“Jonathan.”
“Right. He’d written her a scrip for an antidepressant, sleeping pills, and something that was supposed to be for weight loss. Rosemary didn’t need to lose weight. And I never suspected her to be depressed.” Garland ate a few bites of omelet. “I confronted John about it, and he got defensive. Spouted the rules about patient confidentiality and all that garbage. That’s when I realized that John was drinking much more than usual. And Leo and Michael weren’t exactly themselves, either.”
“When was this?” I wanted to keep the time frame straight.
“Right before Rosemary died. Of an overdose, dammit! Rosemary had never taken anything more than an Excedrin in all her life, and all of a sudden she’s dead from a drug overdose? I knew she had to have gotten the drugs from John or one of our other doctor friends.” Garland’s face went sour. “Friends. You think you know somebody …”
“You think they were supplying her with drugs and she became addicted?”
“I know she was using something. I’d get home from work to find Rosemary relaxed, like zoned out. Never out of control, but spacey. I begged her to talk to me, to tell me what was going on. She never did. And she’d always be bright and happy the next day, kiss me, act like her old self. But I knew she had to be on something. And the only place she could have gotten the pills was from one of the doctors. Our good friends.”
“And then she died,” I said.
“She left Argo’s earlier than usual, said she had a splitting headache. When I got home, she was slumped over in the hot tub, not breathing. EMS got there in minutes, but they couldn’t revive her.” Garland’s eyes grew wet. “I didn’t want the kids to know, so I told everyone it was a heart attack.”
Understandable. “Is that when you bugged the Green Table?”
“Yes. I had to know why Rosemary died. I knew the doctors were involved, even though they acted like they were still my best friends in the world. Came to the funeral, sent flowers, called every day. Kept coming to the restaurant to eat on Fridays, like usual. So I set up the microphone and started recording everything I could when they were at the table. I had to learn the truth.”
I nodded. “Morgan, of course, found the microphone. I have all the transcripts from the computer—the conversations you recorded. Argo’s is now clean, by the way. Morgan disassembled and destroyed the electronics.”
“Before they raided the place?” he asked.
“Fortunately, yes.”
Garland made the sign of a cross before continuing. “Listening to the doctors, I learned that they were part of a prescription drug ring. They owed somebody, the ringleader, a bunch of money. And I figured that Rosemary was involved in the whole mess.”
“If it’s any consolation, drugs make people do things they would otherwise not do. Your wife had a drug problem, I’d guess.” I gave Cracker a crumble of omelet remains. “Anyway, you’ve explained the hidden microphone. But you didn’t tell me why the DEA wanted everyone to think you were dead.”
Realizing no more gourmet crumbs were forthcoming, Cracker found Garland and laid his wide head across the man’s knee. Garland rubbed Cracker’s neck. “I went ballistic. I overheard the current phone number for the network—one of the docs read it from a piece of notepaper while the other dialed. I called later that day, set up a meeting, pretended to be a buyer. My plan was to go after them and deal with the doctors later.”
“What happened?”
“I met the runner at a deli. I had him by the throat, trying to get some information out of him, when I realized he was just a kid. Maybe eighteen, nineteen years old. I let go and he ran off. That’s when Brad and another agent appeared. They’d been tracking the drug ring and keeping tabs on me, too. Of course, they wanted to know how I knew about the network and why I’d been arguing with the kid.”
My beer bottle was empty. It might be a long evening. I got another from the fridge and refilled Garland’s wineglass. “What did you tell them?”
“That I didn’t think my wife’s death was an accident.” Cracker puffed out a sigh of contentment and shut his eyes. Garland kept stroking the dog’s fur. “And that I was trying to find out what had been going on in front of my own nose.”
“And they decided to fake your death because …”
It was to keep him safe, Garland said. Before the kid ran off, when Garland had him by the throat, Garland was screaming at him. Told the kid who he was and that his wife, Rosemary, was dead because of the network. Brad figured the information would filter back to the ringleader and that Garland might end up dead, too. So he came up with the fixing-a-light-on-the-ladder plan to speed up the process. They hid Garland away and put him on twenty-four-hour protection for the duration of the investigation.
