by Norah Wilson
“What drug are you talking about?”
“Deleonex.”
“Never heard of it.”
“And neither has anyone else. Well, no one outside the pharmaceutical or biomedical research community. It was an experimental drug that died at the animal test stage. Apparently, in the initial stages, it showed incredible promise for inhibiting the proliferation of cancer cells. But when they moved to the next stage, they found that it was a powerful pro-arrhythmic.”
Pro-arrhythmic? “Translation, please.”
“Way too many of the test subjects suffered fatal arrhythmias.”
“No shit?” I blinked. “They died of cardiac arrest?”
“No shit,” Dylan assured.
“And you knew this all from dating Wendy Whatshername?”
“Unfortunately, no. If I had, I’d like to think I’d have tumbled to it a lot sooner. But I did remember her saying the animal trials went poorly. So I tracked her down, reached her early this morning. She filled me in on the specifics of the failure, i.e., the whole dying of cardiac arrest thing before the drug had a chance to impact the subjects’ cancers. She even pointed me to a scientific paper about Deleonex published in more optimistic times,”—he gestured to some of the papers on Dickhead’s desk—“when they still thought it was going to be the next big cancer breakthrough.”
I looked at Dickhead. “Why didn’t it show up in the toxicology report?”
“Jesus, Dix, it’s not like they push a button and a computer spits out everything that’s in the stiff’s system. They kinda need to know what they’re looking for. And since this drug never made it to human trials, they sure as hell wouldn’t be looking for it.”
Okay, he had a point. “Makes sense. What about now? What does the forensic lab say now?”
“They’re on it,” he growled. “I sent them the chemical composition for this kill juice from that paper Dylan mentioned. Sent them the whole paper, in fact. They’ve pulled Albert’s tissue samples, and I’ve got ’em working on retrieving Telly’s and Faynelle’s as well. It’ll be given the highest priority.”
My mind raced, sifting through this new information. An experimental drug that this Wendy person had been working on, right here in Marport City... Oh shit, of course! The answer lay right before me. Well, now that Dylan had dug it up. “Was this drug being developed by a certain MD/PhD researcher by the name of Crotty, by any chance?”
Dylan grinned. “Janis Tascar-Crotty, to be specific. Brandy Crotty’s mother.”
Oh, God, it was poetic. Old goat uses pheromones to seduce young woman; young woman realizes what’s happened and exacts her own chemical revenge. But there was still the matter of proving it. “Where’s this Delayonex now?”
“Deleonex,” Dylan corrected.
“That’s what I said.”
“No, there’s a subtle difference. It’s Deleonex as in Ponce de Leon.”
I still couldn’t hear the difference. And who was this Ponsay guy? I gave him a blank look.
“You know, Ponce de Leon?” he prompted. “Spanish explorer who searched for the Fountain of Youth?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are we going to get to ‘where is it?’ any time soon?”
He shrugged, completely unwithered by my withering squint-eyed look. “My guess is they never destroyed all of the stuff. I’m guessing it’s under lock and key at Marport U, which is where Dr. Tascar-Crotty—and Wendy—were working out of. Part of a little bio-med cluster that they were incubating there.”
“Then Dr. Tascar-Crotty should be able to tell us exactly where to look, right?” I said, looking at Head. “Just pay her a call.”
“That could be a little hard,” Dylan said. “Dr. Tascar-Crotty is on a six-month sabbatical, on a bio-prospecting expedition somewhere in the Amazon basin. She’s been gone two months now, according to her department head.”
Dickhead didn’t seem all that dismayed. “Well, it’s not like anyone figured Dr. Tascar-Crotty for the murders, is it?” he said. “I think we’ve all got our money on her daughter Brandy, the pre-med student. She’d know where her mother kept her research. I’d lay my last dime that Brandy Crotty is the one Albert Valentine was using the pheromones to seduce.”
“There are others in that age bracket,” Dylan pointed out. “Like Starla, Eva, or Zoey.”
