue you.”
“Luckily no one accosted me,” I said, putting my bag in my bottom desk drawer. “I did have an interesting conversation with Keanu, though.”
Spence’s brows went up. “About?”
“Apparently, he and some of his friends were helping to distribute the Saints and Sinners Cookies.” I explained everything Keanu had told me, and the fact that Saffron Star seemed pretty wrapped up in both the Saints and Sinners Cookies, and the anti-pot campaign.
“That’s interesting, because I just talked to our P.I.”
“What did he find out?”
“Saffron Star has a lot of clients, but their president works frequently with another familiar group: Brigham Smith.”
My brows shot up at that.
“And,” Spence continued, “Concerned Citizen
s for Health is heavily funded by Brigham Smith.”
“That’s a pretty big connection.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Spence said.
“So the common thread isn’t just Saffron Star, it’s the Brigham Smith Group, too.” I just couldn’t figure out their motive.
I settled into my desk, thinking about why Brigham Smith would be involved with the distribution of pot cookies and an anti-pot campaign, but my thoughts were interrupted when I heard yelling coming from outside. “I think the protest is starting,” I said to Spence. I grabbed my bag with all of my essentials, and went outside. Spence followed.
Last time, the protest had been small. Now though, it seemed like half the town had turned up for, and against, pot. Spence and I split up to better cover the area. I was walking around the pro-pot side when I saw John Wilson. “Hi, John,” I said, going up to him. He was wearing the same shirt as last time with a picture of his daughter on it, and passing out information on hemp oil while the crowd behind him shouted, “Save our kids!”
John glanced up at his name. Lines formed at his eyes and he pursed his lips. He did not look happy to see me. “Hi, Kate.” His tone was cool, and I got the distinct impression he was trying his best to be nice.
I guess I was just pissing everyone off lately, but I couldn’t figure out what I’d done to him. “Is something wrong?”
“Well,” he said, passing out more papers to people walking up and down the street, “your article about the cookies didn’t help our cause.”
My eyes went wide and I was totally stunned. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t write it as a way to hurt you. I agree that hemp oil should be legalized. I didn’t think it would affect you at all. I just saw a situation where the cookie manufacturer was doing something wrong, and I needed to report on it. People were having health problems because the level of THC in the cookies was so high.”
John sighed and looked resigned. “I know. And in truth, it helped make people more aware of the situation, but now the public is even more convinced that hemp oil and marijuana are the same thing. We have a lot more people fighting us now. Before, we were on a wait list to get the hemp oil—and that was hard in and of itself. We have to wait months for the low THC strain to be processed, and then we’re on a waiting list with thousands of other families who need it to save their kids. The pot-spiked cookies have caused so much backlash that I’m worried the hemp oil legalization is going to be revoked. I don’t know if we’ll ever get the oil we need.”
I was horrified. I never would have guessed this would be one of the ramifications of the article. “What can I do to help you?” I asked, desperate to right the situation.
He shook his head, looking defeated.
“What if I do a story on your family?” I knew smaller bits and pieces about them had been covered in the Utah news before, but I hadn’t seen a full feature. I had friends at the Associated Press, and news stations. I thought I could help his story be seen nationally, and maybe move him up on the hemp oil list.
“That might help.”
“I’ll get it done for next week’s issue.” I was determined to right the situation as soon as possible.
“Thanks, Kate. I appreciate it.” He gave me the weary smile of a man who’d been fighting—and losing—for a long time. I wanted him to keep fighting, and I’d help any way I could.
“I’m more than happy to do it.”
I walked across the street to talk to Lydia Ackerman again. Her side of the protest was significantly larger than last time, and much bigger than the pro-pot side. I winced, realizing I’d helped that to happen. “Why are you protesting today?” I asked her.
She gave me a long-suffering look. “You should know better than anyone, Kate. You’re the one who investigated the story. We need to stop the infiltration of dangerous drugs in our culture.”
It sounded like something she’d memorized from a pot haters manual.
“Pot is one of the least addictive substances out there, Lydia.” I’d said something similar to her at the last protest as well.
“It’s dangerous. You know that first hand.”
I stared at her. Did Lydia know I’d gotten high from pot cookies? Who told her? “What makes you think that?”
“Because you wrote the article about it, and all of the horrible affects it had on people in our community.” She seemed like she was about to follow that statement with “duh,” but stopped herself.
“How does the protest solve anything?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be obtuse, Kate. It brings awareness to the cause. There are protests all over the state today, and they’re all as big as this, if not bigger. I appreciate your article, by the way. Our newsletter subscriptions went up by thousands when your story was released.”
Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. I needed to fix this, and fast. I’d get the story about John Wilson and his daughter in next week’s paper even if I had to convince Spence to hold the paper from going to press.
I left Lydia and talked to some protesters and Branson residents on both sides of the issue. I noticed Spence in the crowd doing the same thing. I was taking photos when I saw June Tate standing off to the side of the road, watching everything.
“Hey, June!” I said with a smile. I was happy to see a friendly face.
“Hi, Kate.”
“What are you doing in town?”
“I came in to get groceries, but wanted to see what all the ruckus was about.”
I nodded. “How are things at your house? Are you still having problems with the traffic?”
She nodded, a hopeless look on her face. “It’s a shortcut to Colorado, so we get a lot of people who use it. The trucks are the real problem, though. They’re big, and noisy.”
“Do you know what company they’re from? You might be able to file a complaint.”
“No. There’s not a name on the side. But they’re the ugliest shade of green you’ve ever seen. Luckily, they only go by three times a week.”
I frowned. “I’m sorry it’s been such a pain for you.”
“Me, too. But we’ll deal with it.”
I smiled, and decided I could use a bit of her positive attitude. “I have to get back to work, but have a good day, June.”
“You too, Kate.”
Something about the conversation with June stuck out in my head, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was trying to figure it out when I saw Kory Greer wandering through the crowd. That was fortuitous since I needed to talk to him about Juan Carlotta’s body, and Kory’s possible involvement in Juan’s death.
I started to move toward Kory, but noticed he was acting odd. His gaze darted back and forth among the protesters. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his clothes were wrinkled like he’d been wearing them for a while. His hair looked like he’d raked his hands through it repeatedly.
I watched as he moved through the crowd, checking over his shoulder frequently, like he was trying to keep watch on everyone and everything. Suddenly he saw someone in the crowd he recognized and froze, the skin on his face stretching in a masque of terror. I followed his gaze to two large men: one Hispanic and one Caucasian, with burn marks on his right arm and face.
Kory turned and ran toward his Ferrari, which was parked down the street near my Jeep. I pulled my keys from my bag and raced after him. I wasn’t sure what Kory was caught up in, but if I was right about the guy with the burn mark, the men following him were murderers, and he was going to need all the help he could get. I hoped the two men didn’t have a supercar like Kory. The Ferrari would at least give Kory a little lead.
I raced down the road behind him, trying to keep up in my heavy Jeep. I didn’t see anyone following Kory and I, so I thought maybe he’d lost the guys.
We drove for about twenty minutes before Kory steered off the road and drove down a long, dirt covered path. I followed at a distance, and watched Kory pull in next to a large, concrete-framed structure. He got out of his Ferrari, and ran to the
front of the building, fumbling with his set of keys as he opened one of the double glass doors. He glanced over his shoulder as he fled inside.
I pulled into an area surrounded by trees so I’d have some cover until I figured out what to do. I looked at the building and recognized the sign above it as the sugar factory’s satellite office. Four large, ugly green delivery trucks were parked to the side of the building, and I had an ah-ha moment. I’d passed June’s house while following Kory. She’d said the trucks only went by three days a week, and Keanu had said the same thing about when he got cookie samples. The trucks that were making deliveries to Keanu and the trucks that had been going by June’s house were one and the same.
I picked up my phone and called Hawke. “I just followed Kory Greer to his sugar factory satellite office,” I said when Hawke answered. “I think he might have something to do with the cookies. And I think some drug dealers might be on their way to kill him. I’m pretty sure they’re the ones who’ve been cutting off arms and legs.”
“I’ve got you on the tracker. Stay put. I’ll be to you in ten minutes.”
“It took me twenty to get here, and that was breaking enough speeding laws to warrant a felony.”
“I have my cape,” he said, and clicked off.
Funny man, Hawke. Making flying jokes when killers were on their way.
Staying put was something I could do. My car was obscured from sight thanks to the trees, and though my view wasn’t great, I could still see the factory. Things were fine for about one minute. Then the guys who had been following Kory showed up. They must have known where Kory was going. Or maybe they employed a Tracker on his Ferrari like Hawke used on my Jeep.
They were in a giant black truck with the windows completely blacked out. I frowned, thinking that had to be illegal, then remembered they killed people and chopped off arms, so they probably weren’t too worried about a tinting ticket. I was surprised they didn’t have an assault rifle mounted to the top of the truck—then again, it was probably inside the truck, where the tinting hid it.
They both got out of the truck and didn’t say a word to each other. Their faces were a study in calm as they walked toward the building. The burned guy slid a handgun from his back pocket, and shot the glass door. It shattered into a million pieces. The two men looked at each other, and stepped through the broken door.
