by Jay Allisan
“She could have worn a wig,” Whale says. “Or the white and blue hair might be a wig. Or she never passed the reception desk.”
“Or she wasn’t there,” Paddy grumbles. He leans back in his chair with a sigh. “This whole thing feels off to me. The Speakeasy’s been a zit on this city’s ass for twenty years, and how many times has homicide been called in? Once. Twenty years, and Sonny’s the first body we can tie to the joint. Why him and why now? There’s gotta be something at play here.”
The idea percolates in the room like a bad smell. He’s not wrong. Over the years every division on the force has taken a run at the Speakeasy, with the exception of homicide. There aren’t any bodies when people just disappear.
I look across my desk at Whale. “Any insights?”
He hesitates, exchanging a glance with Josie. “Do I have previous experience with the Speakeasy, you mean?”
“Sure. You were vice for what, four years?”
“Five. Josie was four.”
“The Speakeasy wasn’t in our jurisdiction when we were vice,” Josie says. “We never worked a case there. As for rumors, we probably heard the same stuff through the grapevine as you.”
I have to laugh, because they’re sure as hell not rumors. The only reason the Speakeasy’s still operating is because they’ve got the right people paid off. Cops, judges, city councillors. The club’s not going anywhere until the police can string together enough evidence to take the whole thing down, stooges and all, and that’s an undertaking that’ll take years. I’m not holding my breath for any real solutions here. I’d just like to know what this case has to do with Presley.
“So we’re looking at the same old same old,” I say. “Prostitution or human trafficking.”
“Same old same old doesn’t account for Sonny going splat off a fucking roof,” Paddy says. “His death was a goddamn spectacle. Right downtown in the middle of the day, and don’t forget he was drugged first, same as—”
Same as Robin.
A cold wash of fear makes my heart skip a beat. “You don’t think—”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“But Presley said—”
“And you’re the one who said Presley’s not telling you everything.”
“But why would someone want to kill—”
“Pick a reason. What do you really know about the kid anyway? He could be running from all kinds of trouble, and you just let him into your home because Presley asked you without bothering to think—”
Josie interrupts with a wave of her arms. “Okay, hold on. Who was drugged same as Sonny and why is he in your home?”
I shoot Paddy a warning glance. Josie and Whale don’t know about my newest roommate and I’d like to keep it that way, for his sake and mine. Robin may be a stranger, but he’s important to Presley and I promised I’d look out for him. That means letting him eat my food and sleep in my loft, and shielding him from investigations that could send him back to Mexico. Robin’s timid and harmless and Presley is in love with him, which is good enough for me. For Presley I’ll bend a few rules.
Paddy, thankfully, has shut his mouth, but Josie’s still waiting for an explanation.
“It’s nothing,” I tell her. “It’s personal.”
Whale looks unconvinced. “If it’s relevant to the investigation—”
“Then I’ll handle it.”
There’s a moment of silence, and then Whale’s voice softens. “Mordecai, today is your last day. Tomorrow…”
Tomorrow.
The air bleeds out of me in a long exhale and I feel my shoulders slump. I lean forward on my desk and put my head in my hands. More silence. Paddy breaks it.
“It’s nothing we gotta worry about now,” he says quietly. “Even if someone was after him, all the publicity around the trial would scare them away. He should be safe for now. In the meantime we got other leads to look at, and you’ve got other things to worry about. I’ll let you know if it turns into a problem.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. A pall hangs over the office, thick and somber. I twist Max’s wedding band around my middle finger. When the phone rings it sounds like a klaxon.
It’s Josie’s phone. She answers, listens, then hangs up.
“That was the ME’s office,” she says. “Sonny’s autopsy starts in half an hour.” She smiles at me sympathetically. “Me and Whale will go if you’d rather—”
“Sit around thinking about tomorrow?” I mutter. “No thanks.”
