Stealing Taffy

by Susan Donovan

  And since there weren’t that many decent-looking, eligible bachelors O’Connor’s age in these parts, Dante was stumped.

  “Oh, just stop trying, Cabrera. You’re never going to figure it out.” A small smile appeared on O’Connor’s lips. “Let’s move on here, shall we? Looks like there’s a new joint task-force operation on the horizon.”

  She shoved a few aerial photographs across her desk toward him. Dante scanned them quickly and whistled. “That’s some serious acreage. Where is this, exactly?”

  “Twelve miles northwest of Bigler in an area called Possum Ridge.”

  Dante had to laugh. Sometimes it seemed half the towns in western North Carolina were named after either possums or pigeons. “This is in Cataloochee County?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mother of God, don’t these people have anything else to do but grow pot and cook meth?”

  O’Connor tapped a nail on one of the photos. “We estimate it’s about twenty open acres and four large hothouse structures. We’re talking thousands of plants. We’ll start assembling the usual team—Sheriff Halliday, the state bureau of investigation, the DA’s office, the U.S. Marshal, the state national guard. It will take several weeks to get everyone on board.”

  Dante stared at her, stunned. What she’d just described was as big as any domestic marijuana operation he’d worked on, even out West. “I’m assuming their ultimate buyer is Ramirez or Apodaca?”

  Antonio Ramirez and Ruben Apodaca ran two of the largest Mexican cartels known to have tentacles reaching into the Carolinas. The Spiveys had been selling meth to Ramirez, but the father and son yahoos ended up killing each other during the raid. None of their crew had shared any details about Ramirez. The meth cook was killed his first night in the lockup and the remaining two suspects were so terrified the cartel would get to them that they hadn’t said boo since their arrests.

  “That’s our best guess at this point,” O’Connor answered him. “We did have a development while you were gone.”

  “Did you find the Fat Man?”

  O’Connor shook her head. “I wish.”

  It bothered Dante that there was a loose end left after the Spivey bust—an unknown middleman, possibly a local, who was only known by the blunt nickname. Dante had never met him in person, but he had the feeling he was still out there somewhere, and might have his chubby fingers in the marijuana pie, as well.

  “It’s the kid.”

  Dante felt himself frown. “What kid?”

  “The little girl. Fern.”

  “Huh?” Truly, O’Connor had lost him. “I don’t know any Ferns.”

  “Oh, for shit’s sake, Cabrera—the little girl you pulled out of the Spivey compound just before the raid. Her name is Fern Bisbee. She’s twelve. The cook’s kid.”

  A wave of unease went through him. That poor kid. Her father had been the rocket scientist running Bobby Ray Spivey’s kitchen, and the girl had been living in that violent hellhole for months. Dante had kept an eye on her while working undercover, but he could only do so much while the investigation was ongoing. He often wondered what she’d been through, what she’d witnessed. Just before the raid, he’d dropped her off at child protective services and, he had to admit, hadn’t thought much about her since.

  But that was why they called it time off, right? You didn’t think of work during your time off. And anyway, it wasn’t like the two of them had been BFFs. Not only had Dante not known her name, he hadn’t known anything else about the girl. She had kept her mouth shut and her dirty arms clenched around her waist the whole time she was in the car with him.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Dante recalled telling the scrawny yellow-haired kid. She had been slumped down in the passenger seat but she’d kept her eyes to the front. “I think this is yours.” He handed her the beat-up stuffed rabbit he’d found in the dirt near the barn. She snatched it from him and shoved it between her feet.

  “How old are you?”

  Nothing.

  “You might’ve figured out by now that I’m an undercover federal agent. Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  Nothing.

  “Your father is going to be arrested.”

  Nothing.

  “Were you aware that your father was engaged in illegal methamphetamine production?”

  “For realz?” she asked, with mock surprise. Then she laughed. “Damn, mister. I’m not retarded.”

