by Shirl Henke
“You think Scruggs gave them the slip?” Matt asked, dubious.
“Pretty hard to believe in a car that easy to spot. No place to hide around here,” she replied, scanning the flat horizon that stretched to the south. “Let’s roll. We’ll check on Scruggs once we get back to Miami. Somehow I have a gut feeling we haven’t heard the last of good ole El.”
“Funny thing. So do I,” Matt said.
After a lengthy heart-to-heart, Sam moved Farley to the backseat and sat beside him, ready to restrain him if he tried anything crazy again. They ate supper in a roadside diner, then stopped for the night in Macon and got a motel. This time Sam paid extra for a lighted parking lot with a security guard. “I don’t want to come out at dawn and find my tires slashed or any other alterations to the engine,” she said.
Matt only grinned, knowing how it killed her to pay for decent lodging. They had the same sleeping arrangements as before with adjoining rooms. After allowing Farley to shower and change into pj’s, Sam cuffed him to his bed. “You get some sleep while we decide what to do when we get to Miami,” Matt told the boy.
“You can’t let Dr. Reicht have me. He’s one of them—the Pandorians. I know he is,” Farley said, shaking his head, as if trying to clear it.
“What about your father?” Matt asked, curious to see what the boy would say.
“N-no! He’s one of them, too. They’re in it together. He’s bad.” Then he stopped suddenly.
“Don’t worry, Farley,” Sam assured him, wanting to stop another panic attack. “We aren’t going to give you to either your father or the doctor.”
“Then what are you going to do with me?” the kid asked, sounding frightened.
“Good question. I have some contacts. We’ll find a safe place for you until we figure out this mess,” she replied.
“I know where he can stay,” Matt said.
Both Farley and Sam looked at him.
“A real Spacefleet officer’s house,” he replied with a smile.
Chapter 15
“Okay, so who’s this Spacefleet officer? Anyone I know?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, it is. His name’s Bill Montoya.” He couldn’t resist a grin when she blinked in astonishment.
“As in Captain Montoya, Miami-Dade Tac-Ops? No way.”
“Way. He’s been a Spacer since he was in college. I interviewed him after one of the section’s dogs found that lost toddler a couple of years ago. While we were talking, I happened to notice an autographed photo of Captain Turk on the wall in his office and we got to talking about it. He’s the president of the Miami chapter.”
“It’s an international organization with local chapters in ninety-three countries around the world,” Farley said. “I belong to the Miami Chapter. Captain Montoya’s our regional commander, but I’ve never had the chance to meet him.” He sounded excited about the prospect.
Funny how the kid could be so clear on some things, so fuzzy on others, Sam thought. “Are you a member, too?” she asked Matt.
“No. When I started working for the Herald, I didn’t have time. Maybe I’ll have to re-up to get Bill to give us a hand.”
“You think he’ll go for it?” She was dubious.
“If we explained the situation to him, yes, I think he will. The Montoyas have three teens around Farley’s age and his wife’s parents live with them, so there’d be plenty of supervision. They’re good people, Sam—even if Bill and his kids are Spacers.”
She threw up her hands. “Hey, you’re the one volunteering for them, not me. If they agree, go for it.”
“What say, Farley?” Matt asked. “Will an honest-to-God Spacefleet captain be okay with you?” He had no idea what he’d do if the kid said no.
Farley brightened at the idea. “Yes. Maybe he’ll know about what’s happened to Leila. He might be able to help with our mission.”
“Right now your mission is to stay safe and out of the hands of those goons who tried to run over you and blast you with automatic weapons,” Sam said. “Let us look for your friend Leila.”
“You sent the police after El,” Farley accused her.
“I didn’t have to. If you recall, he was pointing a very large gun at Matt’s head. Highway patrolmen happen to take a real dim view of stuff like that.”
“He wouldn’t have shot you. Only stunned you,” Farley said to Matt.
Right. “Glocks don’t come equipped with stun settings, Far,” Sam said. “It wasn’t a dazer.”
