Kyle (Hope City Book 4)

by Maryann Jordan

  Tammy was a bundle of energy, and before Kimberly knew what was happening, she was being dragged into the other woman’s office and ushered to a chair.

  “This is a red-letter day for me! I just got finished talking to some detectives and this afternoon I get interviewed about my job.”

  Having just sat down, Kimberly grabbed her pen and notebook quickly as she looked at Tammy. “Detectives?”

  Bobbing her head up and down, bouncing her grey curls, Tammy said, “Yes, you just missed them. We had some excitement last Friday when one of our delivery vans got held up by men with guns and all the drugs were stolen!”

  Her eyes jerked open wide. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Well, that’s always a threat when you’re transporting pharmaceuticals. Nefarious criminals are always wanting the drugs!”

  She fought a lip quirk at Tammy’s description. Nefarious criminals. “Yes, I’m sure that’s a problem.” Thinking back to the research she’d started on pharmaceuticals on the black market, she murmured, “I wonder what happened to the stolen drugs. And what they were.”

  Tammy’s brow lifted and she leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Well, I’ll tell you what was stolen. It was a van full of all sorts of drugs, but it also included opioids going to a clinic. Oh, yes… that’ll bring someone a pretty-penny when it’s sold!”

  Unable to hide her shock, she slumped back in her chair. More bad news for Kilton!

  Glancing around the office, her gaze landed on a framed picture of Tammy shaking hands with the president of Kilton Pharmaceuticals and a certificate proclaiming her to be Employee of the Year. Hoping to get something she could print, she prodded, “Tell me about that award.”

  Tammy grinned widely and leaned back in her chair, her former air of concern having fled. “I’ve been at Kilton since it began twenty years ago and started out as a secretary. Back then, that’s all they let me do. We weren’t called fancy things like administrative assistants. No, sir! We were just secretaries. But I was tickled to be working in a big factory, so I didn’t care what they called me…”

  Parking in the alley behind her townhouse, Kimberly rolled her now-empty trashcan through the gate and settled it near the back door. Her day had been full, but she felt a buoyancy long missing from endless hours sitting at a computer retyping sales information into brochures. An idea had formed since she met with Tammy and she could not wait to talk to the editor of the e-magazine to see if he would be interested. The idea of doing a series of articles on interesting, everyday people in Hope City filled her mind. And the bouncy, excitable, Employee of the Year would be first on her list.

  After dumping her purse on the counter, she continued through her narrow kitchen to the stairs, jogging up to her bedroom. Deciding on a quick shower before dinner, she was soon back downstairs, barefoot, and dressed in comfortable clothes. Staring into the refrigerator for a few minutes, she finally decided on the leftover takeout from the day before. Once reheated, she sat at her small table and ate while reviewing the notes she had taken from the day’s interviews. That afternoon, she had gained more insight into the inner workings of the company through the average employees.

  Rinsing off her dishes, she grabbed her laptop and notebook and moved into the living room, piling onto the sofa. She typed up her notes, careful to pull tidbits from the recesses of her mind. After that, she developed the idea for her series and sent it to her editor.

  By now, the sun was beginning to set, one of her favorite times of the day. Pouring a glass of wine, she walked upstairs and through the second bedroom to the deck.

  Hope City was filled with thousands of rowhouses, most built in the late 1800s. Because of the harbor, the city had been filled with shipbuilders, carpenters, sailors, harbor workers, manufacturers, and craftsmen, all needing housing. By the mid-1900s many of the properties became derelict, and Hope City was desperate for revitalization. Many of them had been restored, snapped up at a low price, gutted and refurbished, and were now the envy of many families and young professionals.

  And many, like hers, had had a rooftop deck added, something the original builders would have never considered. Thank God, Bob did!

