What a Meth

by Jamie Lee Scott

  “I would hope your kids were never into making meth.”

  “Never happen,” she said.

  “How do you know?” I looked at her, looking away from Alyssa as she opened the door for room 109.

  Deadpan, she said, “Because I’d kill them.”

  It was then that everything changed. Jackie pointed.

  “Where’s she going? I thought they only had one car.”

  Alyssa had only been in the motel room for a matter of moments, but when she emerged, she had a backpack, and a two-liter bottle of what looked like a generic soda in her hand. She looked around, then got into a faded pink car parked three spaces away from us. I could only see her through the windows of the cars between us, so I didn’t know what kind of car it was.

  She got in the driver’s seat and nestled into it. I didn’t see her put on a seatbelt, but then, she may not have planned to drive anywhere. I watched as she reached down to the lower part of the dashboard and fiddled with something. She sat up straight and shook a cigarette loose from a pack and put it to her lips. It hung precariously as she leaned forward again and brought the car’s lighter to the cancer stick. Inhaling deeply, she sucked on the cigarette like it was oxygen.

  She picked up the two-liter bottle she’d been holding when she got into the car and shook it, looked at it, then put her cigarette back between her lips as she twisted the cap on the bottle.

  What happened next happened so fast I didn’t have time to react.

  17

  Chips of glass flew through the air. The windows of the car next to us had been pounded, and though they were broken, nothing flew at our car. A ball of fire erupted in Alyssa’s car.

  The screams pierced the air like an emergency alert alarm.

  Jackie jumped of out the car and said, “Pop the trunk.”

  I reached down and pulled the latch to open the trunk, then I opened my door and got out of the car. iPhone in hand, I dialed 911 as quickly as my fingers would move. I had to remind myself to stay calm, so my fingers would touch the correct numbers.

  As I waited for a response, Jackie had pulled a fire extinguisher and blanket from the trunk. She threw the blanket at me and ran to Alyssa’s car.

  I never understood why Charles insisted we keep these things in the trunk, but for once I was happy to have them.

  When the dispatcher answered, I gave her the pertinent information, before I put the phone in my pocket and went to help Jackie.

  She had the fire nearly out, and Alyssa was frantically grabbing at the door handle to the car.

  I yelled at her. “No!” The fire was out, but the handle would be scalding.

  I wrapped the blanket around my hand and pulled the handle from the outside and wrenched the door open. Then I spread the blanket and wrapped it around Alyssa as I pulled her from the vehicle. She was in hysterics.

  I could tell she was trying to speak, but the burns to her head and face made it nearly impossible for her to enunciate anything.

  “Shhhh,” I whispered. “Help is on the way.”

  The smell of burning flesh is a smell I never want to experience again in my life. It smelled like a combination of burnt toast and rancid pond water.

  As soon as Jackie was sure the fire was out, she helped me with Alyssa.

  We moved her to the exterior hallway of the motel and leaned her against the wall. She refused to sit, so we stayed on either side of her. Jackie looked at me then at Alyssa. I followed her gaze.

  Alyssa’s hair on the front and right side of her head had been burned off, and her scalp looked like burning embers had lodged in her skin. Her ear was completely gone. Whether it had been blown off by the blast, or burned off by the fire, I didn’t know. But I did know that the skin hanging from her arms looked like melted plastic, and the same skin hung off her right leg too.

  She must have been wearing a synthetic fabric because it had melted to her skin in places. The fact that she hadn’t passed out was a miracle.

  “Mine.” She tried to reach out toward the car.

  Once an addict, always an addict. I was sure she was reaching for the meth that had caused the fire.

  “No, Alyssa, that meth is gone. No more for you.” Forgive me, but I didn’t feel the slightest bit sorry for her. “You’ll get morphine in the hospital, and you’ll be in there for a very long time.”

  Jackie spat out the words, “On my dime.”

