We rolled up to the front entrance. Gitta pried her fingers from my abs, where I figured her nails had left permanent indentations. We dismounted, and Gitta pulled off her helmet. Her hair lay plastered to her head. We sprinted to the door, Gitta darting as gracefully as a gazelle in her high heels. I pulled the door handle. Locked.
“Omigod,” Gitta wailed. “What are we going to do?”
I looked through the thick, wire-reinforced glass insert in the top half of the door. A long hallway lined with lockers stretched ahead, empty. I reached into my boot and pulled out my snub-nose .44 Magnum. “Step back,” I ordered Gitta.
I grabbed the gun in both hands like a baseball bat and swung the butt into the glass. My shoulder cracked, while the glass barely did. There had to be a better way.
I looked again into the door’s window, and seeing no one in the hallway, I fired into the glass. It shattered inward. Alarm bells shrieked.
I shoved the gun back into my boot. “Let me have my jacket back,” I said to Gitta.
She handed me the jacket. I shrugged into it, then stuck my arm between the edges of the jagged glass, reached down, and unlocked the deadbolt. I retracted my arm, pulled open the door, and we entered into a high-ceilinged lobby.
A wooden doorway marked “Office” was on our left. A dimly lit main corridor spread before us, and another lay to the right. Where the hell would the kitchen be? Probably somewhere around the perimeter of the building.
“Come on,” I said, and we rushed down the main corridor, my boots clomping on the cement floor, Gitta’s stiletto sandals clattering, and the alarms clanging. The hallway reeked of stale sneakers and cheap floor polish. That and the sight of rows of grey metal lockers lining the sickly-green walls gave me the creeps. I hadn’t set foot in a high school since my own early escape at seventeen, and my memories of my alma mater, with its Boca Babes-in-training, were not particularly fond ones.
At the end of the hallway, a posted sign read “Cafeteria” with an arrow pointing to the right. We ran that way and burst through a set of swinging doors into the lunchroom. Another set of double doors was at the far end, next to a conveyor belt for trays. Dodging around tables, we rushed to that entrance. Just as I reached the doors, my foot slipped on something and flew out from under me. I fell on my ass.
What the hell? I looked around on the floor—there was no water or anything else slippery. I sat up and examined the sole of my boot. A small torn piece of cardstock paper was stuck to it. Black lettering on it spelled out “bo Bra.”
Shit. I peeled off the paper, tossed it aside, scrambled to my feet, and rushed through the double doors, Gitta on my heels.
The kitchen smelled of old grease and Pine Sol. An industrial stove, grill, and stainless steel counters and sinks spread before us.
I surveyed the room. A tall metal storage rack stood against one wall, stocked with twelve-ounce plastic Coca-Cola bottles. Next to it, I saw a pair of large metal doors with an embossed name reading “Arctic Freeze.” The wooden shaft of a rag mop was shoved through the handles of the doors. And a shattered cell phone lay at the doors’ base.
Oh my God—someone had tried to kill Lars by trapping him in the walk-in freezer. Jesus, what if we were too late to save him?
“Over there!” I yelled, pointing at the freezer.
We clambered across the tile floor. My hip hit one of the sinks. I went down, tripping Gitta. She tumbled on top of me, and a dish rack came down on both of us. Gitta screamed.
“Shit!” I said. I shoved aside the dish rack, sending it clattering across the floor. Gitta’s elbow punched my stomach as she tried to rise. I gasped for breath, then grabbed her shoulders and rolled both of us onto our sides. I got onto all fours, then stood and pulled Gitta up by the hand.
We rushed to the freezer. I pulled out the mop and swung the heavy door open. A blast of cold air hit us.
Lars was slumped along the far wall in a fetal position. The hood of his sweatshirt enveloped his head. His left hand was tucked inside his opposite armpit, and his right hand clutched an unopened plastic Coke bottle.
“Baby!” Gitta screamed.