  Stepping through the door, she carried her glass of wine and tablet over to her comfortable lounger. She did not see Bob, but a few of her other neighbors were out on their decks, tossing a wave her way. Granted, the view was not spectacular by anyone’s standards. She overlooked the other rowhouses and alley behind her building. But the sky stretched above, the setting sun painted muted colors over the blue palette, and the breeze from the harbor in the distance brought a freshness to the air. Sipping wine, she continued with more of her research.

  Her phone rang and she grinned, seeing the e-magazine editor. “Chuck, did you get my email?”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m calling. Gotta tell you, Kimberly, I’m excited about your Faces of Hope City concept.”

  “Great! I interviewed a woman today who’s perfect! She’s worked at Kilton since the beginning and was a hoot to talk to.”

  “Can’t wait to read what you’ve got. But, listen, you also mentioned more than just employees. I agree you should spread out into all walks of life. Even those that might be a little difficult to connect with.”

  “I’m going to the Cardboard Cottages tomorrow with a church group… I might find some to interview there.”

  “Absolutely. Listen, I’m not saying write an exposé, because that’s not your expertise anyway. You don’t have to be an investigative journalist to do some digging. Give me the faces of those affected by the illegal use of drugs. I know Kilton only wants good news, but readers would love to hear the human-interest angle of all kinds of people. At least think about it, okay?”

  He sent a link to a news article, and she clicked on the link after ending the call. Quickly scanning the information, she recognized the article as one she had read earlier. It described the opioid crisis, including the illegal use of adding fentanyl to drugs such as heroin to make them more potent and more addictive.

  Heading downstairs, she moved into the living room and settled on the sofa with her laptop. The article also delved into how stolen legal fentanyl was used to further addiction, creating a multi-million-dollar illicit industry. She wondered if that was what was happening to the stolen Kilton drugs. Staring at the computer screen, she continued clicking through articles. Homelessness was mentioned when many who spent all their money on their addiction often lost everything, including their homes.

  Leaning back in her chair with her foot propped beside her and her chin resting on her knee, she sighed heavily. She had no idea what she would do, but a slither of curiosity snaked through her as her mind raced with possibilities.

  10

  Kimberly stared out the windshield of her small car, uncertainty slamming into her. She had helped Father James and others from the church pack up blankets and food, but now her curiosity in seeing the actual faces called to her. Need mixed with suspicion. Gratitude that made her feel humble.

  The church group had taken a different exit ramp and delivered items on the other side of the highway bridge, staying at a distance, having some of the male residents come forward to take the offerings. Disappointed that they had not gotten closer, one of the helpers mentioned having seen women and children on the other side the previous week.

  After saying goodbye to Father James, she drove back to the highway and made her way to a different exit ramp near the harbor. She curved around until she could view the Cardboard Cottages from the other side. Near the outer perimeter were a few tents, and she could see children playing ball on the hard-packed dirt. No parks. No grass. No trees. Her heart squeezed at the idea of their life spent in what looked like a third world camp just on the fringes of a modern metropolis. A large metal barrel was nearby, flames barely visible from the top. The early spring morning had a chill to the air, and a few women stood around the barrel, their fingers extended for warmth as they talked and kept an eye on the ch
ildren.

  As her gaze roved further under the bridges, there were very few lights to illuminate the area. But what she could see appeared to be a conglomeration of metal sheets, plywood, and cardboard making up the housing.

  She sat for several minutes, trying to both determine the best course of action and regain her nerves which had fled at the first sight of the area. She had dressed for comfort and warmth but wondered about her red sweatshirt hoodie. Is it better for safety to stand out in a bright color, or am I just bringing undue attention to myself?

  Seeing a few women outside the tents, she decided to approach them. She had no illusions that they would welcome her with open arms, but perhaps a woman talking to another woman would be safer, especially with children around. She had chosen a small backpack as her purse and carried several packs of fruit gummies, wondering if the women would allow her to give them to the children. Or would that be seen as frivolous? Her fingers wrapped around a small canister of pepper spray. Hoping she wouldn’t need it, she decided that it would be best in her jeans pocket, ready to grab if needed.

