by Nick Petrie
“A blank one, like tape holding the bag closed. Someone had written on it in black marker. The letters ‘K,’ ‘G,’ and ‘For Henry.’”
Peter raised his eyebrows at Steinburger, who nodded that he’d heard.
“Thanks, Tonio, you’ve been a big help. Better not tell McSweeney about this—we’re still trying to recover that package.”
“Roger that.”
Steinburger was already walking into the department headquarters.
Peter jogged over to Sykes, who was pacing on the plaza while talking into his phone with the forced calm of a man attempting to reason with a deranged kindergartner.
“No, I’m not going to fax you a police report. This is an emergency. I’m an investigator with the Colorado State Police.” He recited his badge number. “No, I can’t wait forty-eight hours for your response team. We believe this car is being used for a crime in progress. Wait, I thought I was already talking to a supervisor?” He sighed and rolled his eyes at Peter. “Fine, move me up the food chain as far as you can.”
“Call me when you get a location,” Peter said.
Sykes covered the phone with his hand. “Where the hell are you going?”
“To find out what’s so damn important about those seeds.”
34
Peter called McSweeney on the way to the Jeep.
“I think I found something that belongs to you. A kind of oblong black case in a plastic bag with a label that says ‘KG For Henry’? I’ll bring it. Where are you now?”
He hung up and Lewis cranked the engine. “Location?”
“The second grow facility. Near the Sand Creek Landfill. You know where that is?”
“Yep.” Lewis glanced at the side mirror and pulled out into traffic to a chorus of horns. “We going hard?”
“Oh hell yes.”
The downtown streets were clogged before them. Peter mapped the slowdowns on his phone and Lewis pulled into oncoming traffic to get around stacked delivery trucks. The chorus turned into a symphony. “Those big revolvers on the floor behind you. Shotguns and ammo back on the rear seat under the blanket.”
Peter felt it welling up again, the rising panic that came when he thought of June laid out on that bed. Like the static had a whole new reason to be. “Listen.” He cleared his throat. “Lewis.”
“Don’t say it.” Lewis kept his eyes on the road, the pedal down, his face a mask of concentration. “She’s strong. She’ll be fine, Jarhead. You hear me?”
Breathe in, Peter told himself. Breathe out.
He closed his eyes and felt the Jeep shuddering around him. Heard the engine revved up high, the tires straining against the asphalt on the turns. He took another slow, deep breath. He pictured June in her old apartment, beer forgotten in her hand, head thrown back with laughter as he made mango salsa for fish tacos. He remembered the smell of sunshine on her bare legs. The dirty grin on her face as she parted the shower curtain and climbed in with him, slick and sweaty from her morning run.
He held all that in his mind.
Then turned in his seat to reach the weapons.
—
Lewis slowed as they entered the area around the Sand Creek Landfill. On the map it was a triangular section bordered by three freeways, with a freight railyard running down the middle. On the street it was another mixed commercial area of broad streets and long, low structures with wide parking aprons. Trucking depots and repair shops and parts wholesalers and retail strips with oddball shops.
The sky was darker now, the clouds crowding in from the west to fill the sky.
McSweeney’s second grow was in a dirty brick building, segmented like a caterpillar. Six rectangular sections, each stepped back from the one before it, following the angle of the railroad tracks behind. Once, each section would have held a small business, Peter thought. A couple of brothers or friends who made tools or furniture or machine parts, back before most of the small manufacturers went out of business. Now the space was used for growing a product that went up in smoke.
New economy, my ass.
The loading docks at the front had been bricked up just like those at McSweeney’s warehouse facility. To the north was a truck leasing company with a wide dirt lot full of semitrucks and trailers. To the south, between McSweeney’s facility and a company that apparently made disposable packaging for the fast-food industry, was a high chain-link fence with green plastic strips woven through the mesh and the gate standing open. McSweeney’s green Volvo sat inside on the lumpy gravel yard.