“Yeah, but only Brandy Crotty has access to this drug.”
“That doesn’t make her the killer,” I said, more to play devil’s advocate than because I truly believed she was innocent.
“No,” answered Dickhead, “but it does make her the prime suspect. And in my books, that usually turns out to be the guilty party.”
Dylan and I shot glances at each other. The drug? It absolutely felt right. The connection to Brandy? Definitely there. But the niggle and nudges? Oh fuck! Just not lining up!
“I’m going to get a warrant to look for this Deleonex stuff,” Head continued. “And presuming the lab results come back the way we think they will—” he gestured to Dylan’s research on the table, “I’ll be bringing our Miss Crotty in for interrogation.”
As if waiting for that opening, the door swung inward. It was Constable Leola Pivans. “I don’t know what kind of dirt you have on those lab geeks, Detective, but the toxicology report is back already.”
“No dirt involved,” he said as he reached for the thin folder that Constable Pivans held out to him. “I just gave them motivation. Told them they had a crack at recording a forensic first.”
Brilliant move on Head’s part, I had to concede, even though it pained me. I could see from the expression on Constable Pivans’s face, though, that her appreciation was less tinged with reluctance than I would have thought. Was she coming to admire our Richie?
Dickhead opened the file and scanned it quickly, his eye going to the bottom line.
He looked at Dylan. He looked at me. “Bingo! We have a match.”
Chapter 23
“ALL THREE of them?” I asked.
“Valentine only.” Head glanced at Pivans. “Did they say anything about Smith and St. James?”
“Yes, sir. They’re going to see what they can do with the other two, but if they don’t have sufficient samples to work with, we may need to apply for exhumation orders.”
“Excellent work, Pivans.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
As the two cops left the room, Head mumbled to Pivans, “It’s a good thing Dix Dodd called me in on this with her suspicions about the cuddle club.”
Yeah, Dylan and I were just that quickly dismissed. We saw ourselves to the door.
I shook my head.
The police station was close enough to the justice building that I didn’t mind calling Rochelle and asked if she could pick up her Bite-me-mobile behind the station. When she agreed, I jumped into the SUV with Dylan for the drive back to the office. I glanced at the familiar hand-stitched bag in the backseat. More pajamas—had to be. And when I asked he confirmed he’d hit up Aunt Gert’s for a couple more pair, in case there was a next cuddle club meeting.
Well, looked like that wouldn’t be necessary.
Case solved.
Wasn’t it?
“That was brilliant work, Dylan.”
“Thanks.” He shot me a quick look before returning his attention to traffic. “We nailed the murder weapon, all right.”
In the silence that fell between us, I could almost hear what he didn’t say: Why doesn’t it feel right?
When we got back to the office, I checked the few voice mails (nothing pressing) while Dylan made the coffee. He tossed Blow-Up Betty (damn, she’s a floppy thing) aside, while I snapped off the old black and white TV. We did all this in silence so deep it was dead. Then we sat, both of us, on the small sofa in that outer office. Sighed and leaned back.
“Everything points to Brandy Crotty,” Dylan said, sounding very matter-of-fact. “She had access to the drug. She clearly didn’t like Albert Valentine.”
“Certainly no love
lost there.”
“Nope.”
“And we know—Gaetan told us—that Albert was having an affair with some young thing.”
“Well, she’s a young thing.”
“Yeah, everything points to her. But...”
“But she didn’t do it.”
Dylan looked at me. I stared at him. There was an unopened package of yellow legal pads on the table before us. I ripped the pack open, tossed one to Dylan and grabbed one for myself. Doodle time. Thinking time.
“You do realize all we really have to go on at this point,” I said, “is our gut feelings?”
He answered as I’d hope he would, “Good enough for me.”
Dickhead called just before four o’clock, again reaching me on the cell phone.
“I tried to call you at the office,” he said.
“Not there,” I answered. Nope, not giving him any more detail than that. He was dying to ask though. I could tell.