I dove to him. His lips were blue, his skin translucent, and his teeth chattered. I grabbed his feet and dragged him toward the entrance. He remained curled. Gitta maneuvered behind him and pushed as I pulled. We got him out of the freezer just as I heard sirens in the distance.
“Mom,” Lars mumbled.
“It’s okay, baby,” Gitta said, stroking his forehead. “I’m here now. You’re going to be okay.”
“We need to huddle around him,” I said. “Transfer our body heat.”
Gitta wrapped her arms and legs around him on one side, and I did the same on the other, sandwiching him between us.
The sirens outside got louder, then abruptly stopped.
“C . . . c . . . coke,” Lars mumbled.
Gitta and I looked at each other.
“C-coke,” he repeated. His hand still clutched the Coke bottle.
“You want a drink of your Coke?” I asked.
He shook his head violently. “Mi . . . Miss . . . La . . . Fleur,” he stammered. “Prin . . . principal. Ser . . . served C-coke.”
“Shh, Lars,” Gitta said. “You don’t need to talk now.”
But he continued. “W . . . went to . . . get . . . Coke . . . in . . . kitchen. G-got . . . sh-shoved . . . in.”
I heard a stampede of footsteps.
I slipped the Coke bottle out of Lars’s fingers and into my jacket pocket just as Detective Reilly, accompanied by Officers Hernandez and Fernandez and two paramedics, burst through the kitchen’s swinging doors.
“Kevin!” Gitta screamed.
Reilly reached us in two strides. He crouched and gently pried Gitta’s fingers off Lars. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said. “Let the medics handle it now.”
“What happened?” one of the paramedics asked.
“We found him in the walk-in freezer,” I said. “He said he was pushed in.”
Lars shivered as I kept myself pressed against him.
“How long was he in there?” the paramedic asked.
“About half an hour,” I said. It had been that long since Gitta had received the call from Lars saying someone was following him in the kitchen.
“Okay, please step back and let us work,” the other paramedic said.
Reluctantly, I unwrapped myself from around Lars. I felt like I was failing to protect him. Hell, I had failed.
Gitta, Reilly, and I rose. The paramedics lifted Lars onto a gurney, bundled him in heating packs and blankets, started an IV and oxygen flow, strapped him down, then rolled him out to a waiting ambulance to take him to East Boca Hospital.
Reilly turned to me. “I’m going to escort Gitta outside to ride in the ambulance with Lars. But I want to talk to you. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Like I could move with Hernandez and Fernandez there.
When Reilly returned, his face was as red as his hair. “So you’re at it again, Horowitz,” he said. “Messing in police business. Gitta just now told me all about your little undercover operation at The Oasis and how Lars ended up in here.” His voice rose. “I could have you arrested for interfering with a police investigation. And endangering the welfare of a minor.” He leaned in closer to me. “And this is personal. I’m going to marry that woman, although she doesn’t know that yet. That’s my future stepson we’re talking about.”
“Reilly,” I sighed, “there’s nothing you can say that will make me feel worse than I already do. Let’s set aside our bickering. We’ve got bigger things to focus on.”
“Agreed.” He turned to the uniforms. “Fernandez, secure the scene. Hernandez, call the crime scene techs. I’m going to the hospital to get the boy’s statement.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I said. I had two reasons to be at the hospital: Lars. And Lior.
Outside, I straddled my bike and took off, still recriminating myself about Lars. And about Gardenia LaFleur. All this time I’d thought she was the kids’ foster mother, because she had called them her “children.” But according to Lars, she was the principal of Sterling Heights.
I remembered the news report I’d seen on TV about the principals’ convention at the Boca Beach Hilton. One of the principals who was interviewed had spoken of her “kids.” The word wasn’t literal—it was commonly used by teachers and principals as an expression of their feelings for their students. I’d been an idiot to make an unfounded assumption.
Who knew what I could have accomplished by now on this case—not to mention sparing Lior and Lars—if not for that stupid mistake. I could have been checking out the school from the start, instead of going on wild goose chases after Social Climber, Stillwater, and Shrimp Pimp at The Oasis. In anger, I flicked my right wrist to speed up the bike, changed lanes, and roared down the road.
