Bad Medicine: A Mystery Thriller (Winton Chevalier Book 2)

by John Oakes

  “Did you get their names?” Weischel asked, fingertips poised on the table.

  “No, ma’am. It didn’t seem a fitting way to end a possible drug transaction.” Julius sounded a little incredulous.

  Weischel’s eyes widened.

  “Hey, now. Don’t look at me like that,” Julius said. “I’m a good black. All I know about drug deals I learned from TV. Gimme a break.”

  “Point is,” Winton said, “we can tell these guys Ryan’s supply is out for good and then follow them to their other supplier.”

  “You let us worry about that,” Weischel said.

  Winton carried on. “Listen. I think this party drug is a small time thing based on the island. Whoever is the originator also has links to the men who came into our homes, and in my case tried to kill me.” Winton pointed into his open palm. “This other supplier out there is the only remaining middle man. He or she can tell you who’s responsible for all of it. You could wrap the whole thing up, with a bow on it.”

  “Sounds like you think you know who it is already,” Plimpton said. “If so why don’t you just tell us.”

  “I got a feeling in my gut, and maybe you do too. But I just want to find Bea’s killer, whoever it turns out to be. Let’s just follow the supply and let the reality present itself.”

  Winton sat back and crossed his arms.

  “If this thing is a slam dunk,” Weischel sat back and crossed her arms too, “we can open the girl’s case as a homicide and close it in a couple days.”

  Plimpton mirrored her ease, taking a long puff from his cigar. “You know the brass would like those stats.”

  Winton slid off his chair, Julius went to call the buyers, and Weischel called her superiors. Plimpton sucked on his dying cigar and eyed Winton. “How much you weigh?”

  Winton squinted an eye. “Two hundred and thirty pounds of solid steel.”

  For the first time, Plimpton smiled, revealing shockingly white teeth for a smoker. “I was wondering, trying to add up your weight with your friend’s. Seeing if even two-on-one was a fair fight here.”

  “Ah, well, Julius and I probably weigh just under three bills put together.”

  “That fella outside look like he ain’t weighed that since he grew hair on his balls.”

  “He was a bull for sure, and uhh… Detective?”

  Plimpton lifted his chin.

  “I think he was on something.”

  The detective’s brows lifted too.

  “Maybe not like meth or anything, but some high octane stuff.”

  “You mean the kind of stuff you need a prescription pad to get?”

  Winton gave a careful nod. “Maybe even rarer than that.”

  “Well, don’t be so coy about your assignations, Mr. Chevalier.” Plimpton’s tone was ripe and playful.

  It was a strange dance, not telling the police outright that he was near certain who was behind it all. But if he appeared to have any ulterior motive in fingering the doctors, it could stall the investigation.

  Winton chose a casual tone. “I’m just saying, it’s worth looking into, when the time comes.”

  “I take it you don’t think these substances entered the man voluntarily.” Plimpton leaned back and groaned.

  Julius emerged and announced that his call had gone well. “They don’t have a problem with me tagging along.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Some warehouse on thirty-seventh. In the morning.”

  Weischel returned from her own calls, and Plimpton asked, “We good to go?”

  “Good to go.” She looked up at Julius. “You ever worn a wire before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, these days, it ain’t like you’ve seen on TV. I slipped a pen in your pocket ten minutes ago. I’ve been listening to your call to make sure everything was legit.” Weischel held up her phone.

  Julius made an indignant expression. “That’s some Big Brother shit right there.”

  Winton patted him on the back. “It’s inadmissible without a warrant.”

  “Relax,” Weischel said. “Now I know you’re as good as your word. I don’t have an easy time trusting.”

  “You don’t say,” Julius grumbled.

  “Think of it as being in a very exclusive club.” Plimpton gathered up his notes and stuck his now unlit cigar in his mouth. “Don’t leave for the buy in the morning until we give the go ahead.”

  The detectives left, and Julius let out a breath. “Man, I do not like cops.”

  “These two seem all right so far.”

