I craned my neck, looking around. Gabe was right: no graffiti, no snarling dogs, no broken bottles or used needles lying around.
I sat for a moment in the front of the truck. My gaze landed on the red notebook in the console. I quickly picked it up and flipped through the lined pages. There was Julia’s name and address. Beneath it, a few patients from my office—patients I’d specifically not given oxy to. And a couple of dozen addresses from Snoqualmie to Cle Elum, Seattle to Whidbey Island.
I returned the notebook and shoved a baseball cap on my head. I could feel eyes on my back as I hurried after Ben and Gabe, but when I turned to look, there was no one there. The windows in the other trailers were dark.
The trailer door was opened by a dried-out wisp of a woman with sad, tired eyes, graying hair, and an angular face.
“Ah, so you’re the doc.” She reached a hand out to shake mine.
I shot Ben a glare, furious he’d told her I was a doctor. “Uh, hi.”
“This is my sister, Emma. Emma, meet Pamela.”
“Come on in, then,” she said. “Meet Eugene.”
She shut the door behind us and slid three locks into place.
“We have a crazy neighbor,” she explained. “She’ll snort or inject anything she can get her hands on. I remember her from high school. Hard to believe she was a cheerleader. You just can’t look at somebody and tell, you know?”
She led us into a tiny living room, the couch almost reaching the walls on either side of the room. The air smelled clean, if a little stale. A man was sitting on the couch, a crocheted blue blanket tucked over his lap. He was probably in his early thirties with long, greasy hair and eyes sunken in the sockets. When he saw us, he struggled to stand, but Pamela pressed him down onto the couch.
“Come on, Mom,” he complained.
“No need to get up for us, Eugene,” Ben said. He turned to Gabe and me. “Eugene had his left hip replaced last year. The surgery left him with nerve damage. He used to live in Tacoma, but he moved out here after he lost his job. Now he has to drive once a month back out to Tacoma to get his prescription.”
“Just had the dosage cut again,” Eugene said. He lifted one leg with both hands, wincing.
Pamela left the room and returned a minute later with one white pill and a plastic cup of water, like what you’d give a child. She handed both to Eugene. “I’ve had to lock them up. And the gun.”
The word hung heavy and black in the room. A flush of pity bloomed on my cheeks, but I was glad to have my gun in my ankle holster.
“Come on out here with me.” Pamela moved toward the compact kitchen. “I’ll get you a coffee.”
The three of us followed her and accepted mugs of steaming black coffee. She slipped Ben an envelope, and he dropped a baggie of pills into her desperate hands.
I looked away, my gaze briefly catching Gabe’s. He looked as gloomy as I felt. The story of prescription opioids wasn’t just one of addiction and overdose, but one of people like Eugene who were becoming increasingly desperate to stay pain-free. But the moral and legal implications were huge. I knew that.
“How much is Eugene taking?” I asked Pamela.
“Two hundred and forty milligrams a day.”
I tried not to look surprised, but she’d already seen my face.
“You have no right to judge, missy!” she snapped. “You don’t know what he’s been through.”
“I’m not—” I stopped because it didn’t matter. “Just get some naloxone. You can get it from any pharmacy.”
Pamela glared at me. Ben grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the door, Gabe hurrying after us. “We’d better be heading off. Talk to you later, Pamela!”
I stumbled down the steps after him.
“What?” I asked. “Why was she so mad?” My voice was shrill in self-defense.
“Sometimes you’re too helpful, Emma,” Ben snapped. “It makes you seem… I don’t know, bossy. A know-it-all.”
I got in the truck. “She doesn’t need to lock up the gun; he could overdose on oxy any day! Naloxone could save his life!”
“You don’t think she knows that?” Ben exclaimed. “She already gets all that suspicion from other people. Is he really in pain? Has he tried physical therapy? What about some ibuprofen? Does he ice it? She doesn’t need it from us too.”
“Well, I am a doctor,” I said.
“I know. That’s why these people need you. What they don’t need is your judgment.”
“Why did you tell her I’m a doctor?” I angrily snapped my seat belt into place as Gabe slid in next to me.