Rush hour had come and gone while we’d dealt with life and death, and traffic on the Boca streets now flowed at a steady pace. My Hog pulsated its rhythmic vibe as the pavement rolled underneath my feet. Soon, my heart began to beat in sync with the pistons. As it often did, the bike transported not only my body, but my mind into a different dimension.
And that’s when everything fell into place, and I realized what had really happened to the kids at The Oasis.
Chapter 18
I ARRIVED AT THE hospital facing an agonizing decision—should I see Lior or Lars first? Both had been victimized because of me. But now I also knew who had tried to kill them. And why. So the person I really needed to see was Reilly.
I pulled up to the ER entrance, parked the Hog, and rushed inside the sliding glass doors. The waiting room was nearly filled with people in various degrees of distress, from dozing to dazed. I ran to the front desk, which was manned by . . . well, a man. It’s not like I was in a state of mind to take note of his features and fashion. He was a faceless bureaucrat. But when it came to dealing with bureaucrats, I knew from past experience that my habitual Dirty Harry demeanor would likely be perceived as belligerent, so I did my best to tamp down my agitation.
“Hi,” I said. “A young man was just brought in—Lars O’Malley. A police detective is probably with him. I’d like to go speak to the detective, please.”
“And you would be . . .”
“Harriet Horowitz, a friend of the family.”
“I’m sorry, but only family members are allowed back in the treatment bays.”
I took a deep breath to keep from blowing my stack. “Perhaps you could ask Detective Reilly if he could come out here to speak with me for a moment? It’s urgent police business.”
“Certainly I can ask.” He picked up a phone on the desk and relayed the message. “The detective will be right out.”
Gee, maybe I really needed to use the diplomatic approach more often.
Reilly strode out of the treatment area into the waiting room, a scowl on his face. “What is it, Horowitz? I’m a little busy here.”
I ignored the sarcasm in his tone. “How’s Lars?”
“Lying under a pile of electric blankets and warming lamps. He’ll recover, but he’s in no shape to talk now.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “I have some information for you. Can we go over to the corner where it’s more private?”
Reilly rolled his eyes but followed me to an alcove in the far corner of the room. We stood facing each other.
“I know who trapped Lars in that freezer,” I said.
Reilly raised his eyebrows.
“Gardenia LaFleur, the school principal.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“Because Lars figured out that Gardenia had spiked the kids’ Coke. So she had to kill him.”
“She spiked their Coke—with what, alcohol?”
“No, a stimulant—Turbo Brain. It’s a liquid supplement that improves focus and concentration. I saw an ad for it on TV.”
“Why would Gardenia do that?”
“To improve their reading scores. According to the Contessa, reading scores on standardized tests at Sterling Heights Academy have shot up miraculously since Gardenia LaFleur took over as principal. Here’s how I think she did that. During reading classes, she served Coke—laced with Turbo Brain. I think she was giving them high doses—much more than the couple drops that are recommended. So the kids got addicted to the drug—and it’s almost like they got addicted to Coke and reading, too. It’s the whole conditioned and unconditioned stimulus-response thing.”
Reilly looked at me like I had antennae springing from my head.
“Bear with me, Reilly. Here are some facts. One”—I raised my index finger—“Demarcus, the murder victim, was found clutching a torn half of a phone book and an empty Coke bottle. Two”—middle finger—“Jessica and Amber, the girls who fought in the dining room, were arguing over a Coke bottle. Three”—ring finger—“reading materials have been disappearing from The Oasis—menus, brochures, everything. Four”—pinky—“I found a stash of printed materials hidden in the air-conditioning vent of a restroom at The Oasis. And five”—thumb—“just now in the school cafeteria I slipped on a piece of card stock that said ‘bo Bra.’ That wasn’t from a bra—it was torn from a package of Turbo Brain. Gardenia must have dropped it in her rush to get out of the kitchen after she shoved Lars in the freezer.”
Reilly stared at me, looking incredulous.