Lewis pulled the Jeep in a circle and parked directly under the security camera, facing out toward the gate. Peter had noticed this habit before, Lewis always parking so he could leave quickly if he needed to. Peter had the same habit.
Peter handed Lewis a pistol and opened his door.
He was glad enough that Lewis had managed to find them sidearms on such short notice, but he wasn’t crazy about the old Army Colts. He would have liked a weapon he knew better, something more modern, and a little smaller. Like the Sig Sauer .40 Henry had loaned him, or a sidearm he’d used in the Marines, the Beretta M9 or one of the 1911 variations. Certainly something with more than five rounds. A spare magazine, for example. And a holster.
He wasn’t going to touch the combat tomahawk.
But as he got out of the Jeep, he felt the weight of the big Colt Peacemaker hanging at the end of his arm.
It would do just fine for what he had in mind.
—
He walked across the gravel, awash in adrenaline, Lewis striding beside him. Lewis had the second Colt tucked into his belt at the small of his back, the 10-gauge held down along the side of his leg.
If it weren’t for June, Peter might have been smiling. Instead he bared his teeth.
Rounding the corner, he saw McSweeney leaning against the building, looking across the fenced-off railyard at the black clouds boiling across the sky. He still wore his sleek green sweatshirt, and he had a tall paper coffee cup in his hand.
“Hey,” McSweeney said, smiling. “Thanks for finding that package, I really appreciate it.”
Peter walked up to him, raised the big Colt and jammed the tip of the barrel right up against McSweeney’s nostrils.
“I lied,” Peter said. “I don’t have your shit. Some kind of special seeds, right?”
“Hey,” McSweeney’s eyes were wide, his head bumping against the dirty brick. “Wait. What?” His face had lost its expression of perpetual amusement. He dropped his cup and the lid popped off, splashing his retro sneakers with coffee.
Peter felt his heart thumping in his chest. He was out on the ragged edge. He liked the feel of the big Colt in his hand. Part of him just wanted to pull the trigger. “What are those seeds? Why are they so important?”
“That’s my best strain.” McSweeney’s head was tilted against the wall, voice distorted by the blued steel compressing his nose. “I was pretty sure I was losing my business. That leaf mold I told you about, the one that ruined a whole crop at the other grow? I also had to destroy my entire experimental stock. Those seeds, the ones I gave Henry, those are all I have left to start over.”
“That’s why they’re valuable to you,” Peter said. Pushing the Colt harder into the other man’s face, he thumbed the hammer back with a satisfying click. “Why would somebody else think they were valuable enough to kill four people? What aren’t you telling me?”
To Peter’s left, he heard the thunk of a steel security door opening. In his peripheral vision he saw Lewis raise the shotgun in a single smooth motion.
“Drop the gun. Hands where I can see them.”
“Oh, shit. Okay. Okay.” Whoever it was, he sounded scared. Peter heard the soft clank of metal on gravel.
Peter glanced sideways and saw a beefy young guard with his hair growing out of a buzz cut, arms up and hands held at shoulder level. He wore a shirt with the Heavy Metal logo on the breast, and an empty holster on his hip. His gun lay by his foot. “I, uh, just came out to, uh.”
“It’s all right, Brandon,” McSweeney said, hands making a vague patting motion. “They’re not here to rob us. We’re just having a conversation. Right, Peter?”
“Sure,” said Peter. “You were going to tell us why those seeds are worth killing for.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” said McSweeney. “I told you that. It’s not my fault.”
Peter wasn’t going to mention June Cassidy, drugged and helpless in a cheap motel. It would only make him want to blow McSweeney’s head off. Which wouldn’t help Peter find her.
“Tell me,” Peter said, “about the fucking seeds. Let’s start with what you wrote on the label. KG. What’s that?”
“KG stands for Klondike Gold, that’s what I call the strain. You know how some of the best dope has purple hairs in the buds? Klondike Gold has these little gold-colored crystals.”
“Tell me about that.”