Paddy pushes away from his desk. “How bout we grab something to eat and then make some phone—”
“Goddammit, would you let me do my job?!” I stand so fast my chair shoots backward, the wheels rattling on the floor. I shove my arms into my coat and push shaky hands through my hair. “I’m going to the morgue. I’m going to watch the autopsy. The rest of you suit yourselves.”
My teammates say nothing, just put on their jackets and follow me out of the office. I walk ahead so they don’t see me cry.
I DON’T make it five minutes into the autopsy before I have to leave the room. As soon as the medical examiner starts hosing Sonny down I bolt for the doors, barely making it to a garbage can in the hall before I puke my guts out. Maybe it’s the swirling blood, maybe it’s the extensive trauma, maybe it’s the day. All I know is I can’t be in that room. And if I can’t watch a clinical dissection of a stranger, I don’t know how the hell I’m going to make it through the trial.
Paddy follows me out into the hall, then waits outside the bathroom door while I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face. He walks with me to a lounge at the end of the hall and makes me a cup of tea. He doesn’t suggest we leave. Instead he settles on the couch and spends the next few hours on the phone, digging up dirt on Sonny’s past. I spend that time sipping tea and thinking about tomorrow. I can’t decide how I feel. Relieved it’s almost here. Scared of having to relive it all. Exhausted by the prospect of a months-long trial. Devastated. Angry.
Hungry for justice.
A knock on the door shakes me out of my head. Josie’s there, offering me another sympathetic smile.
God, I’m so sick of sympathy.
“Claudia’s finished,” she says. “She found something interesting. You guys might want to take a look.”
We follow her back into the morgue, and I steel myself involuntarily for anything that might set me off. But the room is clean, no blood or guts or human remains. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Claudia is perched on a stool at the counter, fiddling with a microscope connected to something that looks like an oversized printer. Whale watches over her shoulder with his hands clasped behind his back. Claudia waves us over without looking up.
“Take a look at this,” she says, pointing to a computer monitor. “Boy, this is neat.”
The screen displays a side-by-side comparison of two sets of graphs, the one on the left conveniently labeled cocaine.
“Sonny was snorting cocaine?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. Based on a quick analysis of his hair, I’d say he’d been snorting cocaine for a good long time,” Claudia answers. “And judging by the tissue damage to his nose and throat I’d say he snorted a lot.”
Paddy folds his arms. “We supposed to be surprised? Half the Speakeasy’s addicted to some shit or another. Unless it’s what got him killed—”
“You tell me,” Claudia says. She taps the computer monitor with a long neon fingernail. “Is this worth killing over?”
I squint at the graph on the right, waiting for the punchline. “What is it?” I ask, when no explanation comes. “If it’s not cocaine…”
Claudia gestures grandly to Whale. He clears his throat.
“It is. It’s a new strain.”
“A new strain of cocaine,” Paddy says.
“A new strain of cocaine,” Whale confirms.
“The hell do you mean, a new strain of cocaine?”
Whale clears his throat again, like he’s preparing for a lecture. Not jus
t ex-vice but a voracious academic, he’s the smartest guy in the room when it comes to drugs. And most things.
“I mean that this cocaine, which was collected from beneath Sonny’s fingernails, comes from a new, distinct strain of the coca plant,” Whale explains. “Like any plant, the coca plant can be cross-bred or spliced with new genes to modify its properties. Coca leaves typically contain less than two percent of the psychoactive alkaloid component. Its other components get carried along during the refining process, showing up as impurities in the final product. Using chromatographic and spectrometric techniques it’s easy enough to detect these impurities, as well as the unique processing chemicals and solvents used during refining. By comparing the chemical makeup of known cocaine samples to the sample under Sonny’s fingernails, we can see that, in spite of the presence of chemicals used during illicit processing, this cocaine is incredibly pure. The lack of inherent impurities indicates a significantly higher cocaine content within the coca plant, with respect to its non-desirable alkaloids. Ergo, a new strain.”
