by Alex P. Berg
The envelope itself was plain, without any writing or marks of any kind. The brads keeping the envelope closed had been pushed back, so I squeezed the sides and popped it open. There wasn’t anything within but a bit of white dust that resembled chalk.
I shook my head. “I don’t get it.”
Dean stabbed a sharp finger toward the envelope. “That powder? It’s benzedrine. It comes in tablets. Prescribed to treat narcolepsy and weight loss, but most people use it as an anti-depressant. It’s addictive as hell. Vernon knew about it. He knew about it and didn’t do a damned thing!”
I may not have known Dean for long, but I’d never seen him angry. Not when I snuck into the police observation room and spied on an interrogation during the case that landed me at his side. Not when I confronted him in the parking lot and yelled and told him to go to hell when I wrongly thought he was retaliating against me for doing the right thing. He’d been miffed during the former and amused during the latter, but now the man veritably shook with rage. The jaw muscles in his lean face bulged, his brows were drawn together, and a vein bulged in his neck. He breathed hard, and fire and brimstone rained down behind the blue shells of his irises.
I held my hands up and spoke gently. “Slow down. What do you mean he knew?”
Dean took a step toward me. His anger burned hot, but it wasn’t directed at me. “Don’t you find it suspicious how long it took for Vernon to come down and greet us? He said he’d been on the phone, but his ear wasn’t red at all as it would be if he’d had a receiver pressed against it for a half hour. So what was he up to? He said Stella was slovenly, but was she? That doesn’t seem to track with the woman he described, a woman who took care of herself, who liked to get her hair and nails done. You saw the look Mossbottom gave him when he told us that, same as I did. Stella didn’t leave the room in that condition, or at the very least it wasn’t entirely her fault. It was Vernon!”
I’d missed the bit about Vernon’s ear, but I’d noticed the look between him and Mossbottom. I stared at the envelope in my hands, putting the pieces together. “Vernon tossed his wife’s room. He was looking for this. He didn’t want us to find it.”
Dean plucked the envelope from my hands. “He knew his wife was addicted to benzedrine. He knew, and he didn’t do a thing to stop it.”
Dean rubbed his free hand across his chin. Beyond the rage, I saw something else in his eyes. Pain or sorrow. Maybe a mixture of the two. He spun away from me and slammed an open palm against the hood of the Viper, producing a resounding clang. “Damnit!”
I jumped at the sound. I glanced back to make sure nobody was watching through the windows beside the door, but the panes were empty. It was just the burbling of the cherub fountain, the tinkle of the wind chimes, and us.
I stared at Dean: at the tension in his shoulders, the strain in his arms, his posture, so much like that of a werewolf ready to transform under a full moon’s beams.
I took a step toward him. “Dean, is everything all right?”
“Of course everything’s not all right,” he growled. “That poor woman was addicted to benzedrine. It’s dangerous. People die from overuse all the time, and her husband’s instinct was to hide it rather than get her help. It makes me furious.”
I took another careful step forward, as if I were approaching a caged animal. “That’s not what I meant. Are you okay?”
Dean didn’t say anything.
I often had a hard time reading men, or at least those with whom I was in a relationship, but it wasn’t too hard to guess what ate Dean. “This is personal for you, isn’t it?”
Dean sighed, and his shoulders slumped. I wanted to go up to him, to put a gentle hand on his back, but I didn’t know him that well. Not yet.
After a moment’s silence, he stood and nodded toward the Viper. He spoke softly. “Get in the car.”
I’d had angry boyfriends make similar demands of me in the past. Rarely had the results gone in a positive direction, but Dean was different. Not only had I come to admire and trust him in the short period I’d known him, but his voice had lost its edge. He’d let go of the rage.
I got in the cruiser and buckled in. Dean did the same. He pulled the keys from his pocket and stuck them in the ignition, but he didn’t turn them. He sat there with his hands on the wheel, eyes staring into the distance.
I didn’t say anything. I just sat and waited.
