by DV Berkom
Talking to Chance relieved some of the pressure I put on myself to find answers, giving me the illusion of having done something to find the source of the counterfeit meds. Obviously, someone was going to great lengths to disguise the drug as a legitimate medication, which would put even the most paranoid addicts at ease. People trusted Big Pharma, even though the blessings of the Federal Drug Administration meant less and less these days. The lack of FDA funding and personnel was a recipe for disaster, especially when it involved so much profit for the pharmaceutical companies. Often, important findings fell through the cracks or were cloaked in subterfuge, which made it easier for Big Pharma to market their drugs for far more than the originally intended use.
Which earned them boatloads of diñero.
But I wasn’t interested in going up against Big Pharma. I was interested in finding whoever was responsible for Jason’s overdose.
And getting payback for Lisa’s.
Ten
LISA’S CONDITION DIDN’T change. She was still in a coma and still hooked up to a machine to breathe. Maureen and my father visited Lisa every day, as did I—although I tried to time it so I didn’t have to share the space with my stepmother. The occasional dinner with her was enough. As bossy as she was in a normal situation, she was much worse when it came to family. Lisa’s doctor visits rarely coincided with my parents’, and I suspected the doctor’s dislike of Maureen was the reason.
We still hadn’t made progress on the Whitmore case, which was now tied to the DEA’s investigation of the spike in fentanyl deaths.
“We’re hamstrung.” I slammed the Whitmore file on the conference table for emphasis. Sam and I had just gotten off the phone with John and Ellen Whitmore. They were disheartened by the snail’s pace of our investigation, wondering why we couldn’t do more. Sam tried to explain that because Jason’s death was now part of a federal investigation we had to move carefully. The Whitmores would have none of it.
I couldn’t blame them.
Sam sighed. This wasn’t the first time I’d nagged him to let me do more.
“You know as well as I do, these things take time.”
“Yes, but why does that mean I can’t do my job?”
“You can. Look, I’m sorry that Lisa’s still unresponsive. That isn’t what any of us want. But there are reasons for events beyond our comprehension.”
I scoffed. “I thought you said you didn’t believe in the crap that shaman told you.”
Sam’s eyes darkened. “I never said that I didn’t believe. I said that I learned more as a truck driver and a cop. And I learned that by observing people and understanding their motives.” He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of coffee. “The shaman taught me how to be in the world but not of it. He did it in such a way that he would withhold information from me, which I thought was unnecessary. I realized later he was ensuring that I found the answer for myself.”
“Then why should I not take things into my own hands? How else will I find the answer?” My frustration got the better of me, and I pushed out of my chair and stood. “Look, I understand that if we go out on our own we might disrupt Mac’s and the DEA’s investigation, but I think I know enough about what they’re doing to be able to stay clear.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the conference table. “I’m only going to nibble around the edges. I promise I won’t dive into the whole pie.”
Sam shook his head. “If this only affected you, then I’d say go ahead. But it doesn’t. It involves a lot of other cogs, and anything you do could put the people involved at risk.” His expression softened and he came over to stand next to me. He put his arm around my shoulders and drew me closer. “It’s going to be fine. There are enough people working on this that there has to be a breakthrough soon. Pull back and look at the big picture.”
Sam had a point. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders.
“Fine. I’ll do it your way. For now.” I kissed him and headed for the door.
“You want to take the new rig?” Sam had picked up a new Tahoe that morning, identical to the one I’d wrecked, except for being two years newer.
I shook my head. “No. I’m good with the Jeep.”
Pausing with my hand on the doorknob, I turned. “If I was in a coma because of some asshole’s decision to sell tainted drugs, what would you do?”
The look on his face told me he’d feel the same as I did now. Satisfied, I walked out the door and headed for the hospital.
***
My visit to Lisa left me even more frustrated. Hopelessness washed over me at the sight of her slender frame sprouting lines to monitors, an IV hookup, and God knew what else. I stayed an hour, reading from the book she’d left at the house, alert for a glimmer of awareness: the twitch of an eye, a frown, a slight change in her breathing, the infinitesimal pulse of a finger, anything.