“Don’t you see?” I grabbed his forearm. “The kids were in withdrawal. They were craving Turbo Brain—except they didn’t know that. From their perspective, what they were craving was Coke and reading, since that’s what they associated with feeling ultra-focused, ultra-energetic, ultra-alert. So they fought—and killed—over access to Coke and reading material.”
Reilly shook his head. “Speculation, Horowitz. Pure, wild, speculation.”
I dug my fingers further into his forearm. “Those kids had no trace of drugs in their systems. Why? Because normal drug screening doesn’t test for Turbo Brain. No one realized what the kids were actually addicted to.”
“Horowitz, you have a fevered imagination. I, on the other hand, have a real investigation to conduct.” He pulled his arm away and turned to go.
“Wait. Just wait. Let me explain.”
“You have been explaining, if that’s what you call it.”
“Just give me one more minute. One minute—that’s all.”
He sighed dramatically. “Fine. One minute. That’s it.”
“Okay, look. Lior was attacked last night at The Oasis. He was injected with some kind of stimulant. But the doctors didn’t know what—again, because Turbo Brain wouldn’t show up on normal blood and urine screens.”
“Yeah, I heard about Lior’s attack at this morning’s police briefing. Actually I wondered what your man was doing there with some woman named Hailey. Now I know.”
I ignored that. “I think Gardenia is the one who attacked Lior. I saw her twice at The Oasis. She was acting grief-stricken, but that was probably a cover for her to snoop around to see if anyone was onto her. Last night, Lior and I were in the Meditation Maze. I’d stake my life that Gardenia was there, too.”
“And why do you say that?
“Because earlier that day, I heard Dr. Stillwater encourage Gardenia to go for a walk on the grounds. So I bet that in the maze, Gardenia overheard me tell Lior what was going on at The Oasis. She saw that I posed a threat. She tried to kill me but missed and got Lior instead.”
“So she just happened to have a hypodermic needle with this Turbo Brain on her?”
“I heard Gardenia tell Stillwater that she used insulin shots—so she must have a suppl
y of needles and syringes. That’s how she injected Lior, and I bet that’s how she got the Turbo Brain into the Coke bottles. By injecting it—probably through the plastic bottle caps.”
“And how do you figure Lars found this out?”
“He’s a health nut, right? He wouldn’t go near a Coke bottle with a ten-foot pole. But he must have been in a class where he saw Gardenia serve Coke to the other kids. Then he would have seen its effects on them. Alertness, eagerness, excitement . . . who acts like that in a classroom normally?”
Reilly grunted.
“Lars has lived with a cocaine-addicted mother all his life,” I said. “Cocaine is a stimulant. So he’d know the signs when he saw them. Just now at the school, he told me he’d gone to the kitchen to get a Coke bottle. Why would he do that since he doesn’t drink the stuff? It had to be because he wanted to have it analyzed to prove his suspicion. Gardenia followed him and shoved him into the freezer.”
“Okay, Horowitz. Your one minute is up.” Reilly turned to leave.
“Here!” I pulled the Coke bottle out of my leather jacket pocket. “This is the evidence.” I shoved it up to his face. “Lars was holding this when we found him. Have it tested. I’m telling you, you’ll find Turbo Brain.”
“Horowitz, even if I had the slightest belief in this cockamamie story you’ve cooked up, your so-called evidence wouldn’t mean a thing. Even if it’s true that Lars was holding it, as you say, you, Miss Private Detective, have bypassed any evidential chain of custody by taking it from him. If it were to contain this Turbo Brain, there’s no way to prove you didn’t put it in there yourself.”
Shit. He was right.
“Besides,” Reilly went on, “as you said, this stuff isn’t picked up by normal tests. We’d have to send it to the state lab—and in case you haven’t heard while living in your fantasy world, they have a backlog of weeks. Now, I’ve heard enough from your crazed imagination. I’m going back to see if the actual victim can give me any information now.”
I watched him walk away, mentally kicking myself in the ass. Goddammit. I collapsed onto a leather chair and buried my head in my hands.
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