by DV Berkom
“The DRC?”
“Democratic Republic of the Congo. In Africa,” he added helpfully.
“And that makes it all right? Sending deadly drugs overseas to unsuspecting patients?” My anger spiked at the thought that some executive somewhere thought it would be okay to ship their mistakes to another country. “What happened? Why did some of the drugs make it to Seattle?”
“If I tell you, you have to promise that you won’t cut off anything else, and that you’ll let me go.”
“Deal.” Angie nodded at him to continue. Apparently, Chacon believed in honor among thieves.
Me, not so much.
“It was Dobson’s idea to have the drugs manufactured overseas. To save money. When the batch came back and was tested, Pro-Pharma discovered the contamination. It was bad. The whole lot would have to be destroyed. It was a huge shipment representing a massive loss for the company.”
“That doesn’t tell us why the pills ended up on the streets.” Was he stalling for time?
“I’m getting to that. According to Dobson, rumors were going around that his future was on the agenda of the next board meeting, and it wasn’t looking good. So, Dobson contacted me to divert the tainted goods and ship them overseas for pennies on the dollar. That way, Pro-Pharma still made some coin, the pills were gone, and no one was the wiser.”
“Except,” Angie added. Chacon nodded. The skin around his eyes sagged in the lamplight.
“Except. Dobson never told me the drugs were contaminated. The way he made it sound, the only problem with the pills was that there was too high a dose of fentanyl in them.” He shrugged. “Shit, junkies live for fentanyl. Figured I’d rake it in, maybe take a little vacation, you know. I skimmed some off the top before shipping the rest to the Congo, and then gave ’em to my guys to sell.” He shook his head. “I had no idea they were that bad. I lost one of my own.”
I thought back to the night I’d been tied up in the bedroom in Chacon’s house in Olympia, back to the kid I’d talked into letting me go and the pills he’d stolen. Then I thought of Lisa. And the Whitmores. These guys didn’t care what happened to the people who bought their drugs. All that mattered to them was the bottom line. My face warmed as I fought to control my anger.
“I’ll need his contact information, if you don’t mind,” Angie drawled.
Chacon nodded at the desk on the other side of the room.
“In my laptop. Bottom drawer.”
Angie walked over to the desk and sat in the chair. She opened the bottom drawer and brought out his laptop, which she placed on the desk.
After booting it up she asked, “What’s your password, darlin’?”
Chacon leaned his head back, still clutching his pinkie. His hand was covered in blood, as was the bedspread. “Bring it here.”
“I asked you a question.” Bristling, she glared at him from across the room. “Now give me your goddamn password.”
The color drained from his face. His voice cracking, he recited a string of letters and numbers. Angie typed in the information and smiled.
“Bingo. Now where would I find Mr. Dobson’s information?”
“In my contacts.”
Angie cocked her head. “Kind of an obvious place for such important information, don’t you think?”
Chacon didn’t reply. Angie shrugged and pulled a flash drive from her pocket, which she inserted into a USB port.
“What are you doing?” Chacon started to get up, but I waved him back with the pistol. He sank onto his pillow.
“Just a little insurance in case you’re not telling the truth.”
Chacon closed his eyes in defeat and slumped further onto the bed.
“Hold on a second.” If what Chacon said was true, then I needed clarification.
He gave me a wary look.
“This doesn’t make sense. Why would Dobson risk selling tainted drugs to the Congo? Pro-Pharma’s number is stamped on the pill. They could be traced back to them. Isn’t that illegal?”
Again, Chacon didn’t reply.
“Good question,” Angie said. “Well?” She looked pointedly at Chacon. His gaze darted from the knife on the desk next to Angie back to me holding the gun, and he licked his lips.
“All I know is occasionally pharmaceutical companies will sell subgrade drugs to other countries at a big discount.”
“You’d call the poisons found in these pills subgrade?” I stared at him in disbelief. “People are dying.”