“Thanks, professor,” Josie says, rolling her eyes. “So basically it’s super potent because it’s super pure, which means it’s got a street value of God knows what, and chances are it got Sonny killed.”
“How pure is pure?” I ask.
“Greater than ninety-nine point five percent,” Whale says. “It’s practically pharmaceutical.”
“And this is the first you’ve seen of it,” Paddy says to Claudia. She nods.
“Though based on tissue deterioration I suspect Sonny had been using it for a while,” she says. “A few months at least.”
“And since the powder hadn’t been cut, Sonny probably fits somewhere in the supply chain, as opposed to just being a customer,” Josie says.
I catch Paddy’s eye. “That different enough for you? Maybe the Speakeasy’s supplementing their sex trade with a little drug trade.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Whale cautions. “There’s no evidence that Sonny’s drug use is connected with his employment at the Speakeasy. Regardless, I’d hesitate to call this a little drug trade. Greater cocaine content in the coca plants means a bigger overall yield. We could be looking at an impending flood.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to trace the stuff?” Paddy asks.
“Not in this form,” Claudia says with regret. “Since it’s uncut there’s no signature component, and we can’t narrow down its geographical origin better than what we already know. South America, likely Colombia, or elsewhere along the Andean ridge.”
Whale offers Claudia his hand. “Thank you for your time. Please let us know if you come across any more of the drug.”
I think of what Paddy said about Robin and I hope we don’t hear from her. Pulling the drug off another dead body isn’t the kind of break we want.
4
IT’S WELL past lunch by the time we head back to the precinct, though after the autopsy I don’t have much of an appetite. My indifference turns to nausea when we turn the corner and see Old Town.
Hundreds of people encircle the building, men and women and little girls, so many little girls. They’re chanting, screaming, carrying signs that say JUSTICE FOR MARIA and WHO WILL SPEAK FOR THE CHILDREN? I see my name on a sign and shut my eyes too late. The message is already seared into my mind.
SHIRLEY MORDECAI’S NO MOTHER.
I force in a deep breath.
“Goddamn sons of bitches,” Paddy mutters. He stops the car in the middle of the street and pulls out his phone. “Yeah, it’s O’Reilly. Get some uniforms out here to clear a path, would you? We’re outside.”
We watch as officers flow out of the precinct and start to push the crowd back, trying to move them away from the parking garage. The chanting gets louder, more heated, as the crowd pushes back against the police. When their attention is good and diverted Paddy lets the sedan creep forward, and for a second I think we’ll slip by unnoticed. Then suddenly, like a monstrous school of fish, the crowd turns en masse and somebody points. Somebody shouts. And then the car’s surrounded.
“GODDAMMIT,” Paddy roars, as hundreds of fists begin pounding the car, shaking it, rocking it, threatening to breech it. They’re on the trunk, the hood, the roof, screaming at us, at me, that it’s my fault they’re dead, my fault, my fault. I curl into a ball and press my palms into my eyes. My heart races. My head throbs. Paddy’s shouting at me, fighting to be heard above the mob.
“Just breathe, Mordecai, just breathe!”
I breathe, deep and slow, over and over, again and again. Just breathe. Just breathe.
Just breathe.
When I feel a hand on my shoulder it’s all I can do not to scream.
“It’s okay,” Paddy says. “We’re okay. We made it.”
I take another deep breath and lift my head. We’re in the parking garage with the door shut behind us. It’s quiet. It’s safe. It’s okay.
I’m still shaking like a leaf.
Paddy rubs his jaw and blows out a long sigh. “They had to tear gas ‘em. At least a dozen are on their way to holding. At Central,” he says. “Not here.”
I nod numbly, thinking I’d like a nice cell to hide in myself. Lock everyone out, and maybe then I could finally find some peace. Yeah, right. There’s no peace until there’s justice.
And there’s no justice until Carl’s six feet under.
