Vigilante Dead

by DV Berkom

  “How did you know the purse was on the bed?”

  Ian froze. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

  “I didn’t know.” His voice was so soft I barely heard him.

  Cold dread gripped me. “Didn’t know what? About her purse being on the bed or something else?”

  Ian opened his eyes and blinked back tears.

  “I was too late. He was supposed to be there.” His voice cracking, Ian collapsed into a nearby chair.

  “He?”

  Ian nodded, misery plain on his face. “Momo. The guy I get my painkillers from.”

  I stepped closer. “This Momo is a friend of yours?”

  Ian shook his head. “No—yes, I mean, kind of. He’s a customer. Hangs out at the wine bar where I work. About a year ago, I mentioned I had lower back pain and that I had to wait another month before my doctor would prescribe any more painkillers. He told me he could hook me up—made it sound like he did runs into Canada for cheap meds. I’ve been using his stuff for months. Nothing like this has ever happened.”

  “And?”

  “Lisa ran out of oxy, and she asked me if I had anything to take care of the pain.”

  I finished the sentence. “And you sent her to the party to buy some.”

  A sob escaped him and he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God. I did. I’m the one, and now she’s—”

  “Why didn’t you give her some from the bottle in the medicine cabinet?”

  He shook his head as he wiped at his eyes. “I was low on oxy and didn’t want to give any away, so I told her to meet me at this party and I’d help her buy from Momo.”

  “Only she didn’t wait.”

  Ian shook his head. “I got there as the paramedics were rolling her out on a gurney.” He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I took her purse in case she’d already scored, and followed them to the hospital.”

  “That’s bleak, Ian.” When he didn’t respond, I added, “I’m going to need Momo’s contact information.”

  Ian nodded again, his gaze unfocused. He recited the number from memory.

  Swallowing a retort about memorizing his drug dealer’s number, I plugged the information into my phone. “Have you ever thought about quitting? Because, you know, you might have a teensy problem.”

  His eyes met mine. Misery and pain gazed out at me from their depths. I didn’t have to do anything to make him understand the magnitude of what he’d done. He was already there.

  My compassion was in short supply that morning. Lisa was in a coma because she trusted Ian, and Ian had let her down. Fresh anger boiled in my chest as I grabbed Lisa’s purse and walked to the door. All of this could have been avoided if Ian had been honest about his oxy supply, and if Lisa would have been honest with me about her addiction to painkillers. But I supposed that was the nature of addiction. Honesty rarely enters into things.

  I opened the door and left.

  ***

  When I arrived back home, I cleaned the house. Which told me I was avoiding something, since I hate to clean.

  I started with the bedrooms, worked my way to the living room, and was scouring the toilets when it hit me. I hadn’t called my family back in Minnesota to let them know what happened to Lisa. My dad and his wife, Maureen, had made reservations to fly out to visit Lisa and me, and were due in a few weeks.

  The thought of telling them that Lisa was clinging to life by a thread made me clean like the possessed. They’d blame me, of course.

  The black sheep of the family, I was the brunt of my stepmother and two older sisters’ no-holds-barred judgment. I was the one who had left my safe, successful little life in the Midwest for a last hurrah in Mexico and fallen for a drug lord. It didn’t matter that in the beginning I had no idea what Roberto Salazar did for a living, or that when I did find out I chose the only path of escape available. That much was clear when I asked for help and none came. Every time I called them, they harangued me for my poor choices, as if they alone were the moral equivalent of judge and jury. According to them, the mere fact that I wanted more out of life than what they deemed an appropriate path, a.k.a. marriage, family, career, and a safe life in the suburbs, threw suspicion on any choices I made.

  The house clean, I’d run out of obstacles to the dreaded phone call. Maybe I’d be lucky and my father would answer. Holding on to that flimsy hope, I grabbed my cell and hit speed dial.

  “Hello?”