“I—I d-don’t k-know. I didn’t s-see the gun, but El’s my friend.” The boy sounded utterly miserable and was tensing up again.
“We’re your friends, too,” she said earnestly, praying he wouldn’t have another withdrawal attack. He’d made it through the day without any more pills and she wanted to keep him off the stuff, if possible, until they got a full medical evaluation in Miami.
“We’ll see if the authorities in Georgia have released Elvis as soon as we get you safely back to Miami,” Matt said. “I promise.”
“How about we all get some sleep?” Sam suggested.
Taking her cue, Matt yawned loudly. “I’m hitting the hay,” he said, turning off the bedside light in their room.
Farley dropped back onto his bed and closed his eyes. Sam gave Matt a quick buss on his whiskery cheek, then walked to her room and flicked out the lights. She lay down on the bed, which seemed lonely without Matt’s big body. Trying not to think about that, she considered Farley.
Whether he trusted them even a little was still impossible to gauge. The only thing she was certain about was that the kid knew more than he was telling them. But about what? Maybe when they had him safely stashed in Miami and could start digging on Roman Numeral and the smarmy shrink, they’d find out. She hoped so. The kid had been given a raw deal in life.
First thing in the morning the trio ate a hearty breakfast in the motel’s restaurant. Then while Sam lingered over her third cup of coffee, Matt excused himself to make a call to Montoya. He returned smiling as if he’d just won the lottery. Apparently the kid had gotten to him same as her, Sam thought.
“Bill will he happy to have Farley stay with him until we can clear this mess up. He even recommended a doctor at the Cedars Med Center.”
“I don’t need a psychiatrist!” Farley protested. Several people around them stopped eating and stared at him.
In a low voice, Sam said, “Dr. Reicht gave you some bad medicine, Farley. We have to find out what’s in it and what it’s done to you. You have to see a doctor so they can run some tests. We won’t let them lock you away. I promise.”
Farley turned from her to Matt. “Will Captain Montoya be there?”
“If you want, I’ll ask him to meet us there, but first we have a long hard drive ahead of us. Okay?”
“Okay,” Farley agreed. He looked suspiciously around the crowded restaurant filled with tourists and people eating before heading to work, as if trying to figure out who the Klingoffs in disguise were.
Sam said a silent prayer to St. Jude, promising the impossible. Just let us get the kid safely to Miami and I’ll go back to church. Honest.
Captain William Montoya was a tall man in his late forties with curly dark hair just going salt-and-pepper. He wore a pencil-thin mustache and had movie star teeth. Though handsome enough to play a starship captain, he was a consummate professional police officer, extremely well thought of by the men and women who worked in the Tactical Operations Section he commanded.
He met them in the waiting room at the Cedars Medical Center where the psychiatrist he’d recommended was evaluating Farley. The cool pale green walls were offset by a brilliant morning sunrise pouring liquid gold through the windows. The room was deserted except for one elderly couple who sat at the opposite end, engrossed in a morning news show.
After they exchanged hellos, Matt explained, “Dr. Bester’s still waiting for blood analyses and other test results. We owe you big-time for helping with this, Bill.”
�
�Glad to do it. Any time we get a kid off drugs and under good medical care, it makes our work easier.” He looked at the dark circles ringing their eyes and their rumpled clothing. “You look as if neither of you’ve slept in a week.”
“It’s been pretty hairy getting the Winchester boy back in one piece,” Sam said.
“Matt told me about the attempts to kidnap, then kill the boy—and you in the process. I understand his family’s choice in shrinks leaves something to be desired. I asked my friends over in Narcotics to run a check on this Reicht guy. Sounds as if he might be involved in the…ah, illegal pharmacy business.”
“Yeah, I talked to Patowski about him a couple of days ago. Lots of nasty rumors floating around but nothing anybody can nail him with…yet.”
Montoya knew she’d left Homicide under a cloud but didn’t indicate it as he nodded, stroking his mustache while he listened to what they’d learned so far about Reicht. When Sam mentioned Farley’s fixation on Leila Satterwaite, he immediately interrupted her. “You haven’t heard any local TV news since you’ve been on the road, have you?”