I make no move to get out of the car, and Paddy doesn’t rush me. He goes into his pocket and comes out with a cigarette, which he ignites and inhales like it’s oxygen instead of cancer. He glances sideways at me, then offers me the cigarette. I don’t smoke. But I take it anyway and pull on it hard, and when the coughing fit starts Paddy cracks a smile. He takes the cigarette back.
“Christ, that’s fucking noxious,” I gasp. “Why the hell do you smoke?”
Paddy shrugs. “Gotta die somehow.”
“Fuck you.”
“You first.”
I clear the fumes from my lungs and rest my head back against the seat. Paddy finishes the cigarette and then we head inside.
WHEN WE reach the office the room is empty, Josie and Whale MIA. I barely have time to wonder why before a hand curls around my arm.
“Come walk with me,” says Dixon.
He releases his grip and I trail after him back to the stairwell. We climb upward. As we approach the eighth floor I have a sudden fear we’re going to see Shapiro, but Dixon bypasses the landing and takes the final few steps up to the roof.
We lean against the retaining wall, gazing out over the city. There’s lots of old brick and mortar construction downtown, dated advertisements for cigarettes and soda still stenciled on the weathered stone. The river cuts along parallel to the main street and disappears as it travels west. Splashes of color dot the roadway, leaves on trees stripped nearly bare as autumn gives up the ghost. Straight ahead, ten blocks away, is the courthouse.
My heart rate kicks up a few notches. I turn away before I look for the bridge.
“Mordecai.”
I rub tiredly at my eyes and glance back at Dixon. His dark skin seems sallow beneath the heavy cloud cover.
“I don’t think you should work this one,” he says. My breath stutters. The corners of his mouth tug downward. “I agreed to let you work until the trial, but I didn’t anticipate catching a fresh case. Your leave begins tomorrow. Why don’t you—”
“No,” I say tightly. “I need to work. I want to be on this case.”
Dixon studies me, his eyes soft behind his glasses. “I’m concerned this is too much for you. That it’s getting too personal.”
I stiffen. “What did Paddy tell you?”
“Enough.”
“It’s fine. I’m handling it.”
“Tish tells me you aren’t cooperating with your therapy.”
I can feel my expression turn to stone. I cross my arms. “Guess we’ve run out of things to talk about.”
Dixon kneads his fingertips against his temples. He look
s weary. Disappointed.
“You’re not fooling anyone, Mordecai,” he says quietly. “Not even yourself.”
Tears well in my eyes and I blink them back quickly. Dixon puts his hand on my shoulder. “I understand you’re concerned about your roommate. I understand this case is keeping you occupied. I just don’t want to see it compromise you, emotionally or otherwise.”
“I need this,” I whisper. “I need this.”
“Mordecai—”
“Please, Dixon. It’s just a few more hours.”
His gaze drifts to my left hand, to the ring I wear that shouldn’t be on my finger, and I know he’s struggling with emotion as much as I am. I hold my breath, and finally he nods. He squeezes my shoulder gently.
“Stay focused, Mordecai. You’re almost there.”
I REJOIN my teammates in the office, Josie and Whale having arrived while I was on the roof. Nobody asks me where I was and I return the favor.
Paddy’s on the phone again, scribbling notes on a legal pad propped on his knee. Josie sorts through files on known coke dealers and overdoses, while Whale gets in touch with some old buddies from vice, looking for informants. He gets a couple calls back that he takes in private, and judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t get good news.
I sit down with the dossier on James, compiled by dozens of police officers over nearly twenty years. The file is huge. If these were the olden days and it was in hard copy, it would fill a pickup truck. All the folders and subfolders are intimidating as it is. I don’t even know where to start.
I settle for working backward, starting with the most recent contribution. A radio car was dispatched to a call from a customer at the Speakeasy, complaining about a hysterical woman making threats. The woman had disappeared by the time police arrived, and though the club’s security said the woman left on her own, the implication was they had taken care of her. That was in early August. Since then it’s been crickets.