Little Lamb Lost

by Margaret Fenton

  I started pacing again, ignoring his question. “Can you look at his computer system?”

  “Sure. I do periodic updates on his software. Why? What’s he done?”

  “I think his son may be involved in Michael’s death.”

  “Trey? How?”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve met him once. Stop that pacing and tell me what’s going on, for God’s sake.”

  I didn’t stop. “Ashley, she’s Michael’s mom, remember?” He nodded. “Ashley had two jobs, one in a restaurant and one cleaning offices at night. Four nights before Michael was killed, Friday, she worked at BaxMed.”

  “So?”

  “So Michael died of a GHB overdose. One of the drugs that BaxMed is developing is very similar to GHB, to treat narcolepsy.”

  “Isn’t that where you fall asleep all the time?”

  “Yes. So, here’s what happened. Ashley goes to work as usual on Friday night. She goes to BaxMed to clean for the first time and sees Trey. She recognizes him.”

  “Why would she know him?”

  “Because he’s her baby’s father’s best friend. There’s a picture of him in Ashley’s apartment. And her baby’s father is a big-time drug addict. I’m betting that they all used to party together.”

  “Oh, but —”

  “So she gets to BaxMed and sees Trey — or sees Trey doing something — I mean, think about it. You’re making GHB, right? Or something very close to it. Granted, it’s for a legitimate reason, to treat this disease. But what’s to stop you from making up an extra batch and selling it on the street? Or to your friends? Or —” I could barely breathe with the realizations hitting me.“Or in your other friend’s nightclub?”

  “And you think Ashley didn’t know what Trey was doing before she saw him that night?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not. I’m willing to bet she does now, and that’s why her son died. And why she almost died. Can you show me what’s on BaxMed’s computers? Is that illegal?”

  “No, it’s not illegal. Just very unethical.”

  “So is killing a twoyear-old.”

  “Right. Come on.”

  He led me back to his office, unfolded a chair and set it next to his. His monitor was the biggest one I’d ever seen. I watched as he logged onto his system, then into BaxMed’s.

  “What if there’s a password?”

  “There is, but I know it. I do their upgrades.”

  “What if they’ve changed it?”

  “There are ways. Be patient.”

  He hit a few more keys and suddenly we were looking at a menu of the contents of BaxMed’s server. “What do you want to look at?”

  “I don’t know.” I hardly expected to find a signed confession, although that would have been lovely. “What do you think?”

  “There’s a ton of document files here.” He clicked and read several of them. “It looks like some letters and applications to the FDA, trying to get approval for tests.”

  “This could take all night, even if we knew what to look for.”

  “Let’s check out the books.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sure. Watch.” He pulled up QuickBooks and logged in a password.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I told you, I upgrade their software. I have my own set of passwords. Let’s see —” He studied something called the main checking ledger for several moments. I’d never used the software and had no idea what I was looking at.

  “There’s an initial deposit of six hundred thousand dollars from Dr. Baxter. A few checks going out to Edgewater Properties. I assume that’s for the rent, then a check to me —” He scrolled down. “A lot of big checks to medical supply companies. Then some checks to about twenty different people.”

  “That must be the study subjects.” I told him what Heinrich had said about people getting paid in clinical trials.

  “Then another deposit from Dr. Baxter for another six hundred grand. Whew, that’s one point two million he’s put into this. I bet that’s most of what he got for his former practice. And it goes fast.” He scrolled down some more. “Here’s another deposit. From Global Holdings of Birmingham. I wonder who they are.”

  “One of Dr. Baxter’s friends told me he had a sponsor. I guess that’s them.”

  “It looks like Global Holdings has been depositing a steady stream of a few thousand dollars every week into BaxMed. It’s what’s keeping them afloat at this point. Barely.”

  We looked through more documents on the Baxter’s server, correspondence and reports, and some statistical data about the medicines they were developing. We didn’t understand the stats much. And we didn’t see anything immediately incriminating. After a while, Grant starting yawning.