Dean sighed again. “Her name was Arrwyn. We came into the department at about the same time. She was a lot like me, in many respects. She was self-motivated. Had a strong sense of justice. Didn’t want to have to climb the rungs of success one at a time, just wanted to hop on a rocket straight to the moon. She was also good at keeping things close to the vest. You might say she was a good liar, but it was more than that. She wasn’t an actress, but she could play a role with the best of them. It’s no surprise she decided to get into undercover work. Not homicide, though. Narcotics.
“She joined Detective Harmon’s team and was on the streets in plain clothes within two years of joining the force. Took down a few middlemen, but she’d already set her sights higher. Wanted to go after one of the big guns. A major player in the New Welwic distribution scene. So she went in, deep undercover. She could do it. She had the talent, but the problem is when you take on a role like that, some part of you ends up becoming the monster. Too big a part in her case. She started taking benzo tablets. I’m not sure when or how many—she was good at keeping things to herself, after all—but she got addicted. Harmon called her out on it once, toward the end, but she assured him it was part of the role. Maybe he trusted her to know her limits. Regardless, he didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. Nobody had, myself most of all.
“It was a little over two years ago that we got the call from the hospital. Arrwyn was in a coma. She’d been brought in by paramedics after having been found outside a slum owned by the guy she was investigating. She was in cardiogenic shock and suffering circulatory collapse from a severe amphetamine overdose, though they suspected she had a possible cerebral hemorrhage as well. Ultimately the toxicology report determined she had several drugs in her system, though benzedrine was the primary culprit. The doctors did what they could, but it wasn’t enough. She passed away the following morning.”
Dean hadn’t looked at me throughout the monologue, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on Vernon’s garage.
I spoke softly. “I’m sorry to hear that. She was a good friend of yours?”
“She was my fiancée.”
Dean turned the keys in the ignition, and the Viper growled to life. He pulled it around the circle drive and headed onto the street. I was too in shock to say a thing, but apparently Dean’s soliloquy greased his vocal cords. He spoke again as we turned south along the avenue.
“I blamed myself for a long time for not seeing it, for not intervening when I had a chance. I guess I still do. Maybe it’s easy for me to see the danger in it. I have the benefit of hindsight, if you can call it a benefit. Maybe Vernon doesn’t know how dangerous benzedrine is. There are enough quacks in this city who prescribe it like candy. But if I’m right about Vernon tossing Stella’s room looking for pills, then he knows. He knows she was a user. He knows she had a problem, enough so that he thought he should hide it. Maybe he thought it would reflect poorly on him. Whatever. The point is he’s an enabler, and I can’t abide that. Not anymore.”
Dean sighed. He glanced at me, his cool blue eyes sorrowful. “I’m sorry I lost my cool. You shouldn’t have seen me like that.”
I shook my head. “You have nothing to apologize for. There’s no shame in expressing sincere emotion.”
“No. There isn’t,” agreed Dean. “But maybe I shouldn’t have done so here, with you.”
I don’t think he meant it as an insult. I think he meant that we didn’t know each other that well, though I now knew Alton a whole lot better than I had the night before. He wasn’t the robotic, crime-solving machine everyone seemed to think he was. He’d suf
fered pain and heartbreak like anyone else, myself included. Maybe that’s what made him such a great detective.
I swallowed back the lump in my throat, trying to think how I could ease the tension. “Do you think the drugs might’ve had anything to do with Stella’s murder? Assuming it is her remains we found, and that she was indeed murdered.”
The Viper rumbled as Dean punched it through a yellow light. “I don’t know, but I’ll tell you this. Even the city’s worst quacks don’t distribute benzedrine tablets in unmarked paper envelopes. If Stella Vernon had started visiting the circus more frequently, it could mean she’d found a supplier there to provide her fix. Not that there’s any obvious reason why a dealer might’ve murdered her, but at least looking for a supplier gives us another avenue to pursue. Something for you to look into once I drop you off.”
I blinked. “You’re not returning with me to the circus?”
Dean shook his head. “I have a meeting with someone at the precinct. You have to remember, this isn’t the only case we’re working. That’s why I brought you on, after all. To shoulder some of the workload Moss and Justice can’t handle.”