There was nothing.
I rose from the bed and picked up my purse, the bleak feelings even more acute than when I’d arrived. “I’m going to find out who did this to you, Lisa. I promise.” I gave her hand a squeeze. Her skin was still cool to the touch, the sound of the respirator even and regular. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was only asleep.
Seized by an overwhelming need for fresh air, I made it to the visitors’ parking lot in record time. I leaned against the front door of the Jeep and inhaled deep, jagged gulps of air, fighting the tears threatening to derail my hard-won composure. An older couple walked by, sympathy plain on their faces. The woman looked like she was about to offer assistance, but her companion gave a terse shake of his head and they continued on. I held back until they were out of sight before giving my emotions their due. All the grief, fear, frustration, and guilt came pouring out. I gripped the door handle to keep from sinking to the concrete and cried until there was nothing left.
Drained, I slid down to sit on the running board and leaned my head against the doorframe.
I should have been there for her. But how? I didn’t know she’d been taking so many painkillers. It wasn’t like she ever let on. Sam hadn’t noticed either, and he was far more observant than I could ever hope to be.
Stop beating yourself up, Kate. She didn’t know what she was taking that night.
But Ian should have at least gone with her to the party. A flicker of anger ignited inside of me at the thought of him telling Lisa to hunt down some drug dealer on her own. If she knew there was fentanyl in the painkiller she bought, there was no doubt in my mind that she would have refused to take it. Lisa wasn’t a risk taker. Defying our older siblings to come out west to live with me had been a huge leap of faith for her.
With a heavy sigh, I stood and climbed into the Jeep. The long shadows from the late afternoon sun told me it was close to dinnertime and that I should be getting back home. I threw my purse on the passenger seat, and my phone slipped out and onto the floor. The fall must have inadvertently activated my contacts list, because the screen lit up. I glanced at the list. Ian’s name was at the top. I scrolled down one and came to Ian’s drug dealer contact. Momo. Without thinking, I hit dial.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Momo?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“My name is Kate. Our mutual friend Ian gave me your number.” My heartbeat spiked.
What was I doing?
“Okay?”
His overly cautious tone told me the idea forming in my head might not be quite as easy as I thought.
“He, um, he said you could hook me up for my neck pain?”
“Ian, huh? Ian…” His voice trailed off as though he was trying to remember who Ian was. “Oh yeah. Ian. Tall hipster dude with a bad back, right?”
“Right.”
“Sure, sure. How ’bout we meet under the clock at Pike Place Market. Say, in an hour?”
“I can do that. How will I know you?”
“I’ll be the handsome dude in a bright purple ball cap.”
“Okay. How much—”
&nb
sp; “We’ll discuss that in person, a’ight?” he said, cutting me off.
“Oh, sure. Right. See you then?”
Silence.
He’d already hung up. I put my phone away and shrugged off the fear of what I was about to do.
Don’t back out now, Kate. You don’t have to buy anything. Besides, I’d been intimately involved with people much higher up in the illegal drug world than Momo. Much.
What could happen?
Eleven
AN HOUR LATER, I was standing next to the bronze pig sculpture underneath the huge neon clock at Pike Place Market. The fishmongers had already buttoned up for the day, and the usual crowds had started to thin, with tourists trading the open-air market for a tasty dinner at one of the many restaurants.
I checked my phone for the fifth time. Momo was ten minutes late. What if he didn’t come? My idea to make a buy from him wasn’t going to work. I’d have to figure out something else in order to make my way up the chain of command in Momo’s world. My fingers curled around the fat envelope in my purse. On the way I’d stopped at the bank to pick up the money. I had no idea how much counterfeit meds cost, but I wanted to make a big enough purchase so he wouldn’t have it on hand and would need to go to his buyer.