  “You should go to bed,” I said.

  “What about you?”

  “I think I’ll stay up a little longer.”

  Grant logged out of BaxMed’s system and loaned me a T-shirt to sleep in. It came almost to my knees. He kissed me good night and I curled up on the couch under the same striped comforter as before. I spent most of the night browsing through TV channels, not really watching, but not able to sleep. Mental pictures of Michael wouldn’t let me rest. I finally drifted off about three thirty.

  Grant kissed me awake — which was nice — at seven. He handed me a hot cup of coffee and sat in the living room with me while I sipped it and tried to get my mind together after only three and a half hours of sleep.

  “So what’s the next step?” he asked.

  “I’m going to talk to the police. First I’ve got to go home and get something to wear to work.”

  “Maybe I should go with you.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m not going to be there long. You can go to work.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I changed back into the clothes I’d worn yesterday, brushed my hair, and locked Grant’s door. I scanned the lot carefully for Jimmy’s truck, but I didn’t see it. He was the only part of the equation that hadn’t come together. What in the world could he have to do with BaxMed? If my theory was right, maybe he was one of Trey’s customers. It wouldn’t be the first time an addict like Ashley had hooked up with another addict. Many romances bloomed in recovery. Maybe Jimmy had relapsed and was protecting his dealer. Still, he didn’t seem like a user. At least not of GHB. I’d never seen him high, and he didn’t have that strung-out-and-desperate look I was so familiar with. Then why would he want to kill me? To keep Ashley’s secret?

  Maybe. Perhaps Ashley wasn’t safe in jail. Maybe by uncovering what she’d been hiding, I was endangering her. Whoever had threatened her might be able to get to her in prison. But if Jimmy killed me, the secret was safe. I hadn’t thought of that before, and it gave me the creeps.

  Noticing the time on the dashboard clock, I pulled my cell phone out of my purse, searched through the calls received, and dialed Kirk’s cell. I could hear traffic in the background when he answered.

  “I need one last favor,” I said.

  “Boy, they’re really piling up. I’m going to get something good.” “Do you know how to find out who owns a certain company?” “Sure, at the courthouse. That’s Investigative Reporting 101.” “I need to know who owns Global Holdings of Birmingham.” “Global Holdings of Birmingham. Gotcha. They’re here in Jefferson County?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll stop by the courthouse on my way to the office.” “Okay, I’m running late to work, so call my cell.”

  Speaking of running late, I called my secretary to tell her I’d be

  there in an hour. Istill had a touch of the willies as I pulled into my carport. I checked the carport door to make sure it was still locked, then the sliding glass door at the back. All was secure. I detoured to the mailbox before letting myself in the front door.

  I threw the mail on the table and went to take a shower, activating the little alarm with the keyring remote as I went down the hall. Out
of my closet I grabbed a pair of jeans and a black V-neck top and set them on the bed. Today was Friday, and we were allowed to dress down a bit, as long as we didn’t have to testify in court. I didn’t have court today, just a home visit in the afternoon, and a huge stack of vouchers to tackle so my kids could get back-to-school supplies and uniforms. Registration time was soon upon us, and things were going to get busy.

  I showered quickly, dried my hair, and went to the bedroom to dress. I heard my cell phone beeping from inside my purse, lying on the bed next to my clothes. I had a message.

  Kirk. “Call me. I’m at the courthouse,” was all it said. I dialed his cell.

  “Sorry. I was in the shower,” I said.

  “Wait. Let me just hold that image in my mind for a minute.”

  “Kirk —”

  “Okay, okay. I know. Global Holdings of Birmingham is owned by Walter Arlington Baxter.”

  “Which one?”

  “Huh?”

  “There are at least two.”

  “Hang on.” He came back on the line after a minute. “The third. Walter Arlington Baxter the Third. Hey, is that the BaxMed kid?”

  “Yep.”

  “So what’s it mean? What’s DHS got to do with BaxMed?”