“Those gold crystals, they’re magic. Crazy powerful. We did consumer tests, focus groups. People really love this product.” McSweeney was beginning to relax into his favorite subject.
“That’s not enough,” Peter said. “This whole state is sky-high on all kinds of superpowered weed. What makes your Klondike Gold worth killing for?”
“I’m sorry, do you mind? It’s hard to focus like this.” McSweeney carefully reached up and pointed a finger at the tip of the Colt’s barrel.
McSweeney didn’t seem to have much trouble talking, but Peter figured he’d give the grower a little room. He backed the long barrel an inch off McSweeney’s nose.
“So much better,” McSweeney said with a casual smile. “Now, in the old days, at the bottom of a big bag of really good dope, you’d find this fine golden dust. You smoke that, you have a conversation with God. It’s fantastic shit. So I started experimenting. I never finished my dissertation, but I do have a PhD-level understanding of plant genetics.”
Lewis looked interested. “Wait, this is genetically modified cannabis?”
“Definitely not.” McSweeney sounded like his pride had been hurt. “I’ve been cultivating cannabis for twenty years. This isn’t frankenweed, there are no gene splices here. Just what Gregor Mendel did with his pea plants a hundred and fifty years ago. Selective breeding toward a desirable trait.”
“So it’s good pot,” Peter said. “Why does someone want it badly enough to kill for it?”
“It’s not just good,” McSweeney said. “It’s religious experience good. And there’s something else.” He looked at Peter. “How much do you know about the medical applications of cannabis?”
“Not much,” said Peter.
This wasn’t true. Peter knew that people used weed for all kinds of medical problems, from chronic pain to epilepsy, even post-traumatic stress. The feds had made cannabis research absurdly difficult, so most of the medical evidence was anecdotal, but Peter figured mostly that people liked to get high, and if it made them feel better and didn’t do any harm, good for them. You could make an argument that booze and cigarettes were almost certainly worse for society, all things considered, so who was Peter to judge? As long as they were all consenting adults, it was none of his business.
“Well, aside from the recreational effects, members of the focus groups reported that using Klondike Gold still made them feel good after the high wore off. Several reported a change in their feelings of depression. We could make an extract, put it in pill form. You know how much that would be worth?”
Peter blinked.
Lewis said, “The market for anti-anxiety and depression drugs is something like ten billion dollars in the U.S. Nearly twice that worldwide.”
McSweeney nodded. “And there’s one other thing.” A smile played across McSweeney’s face. He couldn’t keep himself from bragging. “It might be slightly addictive.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “Might be? Slightly?”
“Maybe more than slightly.” McSweeney shrugged. “It could be the Nicotiana rustica crossbreeding I did a few years back. That’s a kind of wild tobacco, particularly potent in nicotine.”
“So you’re a mad scientist,” Peter said. “With the perfect product for the age of anxiety.”
“I’m a businessman,” McSweeney said defensively. “Trying to help people.”
Peter took a deep breath, stepped back to move the giant Colt Peacemaker away from McSweeney’s face, and eased the hammer off cock.
“Okay,” he said. “Time to help. Make another packet of seeds, just like the one you gave Henry.”
“Absolutely, you bet. I have another black cigar case, that’s what I put them in. I have seeds, too, but they won’t be Klondike Gold.”
“Can anyone tell them apart but you?”
McSweeney shook his head. “The only way to tell them apart is to germinate them into plants, then look at the mature buds. Which will take about eight weeks.”
“These assholes won’t live that long.”
—
McSweeney went inside the grow to put together another seed packet. Peter asked Lewis for his phone to call Steinburger at the police evidence locker.
“Any luck on finding the seeds?”
“There’s a lot of stuff here,” the big detective said. “Including a bunch of guns and a giant pile of cash. But I haven’t seen any small black case wrapped in plastic like your security man described.”
Peter wasn’t going to ask him to grab Henry’s Sig Sauer .40. That was never going to happen. He’d have to stick with the Army Colt for now.
“Have you heard from Sykes on the location of June’s rental car?”