  Wishing she had done more research on the homeless in the area, she sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Nerves still shooting through her, she thought of Bekki’s fire for investigative journalism. While investigative journalism was not Kimberly’s forte, her curiosity was still piqued from her editor’s call.

  Throwing open the door, she slung her backpack over one shoulder and glanced down, glad that she was wearing jeans and flat shoes. Crunching over the gravel, she walked toward the burn barrel. The children did not stop playing, and she wondered if they were used to outsiders coming by. Plastering a smile on her face, she approached the women at the barrel, not missing their hard stares.

  Two of them slowly stepped back, caution in their every move as they made their way over to the children playing. Two others stood firm, their gazes almost daring her to approach. Fighting the desire to run back to the safety of her car, she stopped several feet away. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here. I’m not really sure myself,” she blurted. She winced, her words sounding stupid to her own ears, and she could only imagine what she sounded like to them.

  “You some church lady who wants to come down here and think our souls need saving?” one of the women asked.

  The woman was much younger than Kimberly had first imagined. Her face was thin, and while her blonde hair was not very clean, it was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Glancing to the side, she saw a little blonde-haired girl and wondered if it was hers.

  Shaking her head, she said, “No. I was writing some articles when… um… well, I thought this area might… um…”

  “Yeah, it sounds like you don’t know why you’re here,” the other woman said. She was of indeterminate age, the creases emanating from her eyes and around her mouth possibly from harsh living conditions more than age.

  “What kind of articles?” the blonde woman asked.

  Uncertainty was no longer snaking through her but was blasting her with an icy wind. Stepping back, she shook her head slightly and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you—”

  “Hell, girl. If you don’t get a stiffer backbone, you ain’t never gonna get your story,” the older woman said.

  Her feet stumbled to a halt, and she recognized the tiny olive branch the woman was holding. “You’re right, I won’t. I’m just not sure how to ask the right questions without sounding offensive.”

  “Well, Margo and me ain’t gonna bite, so why don’t you go ahead and ask? If we don’t want to answer something… we won’t.”

  “I’m Kimberly.”

  “I’m Aleeta, and as I said, this here is Margo.”

  Looking over her shoulder at the little blonde girl, she turned back and asked, “Is she yours, Margo?”

  Margo smiled, and Kimberly’s breath caught in her throat at the transformation. Margo’s obvious pride in her daughter gave her face a glow as she nodded.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t come with much, but I have some packets of fruit gummies. Would it be okay if I gave them to the kids?” Gaining their acquiescence, she pulled out the packets and held them in her hands, grinning as the children ran over. They halted several feet away, and she glanced back toward Aleeta and Margo.

  “You can have ‘em,” Aleeta called out. “You know what to say.”

  The children took the packs of candy, each thanking Kimberly before they ran off with their treasures. The children were so happy with so little, and she swallowed deeply past the lump in her throat.

  Turning back to the women, she let out a long breath and plunged forward. “I work for Kilton Pharmaceutical Company. I was writing a series of articles about the good that the company does. But I also know that even good drugs that get in the hands of people who abuse them or sell them lead to addiction.” She observed Margo and Aleeta’s faces carefully but discerned no change in expression. She looked past them into the depths underneath the bridge where the cardboard homes were shrouded in darkness and said, “I’m not brave enough to walk in there, so I’m not really sure why I’m here. I guess I thought I might find someone safe who’d talk to me.”

  Looking over her shoulder, Aleeta snorted. “Hell, honey. You wouldn’t have to be brave to walk in there, just dumber n’ dirt. Me and Margo live out here where it’s safer. And we keep an eye on our kids. Just ‘cause we’re homeless don’t mean we’re stupid.”

  The tension in her shoulders relaxed slightly, and her lips curved. “I definitely don’t think you’re stupid.”

  Aleeta’s lips quirked upward for the first time and, just like with Margo, it transformed her face. Cocking her head to the side, she said, “We might not be able to tell you much, but ask your questions. Who knows? You might learn something anyway.”