Chacon raised his hand, wincing with the effort, I assumed to slow the bleeding from his mangled pinkie.
“People die every day from legitimate meds. If the pharmaceutical companies can defray the cost of manufacturing by selling at a discount then they do it. It’s business 101.”
It looked like the cartels had nothing on Big Pharma. Both were ruthless in their assessment of the bottom line. At least the cartels were up front about their methods.
“Excuse me, but last time I checked, other countries were comprised of actual human beings, just like the US.” My anger was exceeding my ability to hold my finger off the gun’s trigger.
Calm down, Kate. Angie got the information you need. Don’t do anything rash. There’s no going back if you do.
“Did y’all tell him who you were, Miss Kate?” Angie asked from across the room.
“I didn’t feel the need,” I replied, a warning in my voice. She’d already gone too far by using my first name.
Angie removed the flash drive and tossed it to me before she sidled over, her full attention on Chacon.
“Remember when you sent that man to kill a woman out on the wild Washington coast?” she asked, directing the question at Chacon. Before I could stop her, Angie grabbed the mask I was wearing and slid it off. My breath caught and I glanced at Chacon.
Recognition lit his eyes.
“You,” he sputtered, his eyes narrowing.
“Was that really necessary? He knows where I live.” My anger mounted at her cavalier attitude toward Sam’s and my safety.
Angie clucked like a mama hen to her chicks. “Then I guess you’ll just have to kill him, won’t you?” She grinned and batted her eyelashes at me. “For Sam’s sake, of course.”
It was my turn to glare at her. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Angie’s soft chuckle filled the room. Clearly alarmed, Chacon glanced from me to Angie, his eyes wide.
I turned toward her and spoke in a low voice so Chacon couldn’t hear me. “I had this under control, Angie,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Really?” Angie glanced around me at Chacon. “It doesn’t look that way to me.”
Exasperated, I folded my arms across my chest. “I wasn’t going to kill him,” I continued in a low voice. “He might have more valuable information. Now you’ve totally screwed things up.”
Frowning in annoyance, she pursed her lips and stepped to the side. In one rapid movement, she hurled the knife at Chacon. The tip of the blade speared his throat with a sickening thud, impaling him against the headboard. Chacon’s lips moved but no words came out, a wet gurgle the last sound he would ever make. Blood spilled from the wound, pooling on his monogrammed pajamas.
I stared at the rapidly dying drug dealer, words of protest sticking in my throat. Angie walked over to Chacon and, carefully avoiding the puddle of blood forming on the floor, pulled the knife free and wiped it clean on a sheet.
“Time to go, sugar,” she said over her shoulder. “I think we need a debrief.”
For once, I was speechless.
It wasn’t that I was going to miss Chacon. He was a scum-sucking, criminal middleman, a distributor of deadly drugs, a man who tried to have me killed and was responsible for my sister’s coma and dozens of deaths. I believed he deserved to pay for his crimes. But in that singular moment I realized I didn’t believe he should die.
For one thing, death was an easy out. He wouldn’t have to suffer for what he did, and oh, how I wanted him to suffer for what happene
d to Lisa. Another realization struck me hard. Did I have the right to take someone’s life just because he was scum? If that were the case, then what was stopping me from killing anyone I thought deserved to die? The fact was that I didn’t, not unless my life or that of someone I loved was in jeopardy and my actions would prevent that from happening.
What right did I have to act as judge and jury?
There was one other small problem. If I was caught, I could now be charged with murder. Or, at the very least, as an accessory to murder.
Angie walked out of the bedroom, and after a moment I followed her. Without saying a word, we left the same way I’d entered the house—through the back door and into the alley. We both removed the paper booties from our shoes and stuffed them in a plastic grocery sack I brought along for the purpose. The nitrile gloves followed, along with the knife and pistol, both of which were wiped clean, just in case. Inside I was fuming, but I didn’t say anything, didn’t trust myself to be civil. I’d let her have it as soon as we were clear.