  She was as pissed off as I was. This meth fire was going to cost all of the hardworking taxpayers a pretty penny. With the cost of a daily stay in a burn unit at about nine thousand a day, she’d likely be in there for months.

  Relief flooded me when I heard the sound of sirens. Knowing I’d only have to breathe in the smell of charred flesh for a few more moments, and Alyssa would be getting proper care, I held her tight.

  The EMTs flew from the ambulance and whipped open the back doors. Right behind the EMTs were the cops. Great.

  As the two EMTs loaded Alyssa onto the stretcher, the female looked up to Jackie and me.

  “Do you know this woman?”

  “Alyssa King. I don’t know her, but I know of her,” I said.

  “What happened?” She was administering to Alyssa with her expert skills.

  “I can’t be positive, but I think she had a soda bottle, the two-liter kind, and was using it to make meth.”

  The EMT shook her head. “Shake and bake.”

  “Yep. I saw her shaking it as she got in the car, then she lit a cigarette and started twisting off the cap.”

  The EMT finished for me. “And kapow!”

  Jackie nodded her head. “That pretty much sums it up.”

  “Any next of kin?”

  “Yes, but I have no idea how to contact them. The police in Salinas might know.”

  Before she could ask the next question, the cops were in our faces.

  “Were you a witness?” She was Hispanic, without the slightest accent. She stood about five-five, and looked wiry and strong. No older than twenty-five.

  “Yes.” I decided to practice my “don’t say anything more than needed” skills.

  Her partner, an older white man, built like a brick shit house, spoke so low, I had to lean in to hear him. “Can we start at the beginning?”

  I deferred to Jackie, because she’s much better at getting to the point. I tend to go off in tangents when I’m explaining events.

  The EMTs loaded her into the ambulance. The one who questioned us stayed in the back, and the other jumped out to shut the doors.

  While Jackie was explaining the situation to the cops, I walked over and asked, “Where will you be taking her?”

  As the guy shut the doors of his unit, he said, “SVMH burn unit.”

  I nodded and he jogged to the driver’s side and got in.

  I walked back to Jackie and the cops as she was finishing her story. She handed them her business card. “In case you have any questions.”

  The Hispanic cop took the card. She also offered her own. “In case you remember something.”

  Jackie took it and nodded.

  We walked back to my car and got in. We both sat quietly for a moment. Then Jackie grabbed for the door.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The extinguisher.”

  I started the car and put it in gear. “Leave it.”

  She didn’t resist. Buckling up, I drove out of the Horseshoe Road Inn parking lot, heading back to Salinas.

  Somber, Jackie turned to look at me. “Poetic justice?”

  “Not so sure about that. But at least we know Alyssa and Jeff are alive. For the time being, anyway.”

  “She was going into shock when the EMTs arrived. Do you think she’ll make it?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  I wanted to feel sorry for her. I couldn’t even imagine the pain she was going to endure. And if she lived, that pain would continue for a very long time. Never mind the cost to the taxpayer of the burn unit stay; she’d need occupational
therapy, and reconstructive surgery. She’d never look the same. And the saddest part of all, other than her poor kids, she’d probably end up right back here again.

  “Office?” I asked.

  “I guess. Wow, what a morning.” Jackie looked down at the floor and picked up the child’s blankie. “Maybe we can stop by the hospital later and make sure Alyssa gets this.”

  Not a bad idea. I wasn’t sure if she’d even know it was there, or if they’d allow it into her room, but it was a nice gesture.

  “Case closed?” Jackie asked.

  I looked away from the road for a moment. “Not even close. I want to know what the hell that fruit stand has to do with all of this.”

  “You already know,” Jackie said. “It’s a drug warehouse or money laundering facility.”

  Looking straight ahead, I said, “Charles told me this morning that the property and business is owned by Basilio Capurro.”

  “Please don’t tell me that’s Dominic’s father.”

  “Basilio is Dominic’s brother.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “So, no, this isn’t over by a long shot.”