Detective Head filled me in: Brandy had been brought in for questioning mid-afternoon. Questioning had consisted of four senior lawyers from the firm of Whitman and Crotty (yeah, same family, the black sheep who didn’t go into medicine) who promptly had Brandy out of the station in about thirty minutes. But Detective Head was all the more certain she was the murderer. She was apparently pretty shaken by everything.
“Her father, the doctor, picked her up at the station. I’m guessing he took her home.”
Yeah, well I could pretty much guarantee it from my vantage point.
“I know Brandy Crotty is guilty, Dix. Everything points to her. She didn’t cop to anything, but we’re building a case and not even her fancy lawyers will be able to stop us.”
“Thanks for the call,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” Pause. “Bye, Dix.” The phone clicked off.
Bye, Dix?
I cringed as I put my phone away. Detective Head had just said, “Bye,” to me. Like... me? Man, this was too close for comfort! Okay, I had to do something to make this right! Get us back to the way it should be.
After a shake of the head, I relayed the conversation (well, except that, “Bye, Dix” bit) to Dylan. Neither of us was surprised that Brandy’s stay at the behest of the City was a short-lived one. In fact, we’d been so sure that it would be, we’d abandoned the office after less than an hour of brainstorming to park where we were currently staked out. Ashfield Drive, just down the street from the Crotty house. About twenty minutes ago, I’d watched Lincoln Crotty drive his daughter home, and now...
“There he goes.”
At Dylan’s words, we both slumped down in the seat as Lincoln Crotty drove back down Ashfield Drive. Yes, I knew it was him. Who could miss that humungous car and those wager-winning Crotty plates? But of course, now wasn’t the time or place to tell Dylan he owed me oral sex.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said, reading the note I’d hastily written. “I still owe you oral sex.” With a smile, he tucked it away in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
I was quite sure the good doctor hadn’t seen us, but I sure as hell got a good look at him. The expression on Lincoln Crotty’s face was a blend of anger, worry and disbelief. And he drove just a little too fast.
Dylan and I straightened in our seats as he rounded the corner.
“Time to go,” I said. My hand was already on the door handle.
“You sure you want to take this one, Dix?” Dylan asked. “You know Brandy’s not exactly in your fan club.”
“I have no doubt her father has told her who I really am and that I was hired to investigate the cuddle club. If we make the approach now, she’ll expect it to come from me, the licensed PI.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Something in his voice made me look up at him. “She’d be more likely to talk to you than the lowly apprentice.”
Oh shit. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
And I hadn’t. It’s just that I had the credentials on this one. Crap. Crap. Crap. I didn’t want to hurt Dylan’s feelings. But for now... “I have to go.”
I started to open the door, and would have jumped out, but Dylan grabbed my hand. I eased the door closed again.
“What?”
“I know you didn’t mean it like that.”
He reached across the console and pulled me close for a kiss. I was reaching for something else when the back door of the SUV jerked opened. I jumped like a horny teenager caught parking in the graveyard. (Come on, like you haven’t parked at a graveyard? I mean, it’s a perfectly normal place to make out, right?)
It was Brandy Crotty, and she parked herself in the back seat before slamming the door.
“Oh, Brandy. Fancy meeting you—”
“Cut the crap, Dix Dodd. You two have been watching the house ever since I got back. I know you’re a PI—Dad told me. And he told me you were in the hospital snooping around. What the hell’s going on?”
She’d been crying, and by the looks of her, ready to start crying again at any moment.
As much as Brandy was trying to play the hard-assed, in-control young woman, right now she looked like a frightened kid. And despite the snide remarks she’d thrown at me, the cutting glares she’d cut across various rooms, I felt sorry for her. I don’t have a motherly bone in my body, but I really did feel for young Brandy just then.
“So what do you know?” Dylan turned in the seat to ask her.