“I hated to put my daughter and son through that, but Brad swore that it was the only way to ensure my safety. And their safety. He promised me that the DEA was close to busting the case wide open, after which everything could go back to normal.” Garland rubbed his eyes. “As though living life without Rosemary would be normal.”
So then, basically, Garland had been in protective custody. Probably holed up in an out-of-town hotel. He must have ditched the program. I asked why.
“They put me in a dingy hotel near Camp Lejeune. I was going stir-crazy. Your dog could protect me better than those numnuts they had watching me. Besides, I wanted to keep an eye on my son. I had to make sure he was okay.”
“It was you following him, then!” I felt a smile come on, despite the bittersweet circumstances. “The DEA was watching Morgan, but you were, too. He said he kept getting the sense that he was being followed. And he kept imagining that he saw you at different places.”
“Guess I don’t make a believable bum.” Garland returned my smile. “They froze my accounts. I tried to use a credit card and the clerk said it had been reported stolen. My house was being watched. I’ve been sleeping and showering at the homeless shelter.”
I raised my beer bottle. He raised his wineglass. “Welcome to the Block,” I said. “Make yourself at home, Garland. Really, though, I’m not so sure that teaching my father how to cook is a good idea. He has a knack for getting in trouble. Something in his DNA, I think. He can’t help himself.”
Garland replied that Spud made a fine sous chef and said I shouldn’t worry so much. And it was his turn to ask questions. We talked long into the night, even after the Block downstairs went quiet and I heard the staff pulling down the big industrial garage doors to lock up. I told Garland what I knew, leaving out the unnecessary parts. Such as the part about Jonathan being in love with his wife. And the part about his son eavesdropping on folks just for kicks.
When you’re flying at the right altitude and staring at the big picture, certain facts cease to serve a purpose, other than to cause hurt and confusion. Garland was a good man. He didn’t need all the details.
THIRTY-FOUR
The next morning, Fran arrived bearing edible gifts: homemade banana-nut bread, mini sausage biscuits, and fruit salad. We gathered around the feast for brunch. Spud and Garland were talking about an upcoming coastal fare cook-off, which raised one of my mental red flags, but I didn’t have too much time to think about it. The phone rang and, making herself at home, Fran answered.
“It’s for you, sweetie! Sounds like the cute drug man, Brad.”
I took the handset. “Hello?”
“The cute drug man?” he said.
“It is descriptive.”
“You do think I’m cute, then.”
“I think bulldogs and donkeys are cute, too.”
“Mind if I come over?” he said.
“Yes.” I certainly wasn’t going to let him come sniffing around my house again. Garland was not the type of man to hide in a closet. “I’m about to take Cracker for a walk.”
“I need to be walked, too,” he said. “I’ll be there in a few.”
Cracker isn’t fond of being hooked to a leash, but he puts up with it as long as he ca
n be in the lead. I let him forge ahead, nose to the ground, energized by whatever scents he picked up from the paved Riverwalk.
“Theresa had a drug in her system when she got shot through the window,” Brad told me. “A long-sounding name I can’t pronounce, but it’s one of those psychoactive drugs used for interrogation. People call them truth serums. There’s not an accepted medical use, except some psychiatrists may use such drugs in conjunction with hypnosis, with the patient’s consent.”
“You think Jonathan injected her to make her talk about Denny?”
“The woman seemed perfectly sober when she showed up looking for the money.” Brad frowned. “This is a drug that’s relatively fast-acting, I’m told. So, yeah, I think the doctor injected her. And I have a hunch that he got something pertinent out of her before the shooting.”
“Jonathan is still MIA?”
“Nobody has seen or heard from him since we decided to let him have a go at Theresa in his office. He’s not using his credit cards or cell phone. Driving a vintage Chevy Corvette. Fully restored. A ‘69, I think. Anyway, there’s no GPS tracking on that baby.”
