by Bush, Nancy
“How did you know what killed her?” Wes asked again.
“The K, man. The ketamine. You found it in her system, right?”
“Yes, but it hasn’t been on the news,” September said.
He looked confused for a moment. “Well, shit. Okay. Carrie wanted some, right? Dan wanted me to get it for her, but that was when they were together and they were going to just take some. Recreational drugs, man. You know how it goes. But I got caught by that shit Amato, and he fired my ass.”
“So, how’d she get the ketamine in her system?” Wes asked.
“I don’t know, man.”
“Did your brother get it for her?” September asked.
“Ahh . . .” He sighed dolefully. “You think either Dan or I killed her? That’s wrong, man. I’m sorry she’s gone. I really am. I saw it on the news and just freaked. But she was too unstable, too into Dan, and he couldn’t take it. But nobody killed her. She did it to herself, man.”
“Where did she get the ketamine?” Wes pressed.
“Wasn’t me. I didn’t get it for her,” he said with certainty, wagging his head back and forth. “Okay, I tried. I admit it, but I couldn’t do it. I’m tellin’ you, talk to Dr. Amato at the Stafford Animal Clinic. He’ll tell ya.”
“It was your brother who got it for her,” September said.
Bill suddenly looked like he was about to cry. “No, man . . .” he said, but there wasn’t much conviction in his voice.
“Where is your brother now?” September asked.
“I don’t know. California . . . south . . . Tustin area, y’know?”
“I know Tustin. About an hour south of LA,” Wes said.
“I guess. He just had to leave, y’know. She wasn’t supposed to kill herself.”
“Can you get us in touch with Dan? You got a phone number?” Wes pressed.
“Nah, he got rid of his phone. I don’t know how to get ahold of him right now. I’ve called his friends, but he’s like vanished. He does that sometimes. He probably doesn’t even know about Carrie. He did like her a lot.”
“Where did Dan get the ketamine?” September asked.
“I didn’t say he got it for her.”
“He got it for her,” she said firmly. “He didn’t mean for her to die from it, but he got it for her.”
Bill ran his hands through his hair. “Man, this sucks,” he said. “It was supposed to be fun.”
“We’re going to need to talk to Dan,” Wes said.
“I don’t know how. He’s like in the wind, man.”
“Where would Dan get the stuff?” September tried again. She was pretty sure they’d about wrung Bill dry, but it was worth a try.
“Not from me . . .” He trailed off, frowning.
“It would really help you if we had some other place to look, y’know?” September pushed.
“There’s this guy Dan talked about. . . .” He looked over his shoulder, as if afraid to be overheard.
“What guy?” Wes asked quietly.
September knew Wes’s brother had died from an overdose and that he was particularly invested in getting drug dealers off the street, so she let him take over the questioning.
“I don’t know. He’s myth, y’know?”
“Myth,” Wes repeated.
“He’s like a procurer, y’see? But his skin’s all screwed-up like an alien, or something. Dan told me about him, but I don’t know. It’s kinda far-fetched.” He emitted a short laugh.
“He has some kind of skin disease?” September asked. She was picturing this mythical drug dealer with a distorted face.
“No, he’s just blue, man. Like I said—an alien. That’s what Dan told me, anyway, but then Dan’s full of shit most of the time.”
“If Dan should contact you, you need to get in touch with us right away,” Wes told him, holding his gaze.
“He’s my brother, man.”
“Dr. Amato said you tried to steal drugs,” Wes reminded him. “We could be looking at you for years to come.”
“Aww, man . . .”
They tried to get more information out of Bill, but he was both tapped out and worried sick that the law was after him. They left him on the balcony, pondering his options.
In the SUV Wes was quiet for a while, then said grimly, “I wanna get this ‘procurer.’”
“I know.”
By the time they were heading back toward the station it was almost past lunchtime. Both hungry, they took a trip through McDonald’s.
“Kayleen took the doctor’s orders to heart,” Wes muttered around a bite of Quarter Pounder with cheese. “I’ve been eating soup and rice for way too long.”
“You’re not doing anything bad to yourself, are you?” September asked with a smile.
“Don’t care if I am.”
She looked at his flat stomach as they sat in the car. The bullet he’d taken in the abdomen had missed his stomach, but had played havoc with his intestines, from what she’d heard. “Glad you’re okay.”
“Back at ’cha,” he said.
As they headed back to the station September said, “What about Carrie’s psychiatrist? Dr. Rolfe?”
“Hasn’t called me back yet,” Wes said. “Nobody wants to talk to us about nothing.”
“You got that right.”
“I’m gonna call him again,” Wes said determinedly. “This thing is looking like a suicide more and more, and I want the doctor to tell me what went on with Carrie Lynne. Jesus, they’re sticky about giving out information, even when the patient’s dead.”
September said, “If we find this ‘alien’ dealer, we might be able to charge him with something.”
“You think any of that’s true?”
“Some of it.” September shrugged.
They entered the station through the main entrance and encountered Guy Urlacher, back from sick leave. He immediately asked to see their identification and Wes just gave him a “don’t fuck with me” look and headed for the door.