  And that had been the end of their stimulating exchange. Dante was relieved to hand her off to someone more qualified to help. He’d never been particularly good with kids—even the relatively normal ones in his extended family—and this poor child had been traumatized. Traumatized children weren’t exactly his field of expertise.

  The next day, Dante learned the girl’s father had been murdered in the county lockup. He’d barely gotten himself through intake processing when the cartel got him. Dead on delivery, basically.

  He couldn’t even imagine the turmoil that girl must be experiencing.

  “So what’s Fern got to do with the marijuana operation?” he asked O’Connor, bringing himself back to the present.

  O’Connor sighed. “Unfortunately, child protective services released her into the custody of a cousin, who—”

  “Ah, hell.”

  “Yeah.” O’Connor scanned her paperwork. “A twenty-seven-year-old named Gene Lewis Tillman, laid off from the paper plant but who happens to own about thirty-seven cleared acres up on Possum Ridge, a lot of it with nice southern exposure.”

  “Poor kid,” Dante mumbled.

  “So Fern Bisbee apparently ran away, and the woman who found her hitchhiking took her to the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Halliday called CPS, but the girl begged them not to send her back. She told Halliday that her cousin was up to no good, and the National Guard did a flyover a week later. The kid was right.”

  “So where’s Fern now?”

  O’Connor looked surprised that he cared, which pissed him off. He wasn’t an insensitive monster. “She’s been placed with the great-grandmother. A woman named…” O’Connor checked her computer. “Gladys Harbison. She lives just outside Bigler and works as a receptionist at the newspaper.”

  “Have you spoken to Fern?”

  O’Connor winced. “I tried, believe me, but the old gal is very protective of the kid and told me to get off her property. She said if I came back again it better be with a subpoena and a bulletproof vest.”

  Dante chuckled.

  “So we’re stuck. As you know, a guardian in North Carolina may forbid law enforcement from speaking to a minor not charged with a crime.”

  Dante figured the great-grandmother and the girl must be getting along well, since they seemed to have identical dispositions. “Already on my way,” he said, pushing himself to a stand, muscles complaining from his neck to his calves. “Got an address for me?”

  O’Connor motioned for him to sit back down. “Listen, Cabrera, just because Division won’t let you transfer out of the South doesn’t mean they don’t see the quality work you’ve been doing.” She reached beneath a pile of papers and handed him a document. “You’re spending the next month at Quantico as an instructor. I’ll see you back here in the fall.”

  Dante stared at his boss in disbelief. They wanted him in Virginia? Now? “What about the task force?”

  “They’ll be close to harvest when you get back and that’s when we make our move. And since you can’t go undercover on this one, I’d like to ask you to coordinate.”

  Dante snatched the document from O’Connor and rose from his chair. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. He felt like a damn Ping-Pong ball, flying back to D.C. so soon. “Just tell the travel office no more middle seats.”

  O’Connor looked him over, then smiled. “Seems the layover was hard on you.”

  “You have no idea.”

  * * *

  “Have a seat, Miss Newberry.”

  “A fine hello to you, too.” Tanyalee couldn’t help but not
ice her probation officer’s impersonal tone of voice. She’d expected him to be at least somewhat pleased to see her, considering he hadn’t laid eyes on her for ten weeks. But he was stiff as a dead minister. She watched him frown behind his thick-rimmed glasses as he flipped through some papers in her file—her Sedona Sunset discharge summary, no doubt. After he’d had his fill, Temple Smathers folded his hands on top of his cluttered desk. Tanyalee gave him her best smile.

  “Welcome back.”

  “Thankyousoverymuch.”

  Mr. Smathers shook his head, as if he found her entertaining. “So, would you say your trip to Arizona was a success, Miss Newberry?”

  “Of course,” Tanyalee said, crossing her legs strategically and noting with some satisfaction that even the nerdy Temple Smathers couldn’t help but sneak a peek. She’d selected an above-the-knee pencil skirt for just this effect. “I learned a lot about the root causes of my various character flaws. I think I have a handle on how to make better choices for myself in the future.”