“Don’t worry. You’re not the only doctor I’ve worked with.”
My mouth dropped open, but before I could answer, something smashed against the hood.
“Hey, you!”
It was a woman. Wild red hair. Pointy chin. Face pinched and desperate. She smashed her fists against the hood again, eyes glittering.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ben shouted, rolling the window down.
“You have them!” The woman dug both hands into her hair and ripped. Hair came out of her skull, trailing from her hands like seaweed.
Ben, Gabe, and I gaped at her in disbelief.
“I guess that’s the neighbor,” Gabe murmured.
“I know you!” She pointed a clawed hand at Ben. “I saw you with that other guy last time. I need ’em!” She took a knife from the waistband of her pants. It was huge, gleaming with menace in the pale sun.
“Knife!” Gabe shouted, scrambling to lock his door.
“Shit!” I exclaimed. “She’s coming around!” I smacked Ben on the arm. “Lock your door!”
Ben locked his door and pressed the button to roll up his window, but it was too slow. The crazy lady thrust her hand inside. I screamed as she slashed wildly back and forth, looking for meat to cleave. She shrieked as the window closed on her arm. Ben punched her hand. Once. Twice.
The knife clattered to the floor mat, and she yanked her arm out, howling in rage and pain.
Ben floored the truck in reverse down the dirt road, gravel pinging against the undercarriage. He did a quick one-eighty, and we accelerated away.
“That,” Gabe said, his voice shaking, “is exactly why I got out of this business.”
I was breathing heavily. A solitary drop of blood rolled down Ben’s forehead to his chin.
“You’re bleeding!” I exclaimed.
Ben wiped at his head. “I’m fine. The knife nicked me.”
“What the hell are we doing?” Gabe moaned, bending forward. He rubbed his forehead hard with his fingertips. “We can’t do this, it’s too dangerous!”
“What did she mean?” I ignored him and turned to Ben. A drop of blood fell off his chin, plopping onto his T-shirt and expanding, crimson against white. “Who were you here with before?”
Ben gave me a look: You silly little girl.
“Don’t forget why you’re doing this,” he finally said.
CHAPTER 31
NATE WAITED AS KIA ordered a low-fat turkey sandwich from the deli at Safeway. No mayo. No cheese. Whole wheat. He looked at the Christmas-themed M&M’s he held in one hand, the turkey, cranberry, stuffing, and bacon sandwich in the other. Grease was already leaking through the paper.
“Yes, you should eat healthier, Nate.” Kia answered his unspoken question without looking up from her phone.
“How’d you know I was thinking that?”
“I know you.”
Nate grinned, shifting the M&M’s to glance again at his phone. Still nothing from Emma. He felt bad leaving things the way they had last night. He should’ve stayed downstairs and talked to her more, but he couldn’t bear to have her tell him that getting a promotion wouldn’t help Josh. It was the only way he knew how to help.
He’d been gone before she got up this morning, and though he’d texted an apology, she hadn’t replied yet.
He moved away from the deli counter toward the flower department and dialed the clinic while s
tanding under a giant Santa balloon.
“Hey, Brittany,” he said to the receptionist. “Is Emma free? I’d like to talk to her.”
There was a long pause. “Emma called in sick this morning, Detective Sweeney. She’s home with Josh.”
Nate stared up at the Santa balloon. Emma was not at home; he’d spoken to his mother about Josh a half hour ago. Where the fuck was his wife? And who was she with?
His phone beeped an incoming call: Lieutenant Dyson. He thanked Brittany and switched over.
“We just had a call from a pharmacist over in Lynnwood,” Dyson said. “She had a prescription come in for OxyContin signed by Dr. Chad Wallington from Allegiance Health Clinic.”
“Okay?”
“She said Dr. Wallington’s on his honeymoon right now. His new wife is her sister, so she knows for a fact. She doesn’t think he wrote that script. I already spoke to Special Agents Hamilton and Greene. They’ve asked you to report back what you find.”
“Sure. Text me her details,” Nate replied.