  My heart squeezed at my stepmother’s crisp, efficient voice. I took a deep breath.

  “Hey, Maureen—it’s Kate.”

  “Kate, dear. How nice to hear from you. Hold on and let me get your father. I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you.”

  As I waited, I imagined Maureen wearing the proper attire with just the right amount of makeup, recently manicured nails in an acceptable color, not too outrageous of course, and her hair smartly coiffed in some new but not too trendy style for whatever function was being held that afternoon at the country club. Her heels would be comfortable, yet stylish, and would click smartly along the hardwood floors of my parents’ home. Later, despite her perfect attire, she’d joke with her country club sisters about how she desperately needed a shopping trip to New York.

  On the other hand, my father, George, was content puttering in his workshop in the backyard, inventing new ways to make life easier for Maureen, or reading a good book in his hammock, strung between two old oak trees. He’d be wearing his favorite cardigan, patched wherever holes had formed—the one my stepmother ceaselessly nagged him about, telling him that it was time to retire the old thing. I loved that he ignored her and wore it anyway.

  His own little mutiny.

  “What’s up, love bug?”

  The warmth in my father’s voice as he called me his pet name melted my heart, and I instantly regretted thinking uncharitable thoughts about my stepmother. “Minnesota nice,” or the instinct to be polite no matter what, is tough to overcome. Just ask anyone from the Midwest.

  “There’s been an accident.”

  I flinched at Maureen’s sharp intake of breath. Apparently, she’d remained on the line when my father got on.

  “Is everything all right?” The concern in my father’s voice counteracted the tirade I knew would come from Maureen as soon as I explained.

  Clearing my throat, I said, “Lisa had a bad reaction to a painkiller. She’s in a coma.”

  “What?” My stepmother’s tone ratcheted up, and I held the phone away from my ear. “What do you mean, Lisa’s in a coma?” Her voice dripped disbelief mixed with accusation.

  “She had a bad reaction to a painkiller,” I repeated. I took another deep breath and let it go. You just have to get through the initial shock, Kate. Things will settle down after that.

  “How did it happen?”

  “She ran out of painkillers the doctor prescribed for her migraines, and instead of going back to ask for a refill, she decided to take someone else’s medication.” I wasn’t about to tell her the “someone else” was Ian’s drug dealer. Maureen would somehow link Ian’s behavior with my past—the information would only give my stepmother more ammunition in her War Against Kate.

  “What’s the prognosis?” My father’s calm, rational tone had a soothing effect.

  “Her vitals are stable and there’s brain activity, but she’s unresponsive.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Late last night.”

  “And you didn’t think to notify us until now?” The indignation in Maureen’s voice set my teeth on edge. “Isn’t that just like you, Kate? Only thinking of yourself.”

  “Now, Maureen. Don’t be so hard on her. It can’t have been easy for her to call with such bad news.”

  Maureen huffed. “I assume you haven’t told your sisters yet?”

  “They were next on my list,” I lied. I figured Maureen would want to call them so that she could whip them into an indignant froth and the three of them could partake in some juicy Kate-bashing.


  “As soon as we end this call, I’m going to change our reservations.” Maureen’s tone brooked no argument. “We’ll fly out tomorrow instead of our original date.”

  “There’s not much you can do for her at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, I think there is. I’m sure you haven’t vetted her doctors properly. There’s an art to dealing with medical personnel. But then you probably wouldn’t know that, what with your sordid past consorting with drug dealers and thieves.”

  “Maureen.” My father’s tone held a warning.

  “What? I’m just being truthful.”

  “Can you get a cab at the airport?” I asked, changing the subject. “Sam has to use the Tahoe for a case,” I lied. Again. “I could pick you up, but the Jeep is a little small for your luggage.” Maureen never traveled light. I pitied the poor taxi driver who ended up driving my parents to their hotel.

  “Don’t you worry about it, love bug. We’ll manage.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to stay at Sam’s and my place?” Not that I wanted Maureen under my roof, but Minnesota nice was interfering once again.