  “What’s next? And what do you want me to do?” Jackie seemed eager.

  “I’m going to drop you and the office, then have a chat with Irma Tucker. I figure she’s the safest bet at the moment, since she’s mad at Dominic.”

  “You mean the man who looks like Dominic.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Look, it’s a waste of gas to drive all the way back to Salinas, turn around, and go back to Prunedale. Just go to Irma’s now. I’ll stay in the car unless you need me.”

  Going to see Irma alone really wasn’t the wisest idea. So I decided to take Jackie up on her offer to tag along.

  I took the Highway 101 exit off of 156, and headed back toward Prunedale. I didn’t want to call the office to get Irma’s address, so I decided to play it by ear, and see if I remembered how to get to the candle barn.

  Jackie fiddled with her phone, while I tuned in to Pandora Radio, selecting my Maroon 5 station. “Harder to Breathe” was the first song in the selection. Little did I know how appropriate that title would be.

  18

  Jackie remembered the name of the candle company and googled it from her iPhone. Then she plugged the address into her maps app, and we were on our way to Irma Tucker’s house without having to wing it.

  As we turned on to the road where Irma lived, I got a chill. Remembering the situation we’d dealt with earlier in the year, I wanted to get on my soap box and yell at parents and teens, “Be careful who you are interacting with on social networks!”

  An old Winnebago was parked in the driveway of Irma’s house. I tried to remember if she was married. If so, would her husband be henpecked, or would he be just like her?

  I parked the car deep on the shoulder of the road, next to the mailbox, and got out.

  “You sure you want to go alone?”

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Jackie’s number. She looked at the caller identification and answered. Into the phone, she said, “Ah, you won’t exactly be alone.”

  I smiled and headed up the paved driveway to Irma’s house.

  A fence blocked the front yard from the road, but once I climbed past it, there was a stunning garden. Not being a green thumb, I couldn’t identify many, okay most, of the plants and flowers, but the landscape had an English garden feel, complete with a miniature maze trimmed from Boxwood bushes.

  I’m not sure why, but this was the last thing I expected from Irma. Then again, it could be her husband’s hobby. Whoever was tending this garden, it was obvious there was tender, loving care put into the design and upkeep.

  I stepped off the driveway and onto the cobblestone path that led to the front door.

  Irma lived in an expansive ranch style home with a cedar porch that ran the length of the front of the house. The outdoor porch was furnished with a bench swing, two Adirondack chairs, a glass coffee table, and uniquely arranged potted plants.

  I climbed the steps to the porch, fully expecting to hear the cock of a shotgun, but there was no sound. I turned around to get a full view of the garden and sucked in a breath. The beauty of the professional looking landscape was breathtaking, but it was the body laid out in the maze that caught my eye.

  Without putting the phone to my ear, I said, “Jackie, I need you to call 911. Then I need you to get your butt up here, pronto.” I disconnected.

  Jackie was still talking to the dispatcher when I saw her sprinting up the driveway.

  I pointed.

  Into her phone, she said, “Scratch the ambulance. We’ll need the coroner.”

  Jackie stepped carefully up onto the deck, and looked where I was staring. “Irma?”

  “Looks like it.” The possibility that it was someone else was slim, but since there was no face left, it was difficult for me to make a positive I.D. The high tops were a pretty sure sign, though.

  “Shit. This day keeps getting worse and worse.”

  I sat on the steps. As much as I wanted to run, I knew we had to stay until the police arrived.

  So much was rushing through my head. Who did this to Irma was not foremost in my thoughts; it was the tidbit Charles had offered earlier that morning. Basilio was in the United States.

  I guess he didn’t exactly say Basilio was here, but he owned the fruit stand. He was the best man at our wedding. He flew in from Italy to stand up for his brother, and flew back the next day. Or so I was told. Maybe he never left. What I did know was that the man I saw at the fruit stand was not Basilio.