I also needed to give him enough that he wouldn’t separate the cash. I’d attached a round, flat disk about the size of a quarter to the inside of one of the stacks of bills. It was a small GPS tracker powered by a tiny but powerful battery. I’d be able to keep track of him for a few hours with an app I’d downloaded onto my phone.
After watching the market stalls close down one by one, I slid my phone back into my pocket and turned to leave.
“Kate?”
I glanced at the man in front of me. In his early thirties, he had dark, curly hair and a hard face, with small, deep-set eyes. His bright red coat looked new, and his tennis shoes were expensive. The purple ball cap didn’t fit.
“Momo?”
He gave me a quick nod. “Let’s take a walk.” Momo took my arm and steered me through the thinning crowd of pedestrians and along the street, sidestepping slow-moving cars as we picked our way toward a nearby alley.
Halfway down the length of the alleyway, he stopped and looked both ways. Satisfied that we were alone, he asked, “How much were you looking for?”
“Actually, I was hoping to get a large supply so I wouldn’t have to do this again for a while.”
“How big are we talking here? Fifty? A hundred?”
“At least a thousand.”
His eyes narrowed. “A thousand? You wouldn’t be thinkin’ of goin’ into business for yourself, would you?” He inched closer, sizing me up.
“No, no, no.” I put my hands up, palms out. “Believe me, I don’t want to do this for a living. I have a good job. Really. It’s for the pain.” I rubbed the side of my neck for effect. “I take at least three of those pills with the 6767 on the side a day—can’t remember what they’re called—sometimes four if it’s bad. Add it up. A thousand won’t even last a year.”
His shoulders relaxed a bit, but he still didn’t look convinced. “It’ll cost you twelve K.”
I widened my eyes in surprise. “Twelve dollars each? Are you serious? Last time I made a buy it was only seven.” I didn’t have a clue if I was supposed to haggle, but it sounded good.
He shrugged. “That’s the price. Take it or leave it.” He looked me up and down. “I’m gonna need a few thousand up front. That’s a big order, yo.”
“How do I know I can trust you? I’m not comfortable handing over that much to a complete stranger. What’s stopping you from taking off with my money?”
He smiled. “But I ain’ no stranger. We have a mutual friend.” Momo gave me an annoyed look and added, “And why in hell would I steal your money when you bringin’ more bank?”
Good point. “Tell you what. How about I give you five hundred now and the rest on delivery? That way, we both get peace of mind.”
He scoffed. “Ain’ no such thing as peace of mind.” He took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one free and lit it. Studying me, he exhaled a blue cloud. Then he said, “A’ight. For a friend of Ian’s I’ll see what I can do. Make it two thousand and we’re good.”
“Cool. Do I pay you here?”
He sighed as though he couldn’t believe how naïve I was. “Where else you gonna pay me?” He spread his arms to encompass the empty alley.
With an embarrassed smile, I dug in my purse for the money and slipped the stack of fifties with the GPS inside along with an additional thousand dollars into an envelope. I opened it to show him and then quickly closed it before handing it over. He took it from me and slid it into his coat pocket.
“When will you have it?”
“Should be early tomorrow. I’ll give you a call.”
I nodded. “Okay. And you’re sure you can get the same kind, right? The ones that say 6767? Nothing else seems to work as good.”
He took one more drag off his cigarette and flicked it against the brick building. It sputtered out in a shallow puddle. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Great.” I hesitated. “Are we done?”
One side of his mouth quirked up, and he shook his head again. “Yeah, we good.” He pushed off the wall of the building and sauntered back the way we came. I stayed behind and waited for him to turn the corner.
As soon as he was gone, I took out my phone, found the app I was looking for, and logged in. A little red dot blinked steadily.
Now I just had to follow the money.
***
Rush hour was long since over and traffic was light. The streetlights glowed blue-white in the crisp evening air. I followed Momo south onto I-5, where he exited the freeway a few miles outside of Tacoma. The red light on my phone continued to blink, tracing Momo’s route. A few minutes later the red light stopped. I squinted at the screen. The map indicated a park.