  I’d have to work on that.

  “Why on earth would we want to stay with you and be party to your…illicit relationship?”

  My father sighed and I almost laughed. It wasn’t like George and Maureen had waited to consummate their love until they were married.

  Hypocrites tended to rub me the wrong way. Before uttering something I’d regret, I said, “Why don’t you two plan on coming to the house for an early dinner tomorrow night? We can head over to the hospital afterward to see Lisa.”

  “That sounds fine.” My father added, “Doesn’t it, Maureen?”

  “If that’s what you both want. But I insist on bringing the wine. I doubt you have anything even remotely acceptable in your wine cellar.”

  I almost told her we didn’t have a wine cellar, but that would have only baited her into haranguing me about all the mistakes I’d made in my life, the worst of which would be not having developed a discerning palate. Instead, I said, “That would be perfect, Maureen. Give me a call when you get settled.”

  We ended the call and I closed my eyes.

  That went well.

  Five

  MAUREEN AND DAD arrived late Monday afternoon. After checking into their hotel, Maureen made noises about not being hungry and could she take a raincheck on dinner? Relieved she wouldn’t be joining us, Sam and I met Dad at a local oyster bar and had a classic Pacific Northwest dinner of wild salmon and assorted shellfish, accompanied by a bottle of Washington wine. Afterward, we went to see Lisa. According to the nurse, Maureen had been there already, and gone back to the hotel, pleading a terrible headache. The look on Dad’s face as he sat by his youngest daughter’s bedside broke my heart, and I resolved to step up my game in the hunt for the tainted med supplier.

  The next morning, the Whitmores called and made an appointment to meet Sam and me later that afternoon to discuss the death of their son, Jason. When the Whitmores had expressed an interest in reconnecting, Dr. Patel had given them the number I’d left for Akiaq Investigations.

  “What do they think we can do that the police won’t?” I asked Sam as I brewed a pot of tea for our potential clients. I’d just gotten back from visiting Lisa in the ICU. She was breathing on her own but was still unresponsive.

  “That’s just it. Seattle PD won’t pursue their specific case to the detriment of all the others on file.”

  “So what do they want us to do?”

  “Find out who sold the drugs to their son.”

  “And then what, somehow they’re going to bring that person to justice? Or are they planning to deliver their own?” I wanted to know who had sold those drugs to my sister, too, but Mac had assured me they were working on finding the source. I’d let them do their job.

  “They didn’t specify. They’ve lost their only child. I’m pretty sure it’s a case of needing to do something, anything, to make sense of the tragedy.” He turned his attention back to me. “I think we should work with them. Maybe we can help them find closure and expose some bad actors at the same time.”

  “Not to mention help SPD discover who sold my sister contaminated drugs.” That would satisfy my need to help bring the dirtbags to justice. “You’re thinking of passing along any information we uncover to Mac, right?”

  He nodded.

  “You do realize that the source is likely to be cartel related, at least peripherally.”

  Sam leveled his gaze at me. “I’m counting on it.”

  The five-room suite that made up Akiaq Investigations was situated over a popular deli in downtown Seattle, close to the waterfront and Pike Place Market. The space worked well for our needs. Sam avoided paying the exorbitant rents normally charged so close to the city center by choosing a building with steep stairs and no elevator, and a front door that opened onto an alley. Clients didn’t seem to have a hard time finding the place—some even preferred the discreet entrance. Climbing the stairs was another matter.

  At the top of the stairs a short hallway led to the suite, the front door of which opened onto a decent-size waiting room. A two-tiered reception desk fronted an area with a worktable, an all-in-one copier-printer-fax, and several file cabinets. Sam’s photographs of Alaskan wildlife populated the walls, while woven baskets and other Inuit artifacts from Sam’s heritage took up residence on the side tables. Two offices were accessed down another short hallway, with a cozy conference room in between them.