  “I don’t appreciate them playing games like that.”

  They went outside, leaving the listening device on the dining table. The crime scene tape was still up, but the police hadn’t said they couldn’t remain in the home. Small town police protocol had a more fluid nature than in the big cities it seemed.

  Most notably, the perished brute was gone, leaving only two destroyed windows and a flattened coffee table in his wake.

  “Some day,” Julius said, sounding tired.

  “This could all work out, though,” Winton said. “They could have these doctors behind bars by tomorrow if everything goes well.”

  Julius lolled his head.

  “Listen,” Winton said. “I get it. I really do.” Winton patted him on the arm. “Pack your stuff up and throw it in the car. Let’s get off the island.”

  FIFTEEN

  They drove back onto the mainland of the great state of Texas, and Julius started up a stream of music that struck Winton as a melange of blues that soothed him and pop that had him bobbing his head to the beat as he dialed numbers on his phone. He called anyone in his contacts who might have ever had contact with the underbelly of San Antonio. After a series of unanswered calls and messages that the number was no longer in service, Winton gave up.

  Just as he bit down on a knuckle in frustration, his phone buzzed. The screen read “Ricky,” just the person he wanted to talk to.

  “Winton Chevalier? That you?”

  Winton imagined Ricky puffing away on one of his Pall Malls. “Yes, indeed. None other.”

  “Haven’t been out to the island much.”

  “Nah, we’ve missed you.”

  “Been a little preoccupied.”

  “Things are going swell,” Winton said.

  “Mighta heard something about a mistranslation.” Ricky took a drag off his cigarette and groaned. “Minor international incident?”

  Not much got by Ricky. He’d heard about Winton’s epic faux pas. “Yeah, it was one for the ages.”

  Ricky gave a laconic chuckle.

  “Ricky, I’m helping a friend who’s in a fix. It’s a long story, but I need to find a vagrant.”

  “And you’re calling me?”

  “I’m calling you.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Cletus. No last name.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Oh, yeah. I know Cletus. Mixed guy? Crazy? Lives in San Antonio.”

  Winton sighed with joy. “Ricky, I knew you were the guy to call.”

  “ABC Storage in the south of town. Last I heard.”

  “A storage facility?”

  “I’d go with you, but uh… I’m in the middle of my own situation.”

  “No prob. Thanks for the info.”

  “Yep. Just look around back for a trash can.”

  “Hey and tell Cody to call me.”

  Ricky groaned in reply and hung up.

  “San Antonio,” Winton said, drumming on his legs.

  “So you just called this guy, and he knew where to find Cletus?”

  “You don’t know Ricky. Let’s just say he knows a thing or two about pharmaceuticals, legal or not.”

  “He a dealer?”

  “He’s more like an artist. Hey, turn here. I’ll let you drop me off.”

  “Drop you off?”

  “At my house. You can head back to New Orleans.”

  Julius looked confused when Winton had been expec
ting relief from him. “We can try to do this again soon,” Winton said. “Well make sure it’s chill next time. No drama.”

  “I know I should just go home.” Julius set a fist on the steering wheel. “But dammit if this ain’t a little bit fun now that we know where to find Cletus. I needed out of New Orleans, too, you know. So I’m gonna stay free for a bit.”

  “Alright, then. But only if you’re sure. I don’t want you fearing that every time we hang out we’re gonna get embroiled in some kerfuffle.”

  “You just say kerfuffle?”

  Winton crossed his arms and gave a defiant tilt of his head.

  They drove straight on to San Antonio making good time by avoiding stops for food or restrooms. They followed the directions on Winton’s phone into an industrial area that seemed unnaturally quiet with its looming structures whose purposes seemed lost to economic downturn or decay.

  “Here it is.” Winton pointed to their left at an unmarked intersection. Julius pulled up slowly, and Winton scanned the environs for a trash can.

  “What’s Cletus supposed to look like?”

  “Ricky said he was mixed race. I guess that means partly black, partly white, usually.”

  “And he knifed a doctor in the neck?”