“Will do. Hey, Nate?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s getting close to the end of the year.”
Nate’s throat tightened. “Yep.”
“Maybe it’s time to let someone else take over Mr. Martinez’s case? Josh has his treatment soon. He’s gonna need his dad.”
“You taking my case away?” Nate asked stiffly.
Dyson sighed. “Course not. You still have till the end of the year. Just remember where your priorities should be.”
Nate hung up. He knew exactly where his priorities were.
The Santa balloon bobbed above him, his cheerful grin now a judgmental smirk. Nate punched the Santa in the face.
“Wow, what’s your problem with Santa?” Kia asked from behind him.
Nate whirled. “Well, he’s a bit of a prick, isn’t he?”
Kia eyed him. “Do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”
I think my wife’s cheating on me. My son might die. I need this promotion so I have the money to get him the treatment he needs and I’m running out of time. I’m weak. A coward. A failure.
But he couldn’t say any of it out loud. He could change a flat tire, save a newborn baby, stop the bad guy from hurting the good guy, but he couldn’t admit weakness in front of a colleague. If word got around, they might take his badge. His gun. And then who would he be?
He stuck a toothpick between his teeth and smiled. Everyone loved Nate for his smile, his cheerful disposition. The problem was, the feelings crammed in his chest were getting harder and harder to ignore.
“That was Dyson.” He told her about the call from the pharmacist. She whistled long and low.
“Do you think someone from Allegiance Health Clinic is fraudulently signing prescriptions of oxy?” Kia asked.
“That or someone got hold of Wallington’s prescription pad.”
Dyson’s text pinged on Nate’s phone just as Nate caught sight of a familiar face barreling toward him. One he hadn’t wanted to ever see again.
Robbie’s mother hadn’t aged well. Her eyes were as droopy as Nate’s basset hound’s. The lines on her face were so deep they looked like they’d been carved into her skin. The peculiar dull throb of old grief and guilt battered him.
“Nate! Nate Sweeney!”
Sweat prickled on his skin. He had to get out of there. Nate thrust his sandwich and M&M’s at Kia and yanked his phone out of his pocket.
“Gotta make this call.” He strode quickly outside.
The season had turned surly, the air pricked with a gray mist. The threat of more snow hung heavy in the air.
Nate hunched low in the driver’s seat, his hands clutching the steering wheel. His fingernails had dried, blood caked under the nail beds. He dialed the number Dyson had texted him.
“Hello, Lynnwood Pharmacy,” a cheery voice answered.
“Hello, may I speak to Maryanne Rosenstein?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Detective Nate Sweeney. You called the Skamania Police Department about a prescription signed by Dr. Chad Wallington.”
“Yes! Dr. Wallington’s my brother-in-law. He married my sister two weeks ago, and they’re on their honeymoon in Barbados. I don’t think he signed this prescription.”
“Can doctors postdate prescriptions?”
“Some, yes. But not usually for opiates like OxyContin, which are highly controlled and regulated. A doctor wouldn’t postdate it past a week.”
“Did you call Dr. Wallington?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know my brother-in-law very well yet. I thought it best to call you first.”
Nate assured her she’d done the right thing and then requested she email a copy of the prescription and the patient’s details to him before hanging up.
“What the hell, Nate?” Kia asked as she got in the car. She tossed his sandwich and M&M’s on his lap, looking annoyed as hell.
He couldn’t tell her this either. Kia was dating Julia. Julia was his prime suspect. A person who’d stolen OxyContin samples was more than capable of stealing prescription pads.
“Sorry,” he muttered, unwrapping his sandwich.
She opened her mouth to issue a reply, but he was saved by the ringing of his phone. It was Lisa Hamilton.
“We found Mr. Martinez’s car. It’s parked outside the Sonora Motel near Sea-Tac Airport. Can you meet us there in an hour?”
“We’re on our way,” Nate said.
* * *
NATE PULLED up behind an old Ford Thunderbird at the edge of the motel’s parking lot. The lot was scuzzy and weed-choked, the motel seedy and dilapidated. The car had been sectioned off with yellow tape. Lisa Hamilton and Phil Greene stood next to it, a tow truck parked nearby.