I’d parked two blocks away and headed in that direction, keeping to the shadows. I shoved the panic down as far as it would go. Freaking out wouldn’t do any good and might bring unwanted attention. Angie accompanied me, still silent.
Angie had swapped her Aston Martin for a nondescript sedan, which she’d parked behind my Jeep. She pressed the key fob and the running lights blinked. Body thrumming with tension and a dozen chaotic thoughts, I climbed into the Jeep and fumbled with the key, which I dropped. Like a ghost, Angie appeared at my window. Startled, I did my best to ignore her and finally inserted the key into the ignition. The engine sprang to life.
“We need to talk.” My words came out clipped.
“Yes, we do. Why don’t y’all follow me?” Without waiting for a reply, she walked back to her car, got in, and pulled away from the curb.
I followed her to a deserted parking lot next to the water a few miles from Chacon’s. Even though I was still seething, my rapidly beating heart had calmed enough so I couldn’t hear it in my ears anymore, and the urge to scream at Angie had passed.
Sort of.
She got out of her car and leaned against the hood, the cold white glow from a nearby street lamp surrounding her like a halo. I waited a moment, working to calm myself before I climbed from the Jeep with the bag of weapons and joined her.
“Dump them in the sound,” she said, nodding at the bag in my hand. Without saying a word, I walked to the edge of the parking lot and onto the grass median where I had a clear shot. With as much strength as I could muster, I threw the bag containing the booties, gloves, gun, and knife as far as I could, listening for the splash. Then I returned to the parking lot.
“So what did we learn?” Angie’s professorial tone grated on me and I narrowed my eyes.
“That you don’t listen and would just as soon kill someone as look at them.”
The ghost of a smile arced across her face. “Well now, darlin’, that’s a mighty interestin’ viewpoint comin’ from a gal who can’t conduct a proper interrogation.” She shook her head and gave me a reproving look. “We covered all of this in module eight. If the subject won’t talk, you’re supposed to do one of three things.” She counted on her fingers, “Cut, maim, or mutilate—”
“I shot the man between the legs.”
“But you didn’t do any damage. You have to mean business. Especially with these low-level types. They feel like they must resist. You see,” Angie leaned forward, as though letting me in on a secret. “Those types have to prove their manhood. They’ve got no control over anything except their little fiefdoms, if that. Then some upstart woman comes along, steals their balls, and poof! What’ve they got to lose?” She waved her hand and leaned back. “That kind of person is harder to break without deliverin’ some kind of pain. Preferably excruciatin’.”
“But you killed him.”
Angie frowned and cocked her head to the side. “What’s your point?”
I closed my eyes and dropped my chin to my chest as a long sigh escaped me. Finally, I raised my head and looked her squarely in the eyes.
“I can’t do this. I’m not cut out for it.”
Angie opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, but I shot her down with a look.
“Our relationship ends, now.”
“But darlin’—”
“No buts. I’m done. I no longer need your services.”
“Aw, sugar, you’re just cross because I muscled in on your little operation. I get that. I really do. It’s just that you were doin’ so badly.”
Okay. That stung. Although I had no idea why I cared. I turned and started to walk back to the Jeep. Angie sprang to her feet.
“You can’t just end this, Kate.” The threat in her tone sent a chill skittering along my spine.
I turned to look at her. The flashing anger in her eyes and set of her chin should have tipped me off that she was in no mood to argue, but I’d had enough.
“We’re paid up. I don’t owe you anything. Let’s quit while we’re ahead, okay?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “But there are two more modules.”
I raised my hands, palms forward. “You’ve done enough. Really. I can take things from here.”
Angie slowly shook her head, her gaze never leaving my face. A lump formed in my throat and I tried to swallow.
“I say when we’re finished.”
Don’t push her, Kate. She’s not exactly stable. Remember, she kills people for a living.
“Look. I appreciate your help. The training has been far superior to anything I could have ever imagined.” Maybe a little flattery would work. Angie tended to be on the vain side. “But, with a heavy heart, I realized tonight that I’m not cut out for this vigilante stuff.”