  By now, the two other women had made their way back to the barrel, and Kimberly chatted with all four. Her initial questions fell to the side as she spent time just finding out about their lives. Their hard luck stories were as varied as the women themselves, but their determination to work to better their children's situation warmed her heart.

  When she finally got around to asking about drugs, Margo shook her head.

  “I’ve never been around drugs, and I don’t want my kids near it. I know what goes on around here, but I stay away from it. It scares me.”

  Aleeta’s face had grown hard again. She stared off into the distance before swinging her gaze back around to Kimberly. “My old man was a user. Sucked up every dime we had. Hell, by the time I left his ass, his habit had lost our home and my job. Last I saw of him he was lying on the street after we got evicted with the damn needle stuck in his arm.”

  Kimberly tried to hide her shock but had no doubt her opened-mouth, wide-eyed face gave her away. “I’m so sorry!”

  Aleeta snorted. “I got away. Got a job, but it doesn’t pay much. Least here, I’ve got no rent.”

  She sucked in her lips for a few seconds, her mind racing over the information she had been given. “What about fentanyl? Do you ever hear about that?”

  “Heard my man talk about fenty. Don’t know if that’s what you’re talking about. I guess I stuck my head in the sand, thinking that if I didn’t know anything about what he was doing it wouldn’t affect me. That didn’t work.”

  Kimberly reached over and placed her hand on Aleeta’s arm. “You were focused on yourself and your kids and did what you had to do.”

  Aleeta looked down at her arm, and Kimberly jerked her hand back. Afraid that she had offended her, she breathed a sigh of relief at the slow smile that crossed Aleeta’s face.

  “It’s got a lot of names,” one of the other women said. She shrugged when Kimberly looked toward her and added, “Everybody was a user where I came from. That shit can be added to H and make you feel invincible.”

  The morning’s discussions weighed heavily on her. “Thank you so much for talking to me.” Glancing back to the children who were now sitting on the dirt, she watched t
hem play with makeshift toys. A strong breeze was blowing, and she was glad they had jackets but wondered what else they might need. She turned back to the women still standing at the burn barrel. “I’d like to bring something for your children. What would be the best thing?” Seeing Aleeta shake her head, she could feel Aleeta’s pride settling like a cloak around her shoulders. “Please, I’d like to help. I know it wouldn’t be much, but it would be for the kids.”

  “Fruit.”

  Looking over at Margo, she blinked, surprised at the answer. Nodding quickly, she agreed. “I can do that. I can bring fruit when I come back.”

  Aleeta offered a swift nod. “Fruit would be good. You want to talk more, we’ll be around.”

  Stepping back, she waved goodbye and began walking past some of the tents. She no longer felt afraid with the sun high in the sky but slipped her pepper spray into one hand while beginning to record her thoughts into her phone.

  The breeze still had a nip to it, and her hoodie fell back from her face. Instead of walking directly to her car, she skirted the perimeter, not getting too close to the other tents but giving her a chance to talk through her impressions while they were still clear in her mind.

  Her car was just up ahead, and she picked up her pace as she continued recording into her phone. Deeply focused on her task, she didn’t hear footsteps behind her until a voice roared, “Stop. Police!”

  Startled, she whirled toward the sound, instinctively lifting her hand and pressing the button. The pepper spray was immediately swept back toward her with the breeze, and she gasped as she tried to duck, blinking and sputtering in a desperate attempt to breathe.

  Unable to see, her body collided with a hard wall that encircled her as she fell toward the ground. Desperate to get away, she flailed and kicked, unable to see her assailant.

  “Stay down!”

  Facedown in the dirt, the words he’d said earlier came back to her mind. Police! It felt as though there was a weight on her, but she had enough room to lift her hand and swiped at her streaming eyes and nose. She heard rapidly approaching footsteps, but her vision was blurry, and she was unable to see who was coming.