He checked his phone again before he got out of the cruiser; still no reply from Emma.
“Figured you’d need it towed to your department to process,” Hamilton said as she shook Nate’s and Kia’s hands. She was dressed in a severe black pantsuit, her hair slicked back into a bun, her mouth in a line.
“Keys were in the ignition.” Greene tossed Nate the keys.
Probably doesn’t want to get his fancy Italian suit dirty, Nate thought.
Nate and Kia both slipped on latex gloves, and Nate opened the driver’s door. A half-drunk bottle of Coke sat on the floor of the passenger’s side, a plastic Taco Bell bag in the console. A Seahawks sweatshirt in the back.
“Video recording from the gas station across the street shows the car arriving here a few hours after we think Mr. Martinez was killed,” Hamilton said.
“Was Martinez driving?” Nate asked.
“Can’t tell from the video. It’s too far away. But the car’s GPS shows that it left the house shortly before one a.m. and drove about forty-five minutes, straight here.”
“The killer drove his car here,” Nate said.
The four of them crowded around as Nate popped the trunk. They breathed a sigh of disappointment. It was empty.
“Wait.” Greene leaned in and pried at the edge of the trunk’s floor. He lifted it to expose the spare-tire well. But instead of a tire, a black briefcase rested inside.
Nate pulled the briefcase out, turning it over in his hands. Soft Italian leather, gold metal feet, twin combination locks. It looked familiar. It took Nate a moment to realize why.
It looked exactly like the one in his closet at home.
Nate felt the ground beneath his feet tilt. Emma had a briefcase matching a murdered drug dealer’s. She’d borrowed it from the clinic. Someone at the clinic was signing fraudulent prescriptions for oxy.
Everything led back to the clinic.
He had to talk to Emma. Did all the doctors share that one briefcase? Who’d used it before her? Was it Julia?
He opened his mouth to tell the others, then snapped it shut. If he told them, they’d scream conflict of interest. His wife worked at that clinic. He’d be yanked off this case so fast he wouldn’t even have time to
get his balls out of his throat. And he could kiss that promotion good-bye.
“Anybody have any idea what the combination might be?” Hamilton asked.
“What were those numbers you found at Santiago Martinez’s house?” Kia turned to Nate. “Maybe it’s a combination.”
Nate tried the numbers: 323… 454
Nothing happened.
“Okay, let’s take it back to the station,” Kia said. “Let the nerds try to crack it.”
Kia’s phone rang, and she stepped away to answer it.
“Anything new to report?” Hamilton asked.
“No sign of Ben yet.” Nate told Hamilton and Greene about Violeta’s mom refusing to allow them in. Hamilton agreed to pay for an agent to sit on the house.
“We’ll get someone out there this week,” Greene said.
He trained his dark, unsmiling eyes on Nate for a moment too long. Nate felt his face warming under the scrutiny. He scratched the nape of his neck, wondering if Greene could tell he was holding something back.
Kia hung up the phone, her face white.
“Excuse us, we need to go. It’s an emergency,” she said to Hamilton and Greene.
Kia hustled to the cruiser and Nate followed, grateful for the interruption. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“That was Julia. I think she’s overdosing. I’ve called an ambulance. She said she took birdhouse pills.”
“What are birdhouse pills?”
“I don’t know. But Nate, she said, ‘Tell Emma.’ ”
* * *
TELL EMMA.
Julia’s words echoed in Nate’s mind as he unlocked the front door to his house. He was furious that a known drug addict was pulling Emma into her drama. What would it mean for Emma’s career, for his, if he proved Julia was behind this opioid ring?
Nate set the groceries on the floor, and Charlie woofed and shuffled to him, his whole body wiggling with doggy glee. Nate patted Charlie’s head and went into the living room, where Moira was watching a soap opera. The fireplace was lit, cheerful crackles filling the space. Four Christmas stockings were hung from the mantel, including one for the dog. The Christmas tree twinkled in its warm glow.
He bent and kissed his mother on the forehead.
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