Please, let her understand and leave quietly.
“But what will Sam think? I mean, you haven’t told him about our little arrangement, right?”
“Look, Angie. I can’t do this. I’m never going to be the student you’re looking for. I don’t have it in me.” I figured the whole “It’s not you, it’s me” argument might work, since the current scenario felt like a breakup with a psycho ex-boyfriend. I didn’t know what I’d do if she told Sam.
“Oh, hon, c’mere.” Angie’s expression softened. She skirted the car and wrapped me in a fierce hug, putting a nice little cap on the bizarre evening.
I endured the hug, even patted her back, kind of. Finally, she stepped away and wiped at her eyes. Then she took a deep, cleansing breath and gave me a watery smile.
“I’ve never had a protégé.”
My expression must have betrayed my incomprehension because she nodded a few times, a wistful look on her face. If you could call any look from Angie wistful.
“You’re my first.” She placed a hand over her heart and looked like she was tearing up again. I started to slowly back away. Making a run for it flitted through my mind.
Wrapped in her own little fantasy, at first she didn’t notice my attempt at an exit. I’d almost made it to the Jeep when she called out, “Same time tomorrow? We’ll get those two li’l modules over and done with, and then we’ll have us some real fun.”
Twenty-Four
THE NEXT DAY was intense. I couldn’t figure out a way to quit the training without raising Angie’s ire and was seriously afraid of what she might do. So I did the next best thing: I humored her.
Angie insisted on my going over the enhanced interrogation module until I got a perfect score on the pop quiz. Once I met that objective we went on to the next module, which dealt with clean-up and destroying evidence. Humoring her came with a price. The friendly camaraderie was exhausting, especially since I had to work at it. Her unnerving unpredictability aside, stalling her seemed the best course of action as I worked out the best way to extricate myself from her tutelage.
Interestingly enough, I did learn some useful information. Things like chlorine bleach might destroy DNA but could also leav
e traces of hemoglobin which could be detected with luminol. Or that when clearing a crime scene to remember the drains. And that latex gloves don’t prevent the transfer of fingerprints. When I challenged her on the point, she proved it by showing me how my own prints bled through the glove onto a glass. Good thing I used nitrile at Chacon’s house.
Angie was in all-out mentor mode, which was much worse than her raving bitch act. I found myself wishing she’d go back to screaming. Overly solicitous, her attempt at kindness and compassion struck me as forced and unnatural, kind of like Ted Bundy trying to care.
At the end of our session I gathered her “teaching materials” and put them into the plastic bin she’d brought with her. The guns, knives, bleach, luminol, and ammunition were all par for the course. On the other hand, I think she’d taken things a little too far with the supply of bloodstained clothing.
I didn’t want to know where it came from.
“Join me for a drink?” She worked at giving me a friendly smile and stiffly wrapped her arm around my shoulders.
“Gosh, you know, I’d love to, but I haven’t been home much lately. Sam’s mentioned it a time or two.”
“Oh, c’mon. It’s only a drink, for Christ’s sake.”
“Really, Angie, I—”
But she’d already picked up the keys to my Jeep and dropped them into her bag.
I groaned inwardly. There had to be something I could do to get her off the mentor kick.
“Fine. One drink. That’s all.” Maybe it would come to me at the bar.
Angie chose Elliott’s Oyster House on the Seattle waterfront. The restaurant was popular with locals and tourists alike and served great food. Oversized windows brought in ambient light even on the inevitable gray days, and the place was usually packed.
Angie ordered a gin and tonic and I decided on a margarita. Once the waiter brought us our drinks, Angie moved so that we were sitting side by side. It was all I could do to keep from shifting my chair around to the opposite end of the table.
“I have a confession to make.” She brought her glass to her lips and leaned her head back. The entire drink disappeared in two swallows. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she signaled a passing waiter for another.