  “I’ll let you know. I’ll call you later.”

  “Claire —”

  “Trust me.”

  So Trey Baxter owned the company that was financing his father’s research company. That made no sense at all. Why form a company? Why not just give the money to his father? Unless, of course, the money was coming from an illegal source. Like drug dealing. Trey could deposit the cash into the Holdings bank account, then give it to BaxMed. That was money laundering, right?

  I stripped off my bathrobe and dressed. I needed to call Brighton. I didn’t know if he could act on any of this information, since what I had wasn’t exactly evidence. More like a theory. A theory I was pretty sure he didn’t want to hear. After all, he had his man. Or woman, as the case may be. Maybe once I told him what I knew, and what I suspected, he could lean on Ashley for the truth. If she wouldn’t give it to me, maybe she would tell him.

  I was sliding into a pair of black clogs when the alarm screamed. Every nerve in my body jumped and my hands flew to my ears. My first instinct was to run and shut the horrible screeching thing off, but then it hit me.

  Someone was in my house.

  I ran to the bedroom door, slammed and locked it. Pressing my ear against the door, I heard two men.

  “Shut that fuckin’ thing off.” I didn’t recognize that voice.

  “There’s no button.”

  Lucas Donovan, the bartender from Kaleidoscope.

  “She’s back here.”

  Out. I had to get out. My bedroom had one window that opened into the back yard. I ran to it. Ripped off the curtain, unlocked the window, and tugged on the frame with all my might. It didn’t budge. I grabbed a lamp off the table next to my bed. Tore off the shade and used the base to shatter a pane of glass. Shattered the next and tried to break out the wooden grid.

  “She’s in here!” the first man shouted.

  I broke out the third pane as one of the two men kicked in my door with a loud crash. The alarm was still blaring. I tried to force myself to scream. But fear had frozen my throat.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Lucas said. He lunged across the room and grabbed me around the waist. I fought as hard as I could, kicking and punching him as he tossed me onto the bed.

  I landed on my back and rolled over. Got up on all fours before Lucas got my ankles and pulled me onto my stomach. Terror vibrated through me. A buzzing in my head mixed with the scream of the alarm and the thumping of my heart.

  Lucas straddled my back as reality seemed to grow distant. I didn’t want to live through whatever was going to happen next.

  “Hold her still,” the second voice said. I whipped my head around to see Trey Baxter at my side, long blond bangs hanging over his face. His brown eyes were intense, focused. As I struggled some more, Lucas gripped my arms and held them to my sides.

  Trey had a needle. With an orange cap.

  “No,” I said, weakly.

  “Don’t worry,” Trey said. “It’s just something to put you to sleep.” “Permanently?” I squeaked.

  He chuckled.

  Trey shoved the sleeve of my shirt up. I twisted, trying to free my arms, but Lucas was too strong. I felt a pinch as he sank the needle into a vein.

  Within a few seconds my body felt heavy, as if my flesh had turned to steel. Lucas got off me. I tried to say something, anything, but my mouth wouldn’t work. I thought about my father. My brother. Grant. My last thought was a prayer.

  Please, God, let that autodialer doohickey work.

  `

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I floated into a semiconscious state. Came to the realization that I was lying on my right side, on a mattress of some sort. A blanket over me. I wasn’t dead.

  Then I felt the pain. A headache worse than any I’d ever had in my life. Searing. No hangover had ever been this bad.

  I forced my eyes open. I was looking at some kind of plastic railing. On the railing was a keypad. Up. Down. A red button with a cross. A clear plastic tube went from my arm to an IV bag.

  I was in the hospital. If I was in the hospital, I was safe. I had vague, fuzzy memories of the last several hours. I remembered flashing lights, shouting. A dim recollection of a ride on a stretcher. Then nothing but darkness.

  “She’s awake.” Dad, sounding relieved.

  I struggled onto my back and tried to sit up. A gentle male voice said, “Hang on, I’ll help you.” It was strange to hear that voice in person. Chris, my brother.