“That Albert was murdered. And about the pheromones. The blackmail.” She shook her head. “I... I suspected the pheromones a few weeks ago. I mean, come on! Though, honestly, I didn’t think they were affecting me. But Zoey and Eva... kept wanting to go to cuddle club.”
“Why did you go there in the first place?” I asked. (Seriously, I could not wrap my mind around that... people voluntarily cuddling!)
“Zoey was taking some stupid anthropology class and for extra points she had to visit three different places where people gather and write a report. Eva and I just tagged along. So we went to a karaoke bar, a coffee house and—leave it to Zoey—the cuddle club.”
“You went there purely for academic purposes?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Purely academic. Well, at first.”
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“Eva happened. Man, she couldn’t get enough of that club. She even started working there to pay for it. But, Jesus, it became an obsession with her. Or rather, it was an obsession before—”
Dylan and I exchanged a glance. Of course, Brandy saw that silent communication, which we didn’t make any attempt to hide. I sort of expected her to rush in to fill the conversational pause with information, but she didn’t. Clearly, she wasn’t anxious to spill all.
So I prompted her. “That was before she found out you were having an affair with Albert Valentine.”
“What the fuck?” Brandy just about hit the ceiling of the SUV. Literally. “What the actual fuck? You think I was screwing around with that hairy toad? Holy crap, Dix Dodd, you’re not the quickest dick on the deck, are you?”
I wanted to say something about how quick dicks are overrated unless you have to get up early, but I didn’t. Um, that could have been one of those metaphor things again.
Brandy (oh so eloquently) elaborated, “Albert Valentine was the most obnoxious man I’ve ever met. Pure jerk. Total troll. Piece of crap. If he were the last man on the planet, I’d switch teams.”
“We know someone was having an affair with Albert,” Dylan said. “If not you, then who?”
She bit her lower lip. Zoey. Or Eva. It had to be one or the other for her to go into protection mode. Brandy turned to gaze out the window into the night. She did not want to betray her friend, and so I wouldn’t ask her too.
“It was Eva Mulligan, wasn’t it?” I said.
Brandy’s silence stretched. A moment too long to go into denial. And it was all that I needed for confirmation. That and the tears in her eyes.
“Eva was as innocent as the day is long. Trusting and sweet,” she sa
id softly, yet with an edge of anger. “We’ve been friends forever. Her mom came to work for us when Eva and I were both just five years old. She couldn’t afford a sitter, so we just played together. Right away we were friends. And Eva’s needed me. She’s fought depression all her life. Been on medication for it for quite a while now. And honestly, it has done her wonders. That is...”
“Until powerful and potent pheromones were added to the mix.”
“I won’t break her confidences—but let’s just say it wasn’t a happy home life even after her father left. My parents saw how close we were, and they liked Eva, so they sent Eva to school with me—private school. Even now, they’re helping with her tuition.” Brandy’s eyes filled with more tears now that she could hold back. “Eva’s like a sister to me. And Albert Valentine, that fucking bastard—”
I continued that thought for her. “And Albert Valentine used Gaetan’s drugs to seduce Eva.”
“Yes!” Brandy said. “Yes, he did.”
“Why did you guys keep going back, after Albert took advantage of Eva?” Dylan asked. Then, as though hearing his words and thinking about how they might sound, he threw his hands up defensively. “And no, I’m not blaming the victim.”
No, he wasn’t. Neither of us were of that mindset, that it was the woman’s fault for being there, or just being. And it drove us both nuts when we saw that mentality in the media. Albert was in the wrong, Eva was victimized. But I knew what he meant, how could she face that man again and not spit in his eye? Or better yet, push him down a well.
“I made her go,” Brandy said. “You don’t know Eva. She had to go back and face him or she’d crawl up in a ball and just... die. I had to push her to be strong. So I did.”
“You must have wanted to kill Albert Valentine,” I said, keeping my voice as even and cold as I could.
Brandy looked at me straight on. “Want to kill him? You bet. I wanted to kill him slowly and painfully. In my darkest fantasy, there were tweezers involved.”