by Cam Larson
Chapter Twelve
My thoughts were interrupted again when my phone rang. I glanced at it and then took a deep breath before answering.
"Hey, Daniel. How’s it going with you?"
"For starters, it’s a beautiful day. And you're off work today, aren't you?"
I couldn't help grinning. "I sure am. What are you doing today?"
"I'm on call for the next twenty-four hours. But Laila, I've got some information that I think you'll want to hear."
That got my attention. "What information?" I asked eagerly.
"Well – I've got the autopsy report.
The report! "Can we meet for lunch someplace?"
"One o'clock. Sam’s Sandwiches."
Sam's was right down the street from Roasted Love. "You bet. I'll see you there."
# # #
I arrived at Sam’s Sandwiches a few minutes before one, and went straight for my usual table at the back. Sam referred to it as my thinking table and I was sure I'd need it today.
I hoped Daniel had not ended up with an emergency call. I waited anxiously, and about ten minutes later he walked through the door.
My breath caught as I watched that tall handsome man stroll confidently toward me with a folder tucked under his right arm. He bent to give me a light kiss on the cheek. His eyes sparkled like a child’s on Christmas morning.
Out server appeared and we gave her our orders. "I’ll take an iced raspberry tea and a chicken salad sandwich," I said.
"And I'll have a grilled cheese and a diet Coke. And potato chips for both of us," said Daniel. He smiled in my direction. "What? No watercress sandwich this time?" The server jotted everything down and then left for the kitchen window.
"It's a woman’s prerogative to change her mind on occasion," I said. "Now – hand over that report."
Daniel slid it toward me. I flipped open the manila folder and scanned the autopsy report.
The first thing I saw was the name at the top. "John Doe," I repeated. "Don’t they know his name yet?"
"Yes, they do know his name. But I don’t. It's altered here since Leo Swenson didn’t want to pass around a report with John’s real name on it. They're still investigating." Daniel took a sip of his Coke and waited for me while I went on reading.
The report stated that "John Doe" died of a heroin overdose. And then I noticed something else. "Is 'benzodiazepine' the sleeping pill you told me about?" I asked.
Daniel nodded.
"Where would John have gotten sleeping pills? He was as poor as anyone I ever laid eyes on. I mean, he had no money to pay for a prescription."
Daniel smiled gently. "Most any pills are easy enough to buy on the streets, as I told you. He could even have gotten them from a trash bin. I can only tell you that that's what they found in his system."
"Yeah. I guess facts are facts." I was still very doubtful, but I did have to own up to the possibility. "I guess he could have used something like benzodiazepines on occasion. Sleeping on concrete isn’t exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep."
Daniel’s eyes were gentle when he looked at me. "No. I'm sure it isn't."
I was finding out that I had a lot to learn about illegal drugs. Ever since John’s death, I starting paying closer attention to the people around West River. No one I saw appeared homeless to me and I had to admit that if anyone I met was on drugs, I sure couldn’t tell.
All I did know was that it had been four days since John’s death and the empty little spot in front of Roasted Love still gave me a hollow feeling every time I saw it.
"Laila, there's something else I want you to know." Daniel paused, and then looked up at me. "John will be buried tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."
I sighed. "Okay. Thanks for telling me." My shift at the coffee house didn’t start until eleven the next day, so that would give me time to go and say good-bye to John.
"Now, John had no resources to pay for burial, and neither does his brother. Steven told them there is no other family, and so John will be buried in the pauper section of the cemetery."
I nodded slowly. "Steven told them? You mean – the investigators found John's brother?"
Daniel smiled just a little. "As a matter of fact, they did find the brother you mentioned. You were right – he's in Maxfield Correctional Facility."
I sat for a moment while that sank in. "So – John's brother Steven is still in prison. But I didn't find him listed there when I looked online." I looked up at Daniel. "Maybe I had the wrong name. Maybe his brother goes by a different name."
Daniel nodded. "It's possible. But right now, that's confidential."
"Do you think they'll let Steven to go to John's funeral?" I asked.
"As I understand it, he'll be in shackles and guarded, but they will let him attend. It'll be just a graveside rite. No viewing at the funeral home or anything like that."
All I could do was nod. Then I reached across the table and took Daniel's hand. "Thanks for this. Thanks for telling me."
He smiled. "Of course."
We finished our lunches on a melancholy note, but I'd meant what I'd said to Daniel. I really did appreciate his help.
After he and I parted company, I found it hard to shake the sadness of the life John had led. He had been an intelligent, witty, storytelling man who had somehow ended up on the streets. And he'd died in the streets with only the clothes on his back at the age of thirty-six.
Thirty-six. Even to me, part of Generation Y, it wasn't old enough to be dead.
If someone had not taken his life, I felt sure he would have pulled himself out of homelessness given enough time. I was anxious to see what Steven looked like and how he would handle his brother’s death, though I didn’t expect to have an opportunity to speak with him because of his prison status.
It was going to be a very sad event, but I wanted very to be there as one of John's friends.
# # #
The following morning was breezy, with a slight coolness in the air. Finding my way to the grave sites of the unfortunates, I ended at the place where John’s simple wooden coffin rested on a metal framework over the hole that had been dug for it.