  He nodded slowly and pursed his lips. “You successfully completed three programs out there, under the clinical supervision of your therapist, a doctor…” He looked back to the file.

  “Dr. Leslie Buchman,” Tanyalee offered cheerfully. “She oversaw my progress with everything—codependency, compulsive spending, and, you know, love addiction.”

  “Let’s not forget shoplifting and forgery.”

  Tanyalee shifted in her chair. “Those things were addressed in the compulsive spending program, Mr. Smathers. I know myself much better now.”

  He didn’t look all that impressed with her accomplishments, and pressed ahead. “Prior to your discharge, Dr. Buchman placed a conference call to the assistant prosecutor and me.” When he frowned, his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. “I hope you realize how lucky you are that your grandfather is so forgiving. Not only did you avoid incarceration, but his willingness to pay for in-patient treatment has cut your probation in half. Mr. Newberry’s standing in this community has made all the difference.”

  Tanyalee frowned. “Of course I know that, Mr. Smathers. Granddaddy Garland is a wonderful man, and I’ve thanked him many times for everything he’s done for me.”

  Smathers sighed, glancing at the file again. “Dr. Buchman has recommended you perform two hundred hours of community service now that you’re back in Bigler.”

  Tanyalee tried her very best not to roll her eyes. “I’m aware of that. Dr. Leslie said it would improve my ability to empathize with those less fortunate. She says I need to ‘get out of my own head.’ That’s one of her favorite expressions.”

  “Do you think she’s right?”

  Tanyalee shrugged, tossing her hair over a shoulder. Temple’s eyes followed her every move. “She’s the expert.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Of course not!”

  “And where would you like to volunteer?”

  “I was thinking maybe I’d enjoy working with old people. They’re so sweet! Or underprivileged children or homeless pets or something.”

  “Gotcha.” Mr. Smathers pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose. “Dr. Buchman also recommends you attend several twelve-step meetings a week, ideally Codependents Anonymous, Debtors Anonymous, and Love Addicts Anonymous.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You’re willing to do that, even if it means traveling to Asheville or maybe Winston-Salem to get to a meeting?”

  “Well, of course I’m willing! I am committed to my recovery.”

  “Good to hear.” He returned his attention to the paperwork.

  Tanyalee suppressed a yawn. If this little meet-and-greet got any more exciting she’d have to breathe into a brown paper bag to keep from hyperventilating. And just like that—without a bit of warning—her mind wandered off …

  Dan Carnes.

  Heavy breathing.

  This was becoming a real problem. Every night for a week now, Tanyalee’s dreams had been filled with nothing but D-a-n and s-e-x, and apparently, the flashbacks were starting to spill into her daytime hours as well. She really thought she’d gotten all this nonsense out of her system on the Greyhound bus ride from Raleigh-Durham International Airport to Bigler. The whole four hours was nothing but a blow-by-blow recollection of every single little thing she’d done to Dan’s body and he’d done to hers, between the hours of eleven P.M. and seven A.M. Tanyalee remembered staring out the bus window, aware that she was intentionally reliving every detail of that wild night. Almost like she needed to commit it to memory and then lock it away. Forever.

  She remembered every little thing about their night together—how his skin smelled like the mountains after a hard summer rain. The solid feel of his carved muscles. The way his tongue slid into her and demanded she open for him, like there was no point in her trying to deny him. Open her lips. Her legs. Her deepest desires …

  Tanyalee made a small whimpering sound and adjusted her skirt. Maybe that brown paper bag hadn’t been such a bad idea.

  Her probation officer peeked over his glasses. “You all right, Miss Newberry?”

  “Of course!”

  He leaned back in his creaky old office chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, looking her over like she was some kind of mental patient.

  Well, I never!

  “You’re going to continue living with your great-aunt and grandfather, is that correct?”