I swallowed back another lump, but this time it was one born of nerves rather than empathy. When I’d agreed to join Dean’s team, I’d known I’d be working investigations—but I didn’t think I’d be flying solo.
Chapter Ten
I breathed a sigh of relief as I approached the aviary at Vernon and Daly’s Circus, mostly because of who was there. Moss stood outside the enclosure, chewing on a pencil eraser as she regarded the papers clamped to the clipboard in her hands. Guess I wouldn’t be working the case alone after all.
I flushed my nerves as I approached. “Hey, Moss. What have you got there?”
Moss looked up, pulling the pencil from her lips. “Hey, Phair. It’s Cortez’s report. I’m looking over it, seeing if there’s anything he left out. You and Dean are already back from Vernon’s, huh?”
“Well, I am. Dean dropped me off. Said he had to take a meeting with someone at the Fifth.”
“Oh, right,” said Moss. “He mentioned that. Some physicist. An expert in optics, I think. What would you call that anyway? Not an optician. That’s reserved for eye doctors. So what then? An opticist? That’s not a word, is it?”
“I couldn’t tell you. But more importantly, why is Dean meeting with an, uh… opticist? Don’t tell me one of his cases requires knowledge of theoretical physics?” It that were the case, I’d really bitten off more than I could chew agreeing to be his protege.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Moss. “Remember when the Tarot Card Killer struck in the park, and you witnessed that strange purple haze, for lack of a better word? Dean’s trying to get answers on that, or at least put together a few theories.”
Of course. Barely a week ago, as I’d been walking home at night after a shift at the Williams Street precinct, I’d passed through Miller’s Creek Park en route to my apartment. The path through the woods had been deserted, but as I’d gotten close to the plaza at the center, I’d suffered the sensation of being watched. I’d peered into the woods, trying to see if I could catch sight of anyone, and I’d noticed a hint of a glow. Something opaque and swirling, deep purple in color and barely discernible from the forest’s midnight backdrop. At the time I’d thought it might’ve been a firework even though I hadn’t heard one go off, but I’d since questioned that supposition. A firework would provide an initial burst of light and leave colored smoke lingering in the air, but the smoke itself wouldn’t glow, meaning the glow I’d seen was… what? A mirage? A reflection? Or something less easily explained?
Honestly, I’d tried to push the experience from my head. The idea of being so close to the Tarot Card Killer had rattled me, whether I wanted to admit it or not, but as the lead investigator on the case, Dean didn’t have the same luxury. More importantly, I don’t think he wanted to let it go. By his own account, he’d become obsessed with the murders, which he’d been investigating for almost two months. It was because of his singular focus on them that he’d missed clues on the New Age Alchemical case and brought me in to assist.
“Anyway,” said Moss. “Did you get a positive identification on that diamond from Mr. Vernon?”
I blinked away the fog of memories. “Unfortunately not. At least, not definitively. According to Vernon, the diamond is roughly the right size, and his wife’s engagement ring was yellow gold, same as the glob Cortez found, but he couldn’t be sure it was Stella’s. Doesn’t pay much attention to gemstones, he said.”
“I don’t find that surprising.” Moss tapped the pencil against her clipboard. “But he didn’t know the whereabouts of his wife, either?”
I shook my head. “He couldn’t account for her. Neither he nor his butler had seen her since last night. And on top of that, Dean found this in her bedroom.”
I plucked the brown paper envelope from my pocket and held it to Moss. She frowned as she took it, but her face dropped as she opened it and saw what was inside. “Oh, shit.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Dean told me about Arrwyn.”
Moss cocked her head. “He did?”
“Well, not unprompted,” I said, taking back the envelope. “He blew up after we got out of Vernon’s hair. Was boiling over with rage, to the point where I knew it wasn’t about what he found but something far more personal. I gave him a gentle push and he opened up to me in the car.”
Moss lifted an eyebrow. “I’m surprised to hear that. He doesn’t like to talk about it, for obvious reasons. You don’t know Alton that well, but he doesn’t like to express weakness, emotional weakness in particular.”