“It’s policy,” Guy said, a wheedle in his voice.
“You’re making me wish for more Gayle,” Wes said.
September broke down and showed him her ID and he reached under the counter and hit the release button. “You look kind of peaked,” she told him as the door unlocked and Wes bolted through.
“Damn norovirus.” Hearing himself, Guy looked shocked.
“Norovirus?” September asked.
“It’s going around and it’s . . . bad.”
It was the most conversation September had ever had with Guy. Maybe it was the start of a new dawn, she mused, as she followed after Wes into the squad room.
She set her cell phone on her desk and it rang before she could go hang up her coat and messenger bag. Glancing down at it, she thought the number seemed familiar so she picked it up and clicked on. “Detective Rafferty.”
“This is Rhoda Bernstein,” a sharp, female voice greeted her. “You left a message that you wanted to talk to me about Christopher Ballonni.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bernstein. Thank you for returning my call. I’ve taken over the investigation, and some new evidence has come to light in the Ballonni case.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s been a second kidnap victim who was tied to a pole and left.”
“Oh, yes. I saw that on the news, Detective,” she stated flatly. “All this time since Christopher Ballonni died and now you’re investigating. I guess nothing happens with you people until somebody else gets tied up.”
“Yes, well . . .”
“I know he was a victim, but he wasn’t the good guy everyone said he was. I suppose I should just be glad that you’re finally doing something about it. That other detective that came and saw me . . .”
“Detective Chubb.”
“Yes, him. Well, he didn’t take me seriously, either.”
September saw she was going to have to work around the enormous chip on the woman’s shoulder. “Could you just go over it again with me? What
happened between Mr. Ballonni and your daughter?”
“Nothing happened, because I was there,” she snapped. “Missy was on the sidewalk when he pulled up to our mailbox. She knows better than to talk to strangers. But that day, she wasn’t minding me, and she ran right over to his window. She knew I would have a fit. And what did he do? He gave her a stick of gum! I came flying out of the house, I’ll tell you. He told me I was overreacting. It was just wrong. You don’t offer candy or gum to children. What is that teaching them, I ask you? I took that gum out of Missy’s hands and threw it into the trash before she could open it. I probably should have saved it as evidence, or something. Anyway, all of a sudden, I’m the bad guy! Missy was crying and screaming at me. Totally out of control. I had to put her to bed right then, and it was only three o’clock in the afternoon!”
“And you placed a formal complaint against Mr. Ballonni that day?”
“You bet I did.”
“Do you remember how long it was before Mr. Ballonni’s death that he offered Missy the gum?” September asked.
“Three weeks to the day,” she said with conviction.
“Had there been any other incidents where you felt Mr. Ballonni had been inappropriate with Missy?”
“He was always too friendly. I said so to LeeAnn Walters and Marnie Dramur over and over again, but they wouldn’t do anything.” She sniffed in derision.
The names were familiar. September glanced over at the row of files and wished she had the Ballonni file at hand. As it was, she had to dig through her memory. “Mrs. Walters and Mrs. Dramur live along your same mail route?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you ever witness Mr. Ballonni being inappropriate with anyone besides Missy?” September asked, dropping her coat and messenger bag on her desk and heading to the bank of files.
“You don’t believe me, either, do you, Detective?” she demanded.
“I’m just gathering information.”
“You sound just like the other detective.” September could hear the disdain in her voice. “All careful and suspicious. I know what you’re all thinking. That I’m an overprotective helicopter parent. I know. I’ve heard the term. Hovering over their kids too much. Well, I say kids don’t get enough discipline these days. I don’t mean being too harsh, but just making sure they do what they’re told. How are they going to learn respect if we don’t teach them, huh?”
September said, “Mrs. Bernstein, how old is Missy now?”
“She just turned seven. Why?”
“I was wondering if I could talk to her and—”
“Not on your life! I can’t believe you people.”
Holding on to her cool, September asked, “Do you know if she ever had any further contact with Mr. Ballonni?”
“She did not. After the gum incident, I watched for him to drive by. Whenever I saw him drop off the mail, I made sure Missy was inside the house. I can’t say I was brokenhearted to learn someone killed him. Assisted suicide?” She made a sound of derision. “I always knew it was murder. It didn’t take the incident with this new guy to tell me that. If you ask me, they’re both pedophiles. Mark my words.”
There was silence after that. September couldn’t think of anything more to say, so she just thanked the woman and hung up. Wes was on the phone when she looked over at him, but George was sitting back in his chair, his gaze on her, a slight smile on his face.
“What?” September asked.
“Your voice got colder and colder. Who was that?”
“One of the mothers on Christopher Ballonni’s mail route believes he was a pedophile. He tried to give her daughter, who’s now seven, a stick of gum.”
“What do you think?”
“She’s hard to listen to, but . . . I don’t know, maybe. I agree with her on one thing—somebody killed him. If someone believed he’d abused their child, I can’t think of a better motive.”
“Huh.”