Waiting beside it were a minister and two shabbily dressed people I did not recognize. Their attire had the distinct appearance of someone else who lived on the street.
One woman stood alone, at a little distance from the rest of us, but facing the service. She was slender and attractive and nicely dressed, and her long blonde hair swayed in the light wind
Standing opposite me on the other side of where John rested was a young man in shackles. His prison guard stood close beside him. The preacher began the service and read prayers for the departed.
Steven lowered his eyes during the prayer and I stole a glance at him. He resembled John somewhat, though younger. He had the same tawny hair as John and though he was slim, he wasn’t as thin as his brother had been. He closed his eyes tightly as if holding back tears. He no longer had his brother or an ally. I felt sorry for him.
When the prayers ended, Steven looked up at me. I realized I had been staring at him. I wondered how a young man with his whole life ahead of him could disappear into addiction and the streets instead.
In that brief moment, I made a decision. I would have to go and visit John's brother at the prison. I had to know more about my friend's life. I'd come too far to stop now.
When the brief service was over, I turned to leave. I walked back across the parking lot and clicked the remote to open the lock on my car door – and just as I did, I got the feeling that someone was watching me.
When I turned around, I caught sight of the blonde woman who had viewed the service from a distance. She was hurrying to a small compact car parked near a line of cedar trees a few yards away from mine. She got in and then drove out of the cemetery using the farthest exit gate.
Then she was gone, leaving me to wonder who she was. I wasn't the only woman who'd come to the cemetery to say farewell to John.
Chapter Thirteen
The next day off I had from Roasted Love, I went back to Skid Row. I leashed Thor, my partner, and drove down to the blighted downtown area of West River.
Today’s banner across the barred windows of the grocery store advertised five packages of hot dogs for five dollars. I tried not to think about what those hot dogs were made of.
"It’s too bad poor people have to eat such lousy food," I said over my shoulder to Thor. His almond eyes locked onto mine in the rearview mirror. His large frame took up most of the backseat, and I'd learned to rely on my outside mirrors when he was in the car with me.
Slowing down when I got to the potholes in the street, I noticed several people walking or standing alone. I passed the small run-down shops that remained open for business. A large heap of bricks and stone blocks was all that was left of one of them.
I drove until I found a spot to park that looked to be mostly free of rocks and broken glass. My eyes scanned the area where I had talked to the scruffy dealer the last time. I decided to stay inside the car for the moment. The few people I saw standing around were either drinking from paper bag-covered containers or smoking things that I doubted were ordinary cigarettes.
Then I spotted him. The bushy hair was unmistakable. Today he wore a dingy tank top and I could see that his arms were lined with tattoos. I was too far away to see whether the large imprint near his shoulder was a bulldog, but I knew he had to be Ricky Thomas.
I got out of the car and then opened the rear door. Holding Thor’s leash tightly in my sweating hands, I walked towards Ricky. I took one quick glance at his shoulder and saw that yes, it was a bulldog tattoo.
Strangely enough, that helped calm me. Who would go through the pain of having a large bulldog needled onto his arm if he didn’t like dogs? I vowed not to give him an opportunity to make friends with Thor. I needed my dog as an attack beast if it came to that.
Ricky spoke first. "What does John want this time?" he growled.
Confusion hit me at first, and then I realized: He doesn’t know John is gone. "Sorry to tell you, but John is dead and buried," I said.
The shocked look on Ricky’s face surprised me. It told me that he'd had no idea that his enemy was out of his life for good. This was one drug dealer who had not killed John.
"What do you mean, John is dead?" he asked. "He was alive and well yesterday." He eyed me suspiciously. "What are you and John trying to pull?"
I stood my ground, holding Thor close at my side. "I’m telling you the truth. He died five days ago. I went to his funeral and it was John they buried in the ground."
He shook his head, and his eyes narrowed menacingly. "You're high on something, Miss Uptown. I don’t know what stuff you’re taking, but you’re mixed up. John was down here yesterday. I saw him myself."
I thought about how Steven resembled his older brother John. Maybe Ricky had mistaken Steven for John – but how was that possible? Steven was living in prison, not on Skid Row.
"I’m not high. I know what I’m talking about. John Collins was buried yesterday. I stood at his grave myself." What was wrong with Ricky? He was the one on drugs, not me.
He edged a step closer. The same anger I saw at my last visit was growing. I could see it in his face. Thor stiffened and began growling. My sweat-damp hands were slick on the leash. Ricky saw me glance at my dog, and to my relief the man stepped back.
"Look. I'm telling you that you're dead wrong. I know John Collins when I see him and I saw him yesterday just in front of that pawn shop." He gestured to a shop across the street from where we stood. It had a rusted sign on the front and a flickering neon light in the window announced "open," even though the "n" looked more like an "r."
But Ricky still had more to say. "He was talking to two buyers when I saw him. And I'm positive that it was John Collins."
I was more than stumped at his words. He seemed to be telling the truth – but did drug dealers tell the truth?
"Where were you the day John was murdered?" I asked him. I gave him the date and approximate time of day.