“That was apparent, too,” I said. “But I think he felt obligated to tell me given the circumstances. Call me crazy, but I think he felt better having shared it. It might’ve been cathartic, even if he didn’t want to remember the incident in the first place. And as frightening and confusing as his outburst was, I didn’t mind hearing him out. It was kind of nice, actually. Not the story. That was incredibly sad, but it’s comforting when someone is willing to share a piece of their true self with you. That’s not easy for people to do.” And I knew, because I suffered the same problem.
Moss returned the pencil eraser to her mouth. “Yeah. I agree.”
She stood there for a moment, staring at me curiously, the eraser pressing into her plump lower lip. She’d said she was surprised to hear Dean was willing to share with me, but her look suggested it was me she was surprised by.
Somewhere inside the enclosure, I heard soft voices. That same mysterious bird from the morning trilled, and Moss gave her head a bit of a shake. She returned her pencil to her clipboard, tapping it. “So Mrs. Stella Vernon might’ve been hooked on benzedrine. That’s interesting, but I’m not sure how it ties into her murder.”
I nodded, shoving aside Moss’s pensive looks. “That’s what Dean said. But Mr. Vernon noted she’d been coming to the circus more of late. Dean hypothesized her dealer might’ve been one of the carnies.”
Moss snorted. “Well, sure, but how are we going to find out?”
“Ask around?” I gave Moss a hopeful smile.
Ginger pursed her lips. “Come on. You’re not that naive.”
I sighed. “Of course not. Nobody would admit they’re a dealer to a cop. But I’ve got to figure something out. Dean told me to look into it when he dropped me off.”
Moss rolled her eyes. “Okay, far be it from me to countermand an order given to you by your new training officer, but I have to assume what Dean wanted was for you to use the drug angle to progress the case, not specifically to track down Stella’s dealer. After all, proving she was an addict doesn’t in and of itself help us figure out who might’ve wanted to kill her. The question we need to ask ourselves is how might’ve Stella’s addiction provided a motive for someone to commit murder?”
“Maybe she owed her dealer money?”
“If so, that would be a terrible reason for someone to murder her,�
� said Moss. “I know it’s one of the most stereotypical gangster moves to threaten to kill someone who owes you money, but have you ever tried to collect from a corpse? Doesn’t work too well.”
“Unless they weren’t trying to collect from her,” I said. “What if they were trying to collect from her wealthy husband?”
Moss’s brow scrunched. “Possible, but again, when you commit murder, you use your lone bargaining chip. It’s not really a tactic in debt collection.”
“Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe someone killed her so Vernon wouldn’t have to pay a debt.”
Moss snorted. “Slow down. Are you suggesting JT Vernon had his wife murdered to avoid paying off a dope dealer? That’s out there, even for me. Did you see or hear anything while you talked to him to suggest that was the case?”
My shoulders slumped, and once again I felt like the rookie I was. “Sorry. Dean said I should be more open to contributing. I’m thinking out loud. And no, I didn’t get any sort of murderer vibe from the man—although he did strike me as creepy.”
I think Moss realized she’d gone a little far, as her face softened. “No. Thinking outside the box is good. Ideas that seem crazy at first often contain nuggets of truth. Don’t let my disbelief stop you from spitballing. But going back to Vernon, creepy how?”
I shrugged, still feeling dejected despite Moss’s reassurances. “I can’t say for sure. Don’t you ever get a bad vibe from some guys? Like a feeling that if you’re ever stuck alone with them, they might tie you up and throw you in their basement?”
“Interesting way to put it,” said Moss. “But I know what you’re talking about. If I end up interacting with JT Vernon, I’ll let you know if I get the same bad juju. But we’re getting off track. If Stella Vernon was using benzos recreationally, it probably means she was self-medicating for depression. That’s the most common usage, as far as I know. Someone who’s depressed makes poor choices, potentially takes more risks and puts themselves in more dangerous situations than someone who doesn’t. That’s something concrete we didn’t know earlier this morning.”