  Oh, Lord, but she wished that weren’t a true statement, since Aunt Viv was already driving her insane. “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Be sure to advise me of any change of address.” He flipped through papers again. “Now, as we discussed prior to your admission for inpatient treatment at Sedona Sunset, the terms of your probation required you to find full-time employment when you returned. How is the job search coming?”

  Tanyalee tried to keep her mouth from falling open but didn’t succeed. “I just got home! I haven’t even unpacked! I haven’t even had a chance to make amends to my sister! Plus, I only recently found out my friend Candy Carmichael got kidnapped by those horrible drug dealers out in Preston Valley while I was away! Don’t you read the paper?”

  Temple blinked rapidly. “You seem to be associated with more than your share of kidnappings, Miss Newberry.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Tanyalee could not believe this man. “That drug dealer thing had nothing to do with me, and Wim Wimbley never technically kidnapped me, as you are aware. He just held me at gunpoint along with Cheri and Candy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “All I’m saying is that I’ve been preoccupied since I got back. I haven’t had time to look for a job. Of course, because my gun-happy former fiancé is going to federal prison for a long, long time, I doubt I’ll be able to continue my work as his real estate assistant.”

  Mr. Smathers’s expression went blank. “How about now? Was that sarcasm?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “So I take it you’d welcome some assistance from the Cataloochee County Department of…”

  “No, I most certainly would not!”

  “… Job Services?” He frowned.

  Tanyalee forced herself to find her pleasant smile once more. “What I actually meant was, no, thank you. That is so very kind of you to offer, but I don’t need job services.”

  Temple sighed deeply, as if her visit were downright painful, which Tanyalee found offensive. She was being sweet as pie!

  “You have two weeks to secure full-time employment, Miss Newberry. That’s forty hours on the job, per week, minimum. And you need to find a community service opportunity by then as well. Once you have found employment and completed your hours you will be eligible for early termination of probation. You will be free.”

  Tanyalee gasped. “Why, that’s wonderful, Mr. Smathers!”

  “I’m glad that makes you happy, Miss Newberry.”

  “But…” Tanyalee suddenly worried she would fail. “Volunteering will be a snap, b
ut jobs are scarce in this economy, as I’m sure you’re aware. What if I can’t find full-time work?”

  He didn’t look up from the form he was scribbling on. “Then you’ll find two or three part-time jobs that add up to forty hours. This is not rocket science, Miss Newberry, and we all know that you usually find a way to get what you want. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

  My goodness! Such an unpleasant little man! Tanyalee accepted the appointment card, slid her bag onto her shoulder, and headed for the door. She spun back around to find him staring at her ass.

  “Caught you red-handed,” she snapped.

  Mr. Smathers grinned. “On behalf of the entire Cataloochee County law enforcement community, allow me to say that makes us even.”

  Chapter 4

  “Taffy?”

  Tanyalee groaned in exasperation, letting her head fall back against the porch swing. She couldn’t get a moment’s peace in this damn place! All she wanted was to sit outside in the dusk—alone—and listen to the bugs. Was that too much to ask?

  “Out here, Aunt Viv.” Her voice sounded as exhausted as she felt.

  Within seconds, the front screen door creaked open and slammed shut, and Viv plopped down next to her on the swing. She set the contraption in motion with her pink-laced tennis shoe.

  “Phew! It’s a warm one tonight!” Aunt Viv took a sip of the frozen drink she held in her hand, an elixir she called “risky slush”—strawberry daiquiri mix, ice, and vodka whirled around in the blender until it became a cold, crunchy soup. Not that it needed to be a warm night for Viv to break out the Osterizer. In fact, it didn’t even need to be night at all. Tanyalee knew Viv had been fond of these innocent-looking concoctions as long as Tanyalee could remember, which was most of her life, since she’d come to live with her great-aunt when her parents died. Tanyalee had been five, and Cheri seven. Vivienne Newberry was the closest thing to a mother they’d had since.

  “Thank you for helping wash up after supper.” Aunt Viv patted her on the knee. “You’ve always been such a helpful girl, Taffy.”