“No. Too beat last night to even flip on the remote. Why?” Sam asked.
“This Satterwaite woman, was she a tall blonde, flashy dresser—a stripper?”
“That’s her ‘cover’ according to Farley,” Sam said. “What do you know about her?”
“She’s wearing a toe tag in the morgue. Homicide fished her out of the Intracoastal below Rickenbacker yesterday. She’d been beaten and then strangled. Would’ve washed out to sea if not for a lucky fluke. A fishing trawler’s nets got fouled up and guess what they found?”
“Gruesome. Farley will take this pretty hard,” Matt said. “Might be best not to tell him yet.” The captain nodded.
“When did she die?” Sam asked.
“M.E. says the injuries were about a week old. Being in the water makes it harder to calculate. She was in pretty rough shape, but their best guess, she was killed no more than forty-eight hours ago.”
“Any idea who did it?” Sam asked.
“Not my bailiwick, but I don’t think Homicide has any leads so far.”
“I’ll find out if Patty’s working the case,” she said.
Just then the door to the medical facility swung open and a small man with straight black hair and a worried expression approached them. He wore a white coat identifying him as Dr. Bester. “Your young friend is fortunate to be as coherent as he is, all things considered,” he said to Sam and Matt, looking questioningly at Montoya, who showed the psychiatrist his badge while Matt made introductions.
“Captain Montoya’s going to be taking care of Farley for now,” Sam said.
“Well, somebody needs to. He’s been on enough contra-indicated medication to produce more violent personalities than a stadium of hockey fans.”
“You mean besides the Clozaril prescribed for him?” Matt asked.
“Although not at all well-advised, that was the least of it. He’s been given injections. I’d hazard to say for at least a month or more. A nasty hallucinogenic combo showed up in his blood work. Enough to cause the rapid shifts in reality perception you described, as well as the panic attacks and dreamy vagueness. I’d recommend he remain under observation for several days.”
“Is there still enough of this stuff in his blood to make him a danger to himself?” Sam asked.
“That’s difficult to say, but any deviation in routine or sudden upset could trigger another episode such as the ones he’s experienced over the past several days.”
If they could get him home with Montoya, Sam doubted Winchester would dare to send Reicht to whisk him off for more swell drug cocktails. “So, if we kept him quiet, someplace safe and hired a psych nurse to take care of him, he’d be all right?” she persisted. If they left him here the doctor would be obligated to contact his legal guardian.
Bester looked down at the his reports and considered. “That would be satisfactory, but I would like to monitor his progress. You never did explain about his family.”
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He refused to discuss it.”
Good for Farley. “He has a great-aunt back in Boston, the one who hired us to find him, but that’s about it. She’s too frail to travel, but we’ll keep her posted about his condition.” Sam knew Matt was watching her ad-lib his family background, except that Claudia Witherspoon was about as frail as an M60 tank.
Dr. Bester gave them detailed instructions for how to handle Farley, emphasizing the importance of keeping him hydrated and off any kind of meds, even aspirin. Then he showed them to the room where the boy was being held. “He’s still anxious, insisting that we’re Pandorians, whatever that is.” His expression became faintly puzzled.
Sam looked from Matt to Bill Montoya and suppressed a grin but said nothing as the physician went on, “I’m afraid the orderly had to strap him down before the tech could take blood samples. He was that agitated, but I spent some time showing him that we merely withdrew blood, didn’t inject him with anything. He said someone he called ‘L’ insisted that he not let anyone give him any further injections.”
“Elvis,” Matt corrected, but Sam gave him a sign to say no more.
“Elvis? Does he think the King’s still alive? That’s so common I’d hardly call it delusional,” Bester said dryly.
“Hey, can I go now?” the boy asked when he saw Matt and Sam. “I don’t like hospitals. I told you.”
“Yeah, you’re sprung. This is Captain Montoya from Spacefleet,” Sam replied, watching Farley’s expression turn from hostility to awe as he stood up and saluted, obviously recognizing his hero.
Montoya returned the salute with all seriousness. “At ease, Ensign. Are you ready to ship out?”