Following the outskirts of the deserted park, I spotted Momo’s newer-model Acura parked next to an open-air pavilion. Stationary barbecues dotted the green space, with dozens of trees breaking up the expanse. Glowing light circles from the occasional street lamp peppered the area.
I pulled to the curb and turned off the lights. Reaching into the console, I took out my camera with the night vision zoom lens attached. After the last stakeout, I’d made sure to stash it and a pair of night vision binoculars in the Jeep. The directional mic was in the shop. The delicate hardware had been damaged from the collision with the van the night of Bobby’s murder, so I wouldn’t be able to listen to their conversation.
A dark-colored van sat several yards from Momo’s Acura, on the same side of the street. He climbed out of his car and headed toward it. I shot a number of photographs of both Momo and the other vehicle. The side door to the van slid open, and a man in a hooded sweatshirt got out. Momo said something to him and handed him an envelope, larger than the one I’d given him. The man in the hoodie disappeared inside the van, reappearing a moment later with a square bundle wrapped in plastic. He handed it to Momo, got back inside the van and rolled the door closed. Momo returned to his car while the other vehicle drove off. I glanced at my phone—the red dot was moving. My bundle of money was now inside the van.
I waited until Momo left before I shifted into gear and followed.
The van drove out of the park and back onto I-5, headed south toward Olympia. I wasn’t too worried about the men in the van catching sight of me following them. They had no reason to believe Momo had a tail. He was a small-time dealer. Within the larger distribution scheme he wasn’t important.
The van continued past the city of Olympia and exited the freeway. I recognized the neighborhood. A knot formed in my stomach as the van turned left onto a familiar street and pulled into a familiar driveway.
Where did you think you’d end up?
I turned around at the next intersection, drove past the house where Bobby had been killed, cut the lights, and pulled to the curb. The van wa
s idling in the driveway. The windows were dark, and there were no other vehicles. Keeping my eyes on the van, I groped in the passenger seat for the camera.
According to my contact at the DEA, they were still at the gathering evidence stage and did not have plans to move on whoever owned the home. I would have thought that the man who ordered Bobby’s murder would have vacated the premises. He’d certainly heard about the car accident that killed the van’s driver that night. Whether he thought the timing coincidental or not, he had to have weighed the pros and cons of staying. But if there were no repercussions from the murder, why leave?
At that moment, the garage door scrolled open and the van moved forward into the darkened space. The night vision lens gave the scene an eerie green hue. Two men jumped out of the van—the guy wearing the hooded sweatshirt who had done the deal with Momo, and another, thinner man. They walked around to the side and opened the door to reveal multiple plastic containers stacked three and four high. I started taking pictures.
The men transferred the containers to one side of the garage, stacking them three high before starting another row. Fifteen minutes later, the two men had emptied the van, closed the cargo door, and went into the house. The man in the hooded sweatshirt hit the button to shut the garage door as he walked inside.
Without the directional mic, I wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation. I wasn’t in the mood to stay put and pull an all-nighter. Other than my 9mm, the night vision camera and binoculars were the only equipment I’d brought with me.
Conducting physical surveillance usually required more preparation, not the least of which was staking the place out beforehand to get an idea of the subject’s activity. I glanced down at my black shirt, black pants, black sneakers, and black jacket. It was a start.
I needed to find out what was inside those containers. Securing the camera around my neck, I slid my gun into a bellyband under my shirt and exited the Jeep.
The hydrangea bushes gave me the cover I needed as I skirted the house past the window where I’d heard Bobby murdered. There were no lights on that I could see, so I continued to the back. Normally, I would have done more reconnaissance, but I hadn’t tripped any alarms the last time, so I figured it was safe enough. A few feet from the hydrangeas, I came to a tall wooden privacy fence with a gate. I tried the latch but it was locked. I checked the immediate area for something to stand on to help me climb over the top. There was nothing. Rather than waste time looking, I pulled out my set of lock picking tools.