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

by John Oakes

  The dealer tried to outrun them, but the narrow roads were obstructed by cars, and the turns he took slowed him. He fishtailed onto Stewart Road, one of Galveston’s main drags, probably with the hope of gunning it east, away from town. At eighty-first street, both turning lanes and the center lane were all blocked by cars waiting for the light to change.

  Not willing to slow down, the dealer hastily turned right into the parking lot of a condo complex.

  “Don’t follow,” Winton said. “Edge your way past on the curb and cut him off.”

  Julius drove up on the sidewalk, cutting the corner and scraping alongside the car waiting to turn right. Horns blared, but Julius carried on, punching the accelerator down eighty-first toward the outlet of the condo parking lot.

  The black coupe didn’t jump out into the road when it appeared, so Julius braked hard. He skidded to a stop, but overshot the exit, and the coupe slipped out the opening behind Julius, heading south. Julius anticipated it, however, and already shifted into reverse, gunning the sedan backward at an angle just in time to clip the coupe’s taillights.

  Julius braked hard and spun the wheel left as he shifted into drive. He sped toward the intersection where, lo and behold, the police surveillance van appeared, blocking the right-hand lanes.

  “Sandwich him,” Winton said, clapping his hands together. The dealer braked to a crawl, but before he could decide to reverse or veer off, Julius plowed into his rear end at twenty miles an hour, popping the coupe forward like a bumper car. It rolled to a stop with its front bumper bouncing off the side panel of the police van.

  The sliding door flung open and Weischel jumped out onto the hood of the coupe, pistol leveled at the driver. As she shouted instructions, Plimpton and another officer ran around different ends of the van, weapons out, aiming through the front windows.

  “Hands on the wheel,” Weischel commanded. She slid off the hood to the driver’s side and kept a bead on the driver while Plimpton pulled him out onto the street and cuffed his hands behind his back. The other officer poked his head into the passenger side. “We’ve got product,” he announced.

  Winton pumped a fist. “Yes. We got the son of a bitch.”

  “Whew,” Julius said, breathing fast. “Holy shit.”

  “That was some James Bond shit,” Winton said.

  Before Winton could pump a fist again in victory, an explosion turned his world white, blasting him in the face and chest, somehow knocking the breath out of him and forcing air into his ears and sinuses at the same time. His head rang, as the pressure on him subsided, and he batted away the airbag which had deployed fifteen seconds later than would’ve been helpful in a crash.

  The two of them cursed like sailors as they regained their wits.

  “Hold on,” Julius said, panting. “Ain’t that supposed to happen when you hit somebody?”

  “I think I’d rather have gone through the windshield,” Winton groaned. “Son of a…”

  They both stumbled out, and Winton walked off the shock of the blast, shaking out a hand that’d been driven straight into his jaw. He gingerly tested the integrity of his newly operational nose, finding relief when an unobstructed rush of breath flowed through it and out again.

  No more broken noses, he’d promised himself after Lucas’ debacle. That would be the