“I texted him a few minutes ago. He says he’s still on hold with someone corporate.”
“Okay,” Peter said. “Keep me posted.”
“Wait,” said Steinburger. “What are those seeds for?”
“Some kind of super-weed,” Peter said. “Probably addictive, possibly with medical applications. Worth a hell of a lot more money than you’re looking at right now.”
“I miss the old days,” said Steinburger. “You could smoke a little grass and not end up paralyzed or crazy. Spend your free time in some mountain meadow, not working nights and weekends cleaning up after rabid shitheads.”
“Wait,” Peter said. “You’re a hippie cop?”
“I’m a cop who married a tie-dyed retro-hippie chick twenty years ago,” Steinburger said. He sighed. “We had a lot of fun while it lasted.”
“You’re a goddamn romantic,” Peter said.
“Not anymore,” said Steinburger. “Sykes’ll call when he knows something.”
Peter hung up and looked around McSweeney’s parking lot. “Think we can bring them here?”
“Good a place as any,” Lewis said. “I was thinking we might need another set of wheels.”
Peter nodded. But he didn’t want to lose twenty minutes driving back to Henry’s for his pickup.
He ran a search on Lewis’s phone, then made another call, this time to Denver Towing.
“How long would you need to pick up my truck at a friend’s house and drop it off across town?”
35
Dixon sat in the blue Mustang with his laptop open on the center console. Through the windshield, he could see the motel bed past the open motel room door. The girl was still laid out on the bedspread, dead to the world.
Leonard sat in a chair with his feet up on the bed, watching her. Like she was a new kitten he was forbidden to play with until it woke up. Dixon thought he could see Leonard’s long fingers twitching. He hoped it was his imagination.
He looked back to the computer and the scene frozen on the screen, the consumer test video that had started this whole thing. He’d watched it at least a dozen times.
He knew why Palmer wanted the seed package as much as the business itself. The business was a glorified farm. The seeds were something different.
Palmer had an instinct for weakness, Dixon had to admit. His business model was impeccable, if you didn’t consider the sheer immorality of it. But Pa
lmer had no more morals than a shark, swimming in search of the scent of blood in the water.
To the business world, Russell Palmer was a brilliant investor with a spectacular record of being in the right place at the right time. He purchased distressed assets at rock-bottom prices and later sold them, sometimes whole, sometimes in pieces, but always at enormous profit.
Palmer’s secret was the source of the assets’ distress. It was always, obliquely and at a discreet, deniable distance, Russell Palmer himself.
Using Dixon and his freelancers as his tools.
Dixon had learned that Palmer usually found his projects by flipping through the reports of the many corporate intelligence firms he had on retainer. Some reports focused on global economics, others on national security, still others on world politics. Palmer had a freakish ability to put that information into the blender that was his brain, see the faint potential weaknesses invisible to so many others, then exploit those weaknesses using his own particularly effective methods.
Palmer would have been a good black-ops intelligence officer, Dixon thought. He had the same kind of fertile, twisted mind. The Africa operation in particular was a chess game played on a continent-wide board. Palmer’s advantage was that the other side didn’t know they were playing, or not at the beginning. Just that they were dying.
If Dixon had thought his soul was doomed before, now he knew for certain that he’d never be clean. No preacher’s river dip could give him new life, not anymore.
The Colorado project had seemed simple enough at the beginning. The owner had actually reached out to one of Palmer’s corporate surrogates, ostensibly a venture capital firm, seeking investment into his business.
A little like lowering a bleeding limb into a shark pool and hoping you wouldn’t get pulled into the water. Although Dixon figured it wasn’t the owner’s fault. He’d thought the pool was filled with goldfish.
He’d sent a note of introduction with an investment proposal and twelve minutes of video. The same video now set to go on Dixon’s laptop.
Dixon had to admit, the video painted a pretty compelling picture.
He was starting to think about trying some of that Klondike Gold himself. It might be better than drinking most of a bottle of tequila every night.