“She gave me the names of two other women in the file, so I guess I’ll check with them. Chubb canvassed the neighborhood, interviewed most of them already, but maybe I’ll learn something new.”
“What does that say about your stepbrother?” George asked, his brows lifting.
“Nothing good,” September admitted. What did that say about Stefan? “I’ve never liked him, but before I start down that road I want to be sure. And George?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s my ex-stepbrother. I would really appreciate it if somebody around here could remember that.”
Wes hung up at that moment and swung around. “Just got off with Dr. Flavel Rolfe. Too early to tell, but all signs point to Carrie committing suicide.”
“Kinda what we thought. What did he say?” September asked.
“It’s what he tried not to say. Didn’t want to reveal anything about her that could help us until I went on about us believing her ex-boyfriend had killed her on purpose.”
“You mean you lied,” September said.
“Oh, yeah. Laid it on thick. Couldn’t tell me anything until he thought we were railroading Dan Quade. Then, he started defending the man. He said Carrie went from crying her eyes out about Dan dumping her, to wanting to get back at him. What’s the best way? The old ‘you’ll be sorry when I’m gone’ stuff. Sounded like he felt Carrie played that card.”
“Wouldn’t she leave a suicide note?” September questioned him.
“Don’t know.” Wes shook his head. “I’ll talk to D’Annibal. See what he wants to do.”
“Jesus Christ!” George suddenly exploded.
Both September and Wes looked over at him. He was sopping up coffee he’d knocked over on his desk, but his eyes were on the computer. “That goddamn Pauline Kirby’s ahead of you guys. I got headlines here. She’s already saying exactly what you just decided, that Carter’s death was a suicide. Bet it’s on the five o’clock news.”
“How?” Wes asked in disbelief. “I just talked to Rolfe.”
“Debra Carter,” September said. “She told us newspeople wanted interviews. She probably took the next call and told them what she thought.”
“Did Kirby mention the ketamine?” Wes asked, looking at George.
“Shit, yeah.” George finished sopping up his coffee.
Wes made a grumbling noise and then stalked across the room with purpose, turning toward the break room.
“Are you leaving?” September called after him.
“Yep. I’m going to interview your stepbrother again, one way or another. Let’s get some traction going before Pauline Kirby does our job for us on that case, too.”
September watched him leave, then slid a look over to George, who raised his hands to ward off what was coming. “He said stepbrother. I didn’t,” he reminded her.
Chapter Eleven
Fun Night started at six P.M. and ran until nine. The school parking lot was jammed as Lucky eased to a stop a little after six. She’d never gone to school herself, having been home-schooled, if you could call it that, by her adoptive father, bastard that he was. After his death, she’d wound up in foster care for a very short time, as she didn’t trust either of the families who had taken her in, and she ran away from both of those homes as quickly as she could, disappearing into a world of street kids who lived a vagabond existence in and around Oregon coastal towns.
She recognized there were huge gaps in her education but didn’t care. She wasn’t like other people. Tonight all she wanted was to find the source of the scent she’d picked up, and then she’d get the hell out. Stefan Harmak was at home; she’d cruised by his house first in her black Lycra jogging suit and had been lucky enough to catch him walking by the front window of the house. It just didn’t look like he was leaving. If he showed up, hopefully she would catch his aroma before he saw her. And she also hoped Dave DeForest wouldn’t become too much of a problem, either, but if he did, she would just disappear into the night and he would probably assume her family hadn’t moved into the area after all. There wa
s no way he would connect her with what happened to Stefan earlier . . . or what she had planned for him later tonight.
She was now wearing the same outfit she’d worn when she’d gone to the school this morning. In between her trips to the school she’d changed in a restroom at the train station to her baseball cap, a heavy sweatshirt, and baggy pants to use as a disguise while she bought a disposable cell phone at a Portland convenience store. She’d also teamed that outfit with a pregnancy pad she’d purchased a while back, which she hoped, under the sweatshirt, gave the impression that she was overweight rather than with child. The disguise worked well enough because the guy behind the counter barely looked at her. She’d ditched that outfit and was back to looking like professional Alicia Trent.
Just before she climbed out of the Nissan, she threw another glance at the glove box where she’d stowed not only the .38 but also the stun gun, a pair of binoculars, and another small thermos of sweet dreams, her name for the roofie-laced concoction she’d learned to make. She hoped she would be able to use her preferred methodology on the man she was after, but there were always contingencies.
The cool wind whipped at her hair, which was pulled into a sleek bun. She didn’t want to go inside the school just yet. She’d kind of hoped she could pick up her quarry when he was either going in or coming out, but so far that hadn’t happened. She’d waited until the bulk of the people had arrived in order to stay in her car and just watch without anyone wondering why she didn’t get out. If enough people went by and looked in at her, however, she would have to enter the school, just to keep from drawing too much attention to herself.
Exhaling a long breath, she decided to wait a few minutes more.
Come on, bastard. Show yourself.
“If you aren’t going to call the police again, I will,” Verna stated flatly, turning away from Stefan and toward the house phone.