  It was there that Sam and I met with Ellen and John Whitmore to talk about their son.

  “More?” I asked, indicating the pot of white peach tea on the well-used conference table.

  John Whitmore and Sam declined. Ellen nodded and held out her cup.

  John Whitmore’s haggard expression belied his well-toned physique—as though he’d kept up his exercise regimen but hadn’t been sleeping well.

  Ellen Whitmore displayed the toll their son’s death had taken the most. Her sallow complexion exaggerated red, puffy eyes, and two deep, vertical creases between her eyebrows gave her the look of someone perpetually concerned. She had the habit of continually picking at her cuticles, although her nails were freshly manicured. I poured her another cup of tea and topped off my own. The four of us had been discussing Lisa’s prognosis, and getting comfortable with each other before settling down to business.

  “How can Akiaq Investigations help you?” Sam leaned back in his chair. “I understand you’ve already spoken with police.”

  Ellen glanced at her husband and nodded for him to go ahead. John cleared his throat and moved to the edge of his chair, leaning his forearms on the table.

  “I’m going to be blunt.” He shot a look at me and then turned his attention to Sam. “We want justice for our son’s death.”

  Sam nodded, keeping an open expression on his face. “I understand you and your wife are hurting from the tragic loss of your only child. It’s normal to be angry, to want to make someone pay. I don’t fault you for that. But”—he shifted slightly in his chair—“be aware that if we do discover the identity of the person or persons responsible for providing narcotics to your son and you decide to act on that information, you will be entirely on your own. Kate and I cannot condone vigilante justice. We’re also obligated to turn over the information to the authorities.”

  John Whitmore’s expression darkened and he gave a short nod. “Of course. I understand.” His words came out clipped. Ellen Whitmore placed a hand on her husband’s arm.

  “What he’s trying to say is that we want to prevent this from happening to another family. Anything that we can do to bring those animals to justice will help bring us peace. And hopefully spare someone else this pain.” Ellen blinked back tears as John patted her hand.

  I set my cup down and leaned forward in my chair. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to find out the source of the fentanyl. My sister’s in a coma because of them. The dealers deserve to b
e brought to justice.”

  “But?” John Whitmore gave me an angry look.

  “But. You do realize that this investigation will most likely lead to organized crime? Fentanyl and heroin are big money-makers for them. Fentanyl is cheap to produce and easy to sell.” I let the information sink in. “If it turns out to be organized crime, I would urge you to rethink payback. That’s not a group you want to get involved with, believe me.”

  “She knows what she’s talking about,” Sam added. “Kate has extensive experience dealing with these organizations. Particularly drug cartels.”

  John and Ellen Whitmore both looked at me with renewed interest. I kept my expression as neutral as possible. Inside, I was thinking they were nuts to even consider trying to delve into the dark underbelly of the drug trade. It took eleven years and the deaths of two of the major players to extricate myself from that world because of one stupid mistake. Granted, it was a big mistake, but still. Why would they risk being gunned down in the street? Especially two suburbanites who likely had never crossed paths with a criminal.

  John cleared his throat again. “Understood. We’re willing to pay whatever it takes. The police think my son is—was a junkie. He wasn’t. As far as I know, he never touched the hard stuff. Sure, he smoked a little pot and drank a few beers, but at that age, who doesn’t? Besides, last time I checked, marijuana is legal in the state of Washington.”

  “Is it possible you didn’t know your son as well as you thought?” Sam asked.

  I added, “Lisa kept her oxy habit a secret from both Sam and me, so that’s why he’s asking.”

  John nodded. “That’s a fair question. Jason was our only child, and the three of us were very close. We talked candidly about everything, including sex, drugs, and alcohol. In fact, his mother and I were lenient when it came to alcohol and soft drugs. As long as he and his friends imbibed responsibly and did so in our home, then he was free to experiment as long as no one got behind the wheel until the effects had worn off.”