We stopped to let Cracker sniff the base of a tree. He seemed to enjoy it. “If Jonathan did get anything out of Theresa, why didn’t he share it with us? Why did he take off?” I pulled on Cracker’s leash. If I didn’t, he’d hang out at the tree all day. “Unless he’s out there, toting a shotgun, playing vigilante.”
“He was sober and sincere when he convinced us to let him have a private talk with Theresa,” Brad said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
I agreed. “But not in hindsight, I guess. We shouldn’t have left him alone with her, especially since he blames himself for the doctors’ predicament with Denny.”
“We’ve got to find Ray Donnell Castello and do it soon.”
We stopped at The George, a popular dock-and-dine restaurant on the Riverwalk. I tied Cracker to a shaded bench, and we found an outside table where we could keep an eye on the dog. Brad pulled stapled papers out of his hip pocket. “This is a list of everything found on Theresa’s person and in her purse. The other pages are copies of wallet contents.”
Still full from my late breakfast, I didn’t want more food. Brad ordered a soft-shell crab po-boy. We both opted for sweet iced tea. “You have an address on her yet?”
He shook his head. “Turns out that she gave us a bogus last name. The old Chrysler van she drove isn’t registered. Stolen tag.”
I went over the list of Theresa’s belongings: makeup, cigarettes, loose change, prepaid cell phone, hairbrush, tampons, key chain with a car key and two unidentified house keys. Nothing unusual, except for an aspirin bottle that contained a variety of yet-to-be-identified pills. Brad took a bowl of water to Cracker. I turned my attention to the photocopied stuff. No driver’s license or other ID. No credit cards, insurance cards, or even preferred customer discount cards for the grocery or drugstore. Sixteen dollars and change in cash. And several receipts. Brad returned to find me studying the receipts.
I pointed to one. “You notice anything odd about this one?”
“No. Pay-at-the-pump, date and time stamped. It’s a mom-and-pop convenience store. They don’t have any exterior security video. And the employee working at the time didn’t recognize Theresa’s photo. Which means that it’s a useless gas receipt.”
“She bought premium,” I said. “Why would she put premium gasoline in an old Chrysler van?”
“She wouldn’t,” Brad said. “Which means that either she has another car or she was putting gas in Denny’s car. Good catch.”
“Maybe he’s trying to enjoy all the finer things in life that he couldn’t get in prison. A sports car. And fresh seafood.” I pointed to a generic cash register receipt with a printed message at the bottom: “We like to get fresh!” “There’s not a business name on here, but I recognize this receipt. I’ve been there. It’s from Akel’s Seafood Market, near Carolina Beach.”
“So she eats seafood.”
Brad’s sandwich arrived and he dug in.
“They eat seafood,” I said. “This receipt is for three items, and at twenty-four dollars, I’m guessing it was food for more than one person.”
“And?” Brad said.
“The area around Carolina Beach is low-key, right? Lots of cottages and beach rentals. Relatively quiet. It’s a perfect place for Denny to hide.” I snagged one of his French fries. “Your people have been showing his photo at extended-stay hotels and businesses in Wilmington. What if he’s living somewhere else?”
Brad ate, drank, wiped. “We don’t have the manpower to encompass a larger radius.”
I found a second Akel’s receipt. Both were dated within the past week. “Why would she drive all the way to this market, unless it’s near Denny’s nest? Wilmington has plenty of fresh seafood everywhere. Why not buy it around here, closer to where the network has been doing business?” I answered my own question. “Because she wanted to wait until she got closer to his house, so the fish wouldn’t spoil in a hot car.”
“I guess we’re taking a trip to Akel’s, then,” Brad said.
He finished his lunch, and we walked Cracker back to the Block. A big A-frame menu board had been set up at the hostess stand to peddle a lunch special: “Grilled salmon on a couscous salad with a zesty orange glaze and sautéed asparagus.”
“Crap,” I griped, scanning the restaurant to see a bigger than usual lunch crowd. Garland was at it again.