  “He did something that left quite a mark.”

  “Okay.”

  “Regretting your decision to come?”

  “Shut up. Let’s go.”

  Winton waggled his head in mock hurt. “Fine then. Lead the way.” He hopped out of the sedan onto broken concrete where weeds grew up from the cracks. There was still enough light left in the day to see everything clearly. Winton figured there was an attendant at the storage facility, somewhere behind its imposing green rolling gate. Apart from that, he couldn’t see anyplace they could be spotted from. Still, he felt stuck out in the open, observable. He felt watched.

  Gathering his courage and focus, he stepped up to a fence that separated the next property from the rental facility. Winton led Julius along this fence past weeds taller than him and into the evening shadow of the rental storage structure.

  “Ricky said to look for a trash can,” Winton whispered. “I don’t see one.”

  “Why a trash can?”

  “Hell if I know. But Ricky’s rock solid.”

  “Don’t mean much if there’s no trash can.”

  Winton stopped about halfway down the length of the wall. At the far end of the narrow alley, another street ran perpendicular, still no trash can in sight. “Maybe it’s on the other side.”

  “Didn’t think there was another side we could get to.”

  Winton kept walking, examining the ground and wall.

  Julius stepped in front of him and crouched, pressing him into the wall and turning him by the shoulders to look the way they’d come and.

  Thirty yards back, a slender figure strolled into the alley with a plastic bag slung over a shoulder. He wore a durable jacket, a stocking cap and had a short white beard.

  “Hold on,” Winton said.

  The man walked casually, swinging his free arm, then fifteen yards away crouched and pulled at something. The weeds growing up beside the building obscured him as he bent down.

  And he was gone.

  “What the hell?” Julius said.

  Winton chuckled. “He flat disappeared.” Winton appreciated the sleight of hand.

  They scuttled forward and looked for the hidden doorway the man had used, but found none.

  “Cletus,” Winton whispered. “Mr. Cletus?”

  When no answer came, Winton knocked on the cinder block wall, out of some sense of manners. “Mr. Cletus, we’re here to help you. We need your help, too.”

  A group of cinder blocks shifted and scraped as they pushed outward.

  “Who is it?” Cletus barked.

  “My name is Winton. This is Julius. We know Ricky.”

  “Ricky?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you want? I’m busy.”

  Winton glanced at Julius, then back at Cletus. “I’m a sort of private detective.”

  “You mean sort of because you’s just a little fucker?”

  “No,” Winton said patiently, “because I’m new to solving murders.”

  “Solving a murder?” Cletus whined. “Who did Hillary Clinton kill this time?”

  “I think we can rule Mrs. Clinton out on this one. The person responsible might be a doctor, a psychiatrist or psychologist to be exact.”

  “Oh.” Cletus sounded dejected and slinked back.

  “I know it’s a sensitive topic, but could we come in and talk to you about Maryvale?”

  Cletus’ eyes went wide. His head shook from side-to-side, looking skittish.

  “We know what happened there, and we know you had good reason for what you did. We need to know what Doctor Jansen was doing wrong.”

  “No.” Cletus kept shaking his head. “No, no, no.”

  Winton grabbed for the section of cinder blocks that served as a door just as Cletus tried to tug it shut. “We want to help put the bad men in jail, Cletus.”

  The blocks closed on Winton’s fingers, the only stop gap remaining.

  “I don’t know you.” Cletus jabbed at Winton’s fingers. “You could be one of them.”

  Winton yipped and pulled his fingers back, shaking them out. The section of wall slid back into place, the lines of separation nearly invisible. Winton saw now how the wall opened from the outside. An uninteresting stick lay on the ground tethered to the section of blocks by monofilament fishing line. An invisible doorknob. He picked it up, held the strings taught, then pulled the section out.

  “Hey,” Cletus shouted. He tugged on his side, creating a stalemate.

  “A girl got murdered, Cletus, and you can help us put the murderer in jail. The same kind of people who hurt you.”