For the first time, the dull skin around his eyes crinkled. His hoarse laugh surprised me. "What’s so funny?" I asked him.
He spread the fingers on his right hand as far as they could be parted. His fingernails housed dirt and unknown debris, but what I really noticed was that his index finger was severely bent in the wrong place.
"I have a solid alibi for this one," he said. "I was at the walk-in clinic three streets over from here. I waited almost all afternoon for my turn. They told me I had a broken finger and two more that were bruised. They wrapped them up for me with splints and I left about five o’clock."
"Where are the splints?" I asked. "Surely they told you to leave them on."
"Ha. I can’t do business with bandaged fingers. I pulled 'em off."
Well, that explained the deformed index finger that would end up permanently bent. But I was frustrated and felt I was going in circles. This man not only had the misfortune of damaged fingers, his mind was as messed up as any I'd ever heard of. The streets took their toll on people like Ricky Thomas.
"Okay. Look, Miss Uptown – for some reason, I kind of like you. I can see you don’t belong down here. Maybe I can help you out."
"Yeah, well, don’t suggest any of your party favors. I’m not interested."
He lifted his bent-fingered hand and waved it as if clearing the air. "I can give you the name of someone who can get you whatever it is you want."
"Uh – whatever I want?"
"Sure. You can get anything in this world for the right price. And if you're trying to find out who killed somebody who lives on this side of town, I’ll point you to Licorice Billy."
"Licorice Billy."
"Yeah, sure. He knows everything that goes on around here and everybody who does it. And he'll also tell you that John Collins isn’t dead." He shuffled a little on the cracked sidewalk. "Licorice Billy is a fighter. He got into it more than once with John."
I couldn’t imagine John physically fighting anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. If Licorice Billy and John argued a lot, what was that about?
I took a closer look at Ricky. He still had not bathed since I last saw him. Facial expressions could not be detected from behind the mass of facial hair, but his eyes looked sincere. I was sure he thought that if he could find someone to back his story about seeing John recently, it would get him off the hook as a suspect.
"And just where would I find this licorice guy?" I asked. "This Licorice Billy? I don’t need him to back your story, since I know John is dead. But I might be able to get some information from him that I need."
I was reluctant to stay down here much longer. An uneasy feeling had washed over me more than once in the few minutes I'd spent with Ricky. Striking up familiar relationships on this side of town weren’t exactly in my plans.
"Billy hangs out in different places around town. You can’t miss him. He's always got a piece of licorice hanging out of his mouth."
I recalled the man I'd seen as I left the area the last time – the man with the black licorice stick and the black stains around his mouth.
Then Ricky looked up. His eyes suddenly narrowed again, and he turned and hurried off in the opposite direction without a word. I wondered what that was all about, until I started walking with Thor towards my car.
It was then that I saw the same DEA guy that I'd seen at the precinct house and at the Bistro. He stood waiting for me at my car.
As I approached, he nodded briefly. "Aren’t you the woman I saw waiting for Chief Hayes the other day? What are you doing down here?"
When I hesitated, he went on. "It’s dangerous for anybody, but especially for someone like you. These people don't have a lot of patience. Some become violent at the least provocation."
His deep blue eyes locked with mine and I saw visible irritation there. "You aren’t down here buying, are you?"
With as much dignity as I could muster, I looked him
right in the eye. "I am not a druggie."
"Good. Then there's no reason for you to be in a place like this."
I tried to smile. "I’m sure you’re right. I did take a chance. I don’t plan to come back down here." I knew that I probably should listen to him. A DEA officer would know about the real danger on the streets. I didn’t envy him.
"Glad to hear it. Hope I don't see you again."
I tugged lightly on Thor’s leash to give him the sign it was time to leave. The DEA man walked away and got in his own car, and then drove off.
I had to smile. Ricky Thomas had sure high-tailed it when he saw the officer drive up. If just one agent put that much fear into him, then maybe drugs could be eradicated after all.
As I drove away, I saw that the streets were empty except for one man who stood in the doorway of the pawn shop. I guessed that he must be the shop owner. I wondered how these shops did enough legal business to stay afloat.
It began to dawn on me that cheap hot dogs and pawned jewelry weren't all they were selling.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, as I started measuring out the Arabica and the Columbian at Roasted Love, I saw Ronald Larch walk in. Jacob and I exchanged glances. Apparently, Larch had cooled off and was back as a customer. As the coffee house filled with the usual morning crowd, Lily walked past me.
"Hey, Laila – did you notice that Larch has a friend with him this morning?" she asked, handing me her stack of orders.
I looked again at the campaign manager, who now sat in his favorite spot near the window. And this time I noticed the woman who was sitting with him.
The slender frame and long blonde hair were unmistakable. She was the same mysterious woman I'd spotted at John's funeral.
She turned towards the counter and gave me the opportunity to get a good look. Her eyes were a shade of turquoise, but when she spotted me looking at her our eyes locked.
I saw her lean across the table to speak to Larch. Whatever she told him, his response was to shrug his shoulders. Then his mouth curved into a smile as he looked at her with what seemed to be genuine affection.