Chef’s hat towering over his head, Spud hustled over to us and waved his walking cane at the people. “We’ve got a lot of the same regulars who ate the booey-base last night, for crying out loud. This cooking thing is fun!”
Brad’s gaze wandered toward the kitchen.
“Spud is taking a cooking course,” I said, and led Brad outside. “Let’s get on over to the seafood market, shall we?” I threw Spud a warning glance over my shoulder on our way out. I didn’t want my customers getting too used to Garland’s creations.
THIRTY-FIVE
Rubbing the scab behind his ear, Jonathan drove steadily toward the beach, doing the speed limit. The cut from flying glass probably should have been stitched up, but as long as it didn’t get infected, he’d be fine.
Theresa didn’t know the actual house address where Denny lived, but she had described the general area and given Jonathan a detailed description of the beach cottage, including the fully fenced backyard and the single dead palmetto tree in the front yard. It was a third-row rental in need of repairs, she’d said, but it was quaint. Perfect for another month, until they left North Carolina and headed south.
The drug Jonathan injected had performed beautifully. He’d pilfered helpful details about Denny, such as the fact that the ex-con loved fresh seafood, which Theresa prepared on a charcoal grill. He liked to take early morning swims in the ocean, just as the sun came up. He often hung out at the docks, talking to the fishermen, and would sometimes help unload and sort their day’s catch.
Jonathan learned that Denny had several prison contacts who would be joining him in the network once they moved to a new location. And Denny owned three or four handguns, Theresa had said, right before she was shot through the window. Jonathan wasn’t too worried about the guns. He planned to incapacitate Denny before the man had a chance to go for a gun. With an injection. He’d hold Denny at bay with his shotgun if he had to, while he waited for the drugs to take effect and the police to come. With Jonathan’s eyewitness testimony of Theresa’s murder and whatever the DEA had on Denny, the man would end up in prison. Hopefully for life this time.
Dressed in shorts and boat shoes, windows down on his vintage Corvette, Jonathan cruised the streets for half an hour, stopping periodically to snap digital photos with his cell phone. He paid special attention to the cottages on the third row back from the beach, looking for a fenced backyard and a dead palm. People injected with “truth serum” drugs sometimes confused fantasy with reality, so he didn’t place too much emphasi
s on the fenced yard. Perhaps Theresa’s dream house had a fenced backyard and Denny’s rental didn’t. The dead palmetto tree, on the other hand, had to be an accurate detail. He took photos of one in particular that looked promising, as the dead tree with dried-up brown palms was just in front of the front door, as Theresa had described. Unfortunately, though, he spotted dead palms in the front yards of several beach rentals, and he couldn’t go barging into every one of them.
Taking a break, Jonathan found an oceanfront snack bar and ate a hand-dipped ice-cream cone while he studied scattered clumps of people spread out on the beach. He watched a father help his two young daughters build a sand castle while their mom took pictures. A woman jogged by with a beautiful Dalmatian. An elderly couple napped beneath a flapping umbrella. Jonathan took more pictures using his cell phone, capturing the shoreline and the rows of beach houses beyond. Finishing the last bites of his crunchy waffle cone, Jonathan decided right then and there—standing on a patch of Atlantic near Carolina Beach—that it was time for a change. He used to believe that his work made a difference in his patients’ lives. Now he’d become weary of listening to people yak on and on about their problems. He’d begun to loathe going to the office. Everybody had problems. Hell, he had his own problems. More precisely, one main problem. As soon as he cleared up the mess with Denny, he would notify his partners of his departure from the Divine Image Group. Leo and Michael would understand. They’d probably be glad for him.
Jonathan climbed back in the ’vette and explored until he found boat docks that accommodated big fishing boats and shrimp boats. He parked in a dirt lot and saw exactly what Theresa had described. With the cell phone, he took more photos, figuring that he could always pass them along to Jersey Barnes if he failed to locate Denny today. As he unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, a sense of déjà vu pricked at the main nerve running along Jonathan’s spine, as though he’d already experienced what was about to happen. The marina was Denny’s hangout. It had to be.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril Page 24