  “I’m gonna watch my program,” Cletus said. “And when it’s done, I’m gonna come out and shoot anyone I find there.”

  At that, the door slid inward again.

  “Dammit,” Winton said, standing to his feet.

  “That didn’t go so well,” Julius said.

  “You think he’s really got a gun?”

  “I’d hate to guess no and be wrong,” Julius said.

  “Thing is, he can’t make much of a ruckus or he’ll get his little hidey hole found out.”

  “Let’s hang back, all the same. He said he’d come out after his TV show is done. Can’t be more than twenty minutes. We could get something to eat. Maybe if we bring him food…”

  “Food’s a powerful motivator,” Winton agreed. “Even if you’re not living in a storage locker.”

  Julius drove them to a Whataburger and ordered generously. As they waited in the drive-thru, Winton remarked, “Did you notice something was off about him?”

  “He’s fucking crazy? Yeah, I noticed.”

  “No, his appearance. He’s got a white beard. White like snow. Looks like he shaves his head, but I bet it’s the same.”

  “So?”

  “He doesn’t appear to be that old. I saw his eyes. The corners aren’t creased much, no heavy bags.”

  “Black don’t crack. You’re welcome, brother Cletus.”

  “No, you’re not listening. I don’t think he’s old enough to go stark white like that. He’s early forties, tops.”

  Julius put a hand over his mouth and hummed. “Something happened to him?”

  “No doubt. No wonder he didn’t welcome us in with open arms. I really don’t know what I expected.”

  “You’re confident you can talk your way out of anything, or in this case into anything. You’re just surprised that for once someone ain’t listening.”

  Winton bent his top lip in a half snarl at that and held their bags of food quietly on the way back to the storage center. This time, they approached the doorway with fast food as their shield.

  “Cle-tus?” Winton sang out softly. “We brought foo-ood.”

  “Don’t be mad, bro
ther Cletus. I brought you a milkshake,” Julius said.

  They stood back far enough that it might be hard to aim a gun at them in the growing dark.

  “Did you think it over during your TV show?” Julius asked. When nothing happened for minutes, Winton stepped closer to the door. He knocked on the cinder blocks and dropped a bag of food beside it.

  Soon the section slid out and swung like a door, so Cletus could crawl out protected. He stood holding something oblong. “I told y’all I’d shoot you, fair and square.”

  Winton peered closer, as did Julius behind him.

  “Is that…” Julius began.

  “—a Super Soaker?” Winton asked.

  It appeared in the dim light emanating from Cletus’ space that Cletus was holding a rifle-like water gun, the sort that pumped up like an air rifle and shot a powerful jet of water.

  “Hey, man,” Julius said. “I don’t wanna get wet. It’s a long drive back.”

  Winton took a piteous tone. “Cletus,” he said, almost sounding disappointed. “Listen, we’re just a couple of guys trying to solve a crime. Don’t you wanna help us?”

  In reply, Cletus released a stream from the gun that doused Winton, hitting him in the face and then showering him from the impact on his upraised arms.

  “Gach,” Winton spat.

  Cletus stepped in and shot a stream over Winton’s head at Julius, who cursed as the liquid splattered him.

  Winton cuffed the wetness off his face so he could see Cletus’ next move. But Cletus just stood there as if his point had been made.

  “Come on,” Winton said. “Enough with the nonsense. Okay? You got us with your water pistol.” Winton blinked, trying to clear his eyes out, but not succeeding. “Let’s go inside and have some good food. It’s…” Winton felt heat rushing over his face and shoulders. “It’s Whata…Whataburg—yeow!”

  Winton clenched his eyes shut and balled his fists as the searing wave of heat tore over him, burning his eyes, forehead, lips, fingers, everywhere that’d been hit by the liquid. Julius was yelling in pain now, too.

  “Would you two just hush,” Cletus said. “You gotta quiet down.”

  “You shot us with fucking acid!” Winton cried, rolling onto his back.

  “Hush. It ain’t acid. Just a bit of Coon Juice.”