  He came to my side and worked a button. The bed under my back rose until I was upright.

  My gaze focused on the faces in the room. My father, baggy-eyed, stubble rough on his face. Grant, frowning with concern. Mac, with that exasperated expression I knew so well. Chris and Royanne.

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  My brother the nurse knew exactly what was about to happen. Chris shoved a pink banana-shaped plastic tray under my chin just as I gave a mighty heave and spewed out a thin, vile stream of greenish liquid.

  The first wave passed and I looked at the crowd, their worried expressions now layered with disgust.“Can I have some privacy please?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Everyone left except Dad and Chris. The second wave of stomach cramps hit and Chris left to get someone. When the nausea subsided again, I asked Dad, “What happened? How’d they find me? Who found me?”

  “Maybe you’d better rest. We can talk about this later.”

  “No. I want to know what happened.”

  “Your boyfriend —”

  “He’s not —”

  “Well, if he’s not he damn well should be. He saved your life. Him and some guy named Jimmy Shelton.”

  “What? Jimmy —”

  “Just listen, okay? When the alarm went off, Grant tried to call your cell phone, then your phone at home. When you didn’t answer, he raised all hell. Called 911 and had the police meet him at your house. At the same time another 911 call came in. It was that Jimmy guy, saying that two men had broken in. When the police got there and busted through the door, they were discussing what to do with your — with you.”

  “With my body.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “They were talking about how to make your death look like a suicide.”

  I remembered Dad’s revelation about his client twenty years ago. And his grief over my mother’s death. I didn’t want to think about what he would have gone through if I hadn’t been rescued. I was suddenly flooded with such sadness and guilt I could hardly stand it.

  “Dad, don’t. Please. I’m all right.”

  He cleared his throat and pulled himself together. “Anyway, the two guys were arrested. The cops cal
led an ambulance and you were brought here.”

  “Where am I?”

  “St. Vincent’s.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Almost fourteen hours.” He checked his watch. “It’s ten twenty Friday night now. Those two guys injected you with a huge dose of Valium. They also had pills and a bottle of booze, to leave with your body.”

  Chris and a nurse with a cute haircut and apple cheeks came in. She had a syringe in her hand, and the sight of it made my stomach tighten. But there was no needle, just a port that she plugged into my IV cord. As she plunged the medicine in, I asked, “What is that?”

  “Phenergan. For the nausea. It’ll make you sleepy.”

  “Oh, good, I need more sleep.”

  She laughed, tossed the syringe into a red trash can, and left. Dad said, “Detective Brighton also stopped by. He wants to meet with you when you’re feeling a bit better.”

  Grant peeked in the door. “You okay? The nurse said she gave you something to help.”

  I nodded and held my hand out to him. He came in and took it.

  “Thanks,” I said. And here I thought all heroes looked like Indiana Jones.

  He kissed my hand gently as I fell back to sleep.

  I woke up nine hours later when the nurse came in to get vitals. I felt much better. The headache and the nausea were gone and I was ravenously hungry after almost twenty-four hours with nothing to eat. I ate the hospital breakfast of eggs, bacon, grits, and a biscuit and sent Dad to the cafeteria for more food. The doctor discharged me Saturday afternoon. I spent two nights at Dad’s, he and Chris waiting on me hand and foot as I rested in my old, familiar bed.

  Monday morning I drove myself downtown to Police Headquarters. A large mural covered the side of the brick building, depicting four children of different races, arms draped around each other. The Birmingham Pledge against racism was painted next to the children. I will treat all people with dignity and respect, it said, knowing that the world will be a better place because of my effort.

  I asked for Brighton at the desk. I was taken to a narrow room. The walls were stark white and the only furniture was an old, coffeeringed table and some plastic and metal chairs. Brighton met me there and taped my statement about what happened the day I was attacked, including what Grant and I had discovered about BaxMed and Global Holdings of Birmingham. Then he asked me to wait. He returned with a typed transcript of what I’d said and had me sign it.