  Basilio Capurro was a linebacker of a man. He had a “don’t question me” air about him, and when I met him, he didn’t bother with a hug or a kiss, just a handshake. I thought this was strange for a family member to treat me this way, but I didn’t know then what I know now.

  What was Dominic thinking? Marrying a woman connected to the FBI? Did he think I’d provide information? And when I didn’t have anything for him, he bolted?

  But he never asked. Not once did he ask me about my job with the Secret Service. He knew I’d planned to quit because it affected our relationship, and I had to travel too much. I had actually left the Secret Service the week before we were married, and I was going to join the offices of the FBI in San Francisco.

  The San Francisco job never panned out, so I worked to get my P.I. license. I could go over and over history until I had it twisted in knots, but I wasn’t going to do that to myself.

  I dialed Charles. “This has been a shitty day.”

  “Not so bad. I got your car to the tire dealer, and you’ll have all new tires by the end of the day.” He sounded chipper.

  “I don’t want to rehash everything on the phone, but Alyssa King is alive, for the moment. But Irma Tucker is dead.”

  Speaking of dead, there was dead silence on the other end of the line. But only for a moment, as this was Charles I was talking to.

  “Where the hell are you?” Panic changed his octave.

  Wearily, I said, “I’m at Irma’s house.”

  “I’ll be right there.” The line went dead.

  I looked up to see a patrol car slide to a stop at the bottom of the driveway.

  Two male cops, both white, and both very young, exited the car with their weapons drawn.

  The blonde cop called out, “Stand up, and put your hands on your head.”

  I looked at Jackie. We silently decided to appease the cops. We stood in unison and locked our fingers on the top of our heads.

  “Are you carrying any weapons?” The black haired cop asked.

  “Yes.” So not the right answer.

  Blondie yelled, “Step down to the grass, slowly.”

  We did.

  “Keep your hands on your head and drop to your knees.” They approached cautiously.

  We did.

  “Drop to your belly.” Blackie said.

  I didn’t want to argue, but I wasn’t going to drop to my bel
ly without taking my hands off my head.

  “Sir, just come and take my gun. It’s in the holster on my right hip.” I started to pull my hand down and point.

  Blackie aimed his gun at my head and screamed, “Hands up!”

  Rookies.

  He walked up to me slowly and pulled my weapon from the holster. Stepping back, he looked at Jackie and said, “Are you armed?”

  She nodded, and looked down to her armpit.

  So now that we were unarmed, they let us sit on the steps again.

  “What are you doing here?” Blondie asked.

  “I came to talk to Irma Tucker. She’s the owner of this property.” Then I looked out to the maze. “But I don’t think Irma is up for much conversation.”

  “Who are you? And do you have identification?”

  “I’m Mimi Capurro. I’m a private investigator, and this is my co-worker, Jackie Baccarin. We are working an investigation.”

  “I.D.?”

  Jackie said, “In the pickup.”

  Blackie looked out to the maze.

  Jackie said, “We’re the ones who called it in.”

  Suddenly there were sounds of tires peeling rubber on the road. Everyone turned to look, and Nick and Piper came running up the driveway.

  Nick looked at the rookie cops and said, “Get the fuck off my crime scene, you idiots.”

  In a nicer tone, Piper said, “Please go back to the road and put up crime scene tape. I don’t want any traffic driving past this house.”

  “What if they live up the road?” Blondie asked.

  Less friendly, Piper answered, “Do I look like I give a shit? Now go block the goddamned road.”

  She looked back to us and said, “Jeez.”

  Nick said, “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  “I came to talk to Irma.”

  Jackie pointed at me. “I’m with her.”

  Nick pointed at Jackie. “Go back to the car. I want to talk with Mimi.”

  Jackie stood, being a good girl and not arguing.

  “Piper will go with you and the two of you can have a chat.”

  Piper took Jackie by the elbow. “How’ve you been?”