“Yes, sir!”
The doctor exchanged a puzzled shrug with Sam as Matt grinned. In an hour, they’d completed the paperwork and Farley headed home with the captain. Before they left, Montoya explained to the physician that under no circumstances was he or any of his staff to tell anyone that Farley had been treated there. Most especially, no one was to know that he would be staying at the captain’s home. If anyone made inquiries, Bester agreed to contact Montoya immediately.
“Once he’s had time to calm down, I want to talk to Farley about Leila,” Sam said to Matt as they drove home. “He keeps saying he saw her ‘transponded’ to a Pandorian ship.” She chewed her lip, mulling over what that might imply.
“You think he witnessed her death?”
“Or maybe her kidnapping. Let’s see what Patty will give me on the case.” She pulled out her cell.
Matt listened to the one-sided conversation. Although she insisted she didn’t miss the force, he sometimes wondered if deep inside she was kidding herself. Oh, the money was a lot better in the retrieval business, but he understood Sam well enough to know that she would have preferred to leave of her own free will. She had been forced to resign because of a screwup that had not been her fault, even though a handful of her former colleagues still blamed her for a rookie’s death.
Matt had a sneaking hunch she blamed herself, too. When she ended the call, he said, “I take it he’s on the case.”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t give me much, though, and I didn’t want to say we’d gotten the word from Bill Montoya. Anyway, the M.E. says Leila Satterwaite was worked over pretty thoroughly before she was killed.”
“Someone wanted to extract information from her. Wonder if they got it?” he mused.
“She worked at a joint called the Pink Pussycat.” Sam looked over at him. He knew every strip joint along the Intracoastal after writing an exposé on the mob connections to prostitution and drugs in Miami nightlife.
“Yes, it’s in South Beach, but no, I’ve never been there. As far as I know it’s clean—or as clean as that kind of place can be.”
“Guess I’ll have to find out,” she said.
“I don’t like the sound of that, Sam.”
“You make nice with you
r pal Ida Kleb and see what the IRS has on Reicht. Let me worry about Leila.”
“You are not going to get a job as a stripper,” he said, knowing even as he formed the words that she would do just that.
She pulled into their private parking spot in the garage under their condo and turned off the ignition. “What? You think I don’t have the right equipment?” she asked, daring him.
Matt sighed. “If ever a man was asked a question with no right answer, this is it.” Once in their condo, he watched her root through her closet until she came up with a skimpy miniskirt, halter top and spike heels. “An outfit I never saw before,” he said, raising one eyebrow.
“A gal in my business has to dress for the occasion. This isn’t the first time I’ve worked undercover, you know.”
“I’m more concerned about what’s uncovered,” he said, watching her shed her shorts and tee. “But as long as you’re gonna get nekked…” He consulted his wristwatch. “It’s only 10:00 a.m. No self-respecting strip club opens before noon.”
“You mean I have a couple of hours to get my beauty rest before I make a job application? I could use some time in bed.”
“Yeah, funny thing…so could I,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms.
Chapter 16
Sam still had a smile on her face when she reached the club precisely three hours later. The Pink Pussycat wasn’t quite as tacky as the name suggested. Then again, what could be, she thought as she strolled toward the low pink stucco building in the heart of the Art Deco district of south Miami Beach. Actually, she could have walked from their condo if not for her wretchedly uncomfortable four-inch heels.
Inside, she blinked to adjust her sight to the dim lighting, a fuzzy pink neon effect that made the cigarette haze around the bar seem somehow less carcinogenic. Loud music, de rigeur for all strip joints, assaulted her ears, some Madonna masterpiece perfectly suited for the woman doing her writhing bump and grind on a big metal pole stage center.
Lousy sense of rhythm. Sam brightened. Her chances of employment just took a big leap forward when she looked around at the strippers working the bar area. A pretty skanky crowd. She caught the bartender’s eye almost immediately. A huge, balding guy with a ridiculous pink bow tie half hidden by folds of blubber at his neck, he leered at her scanty outfit and the equipment it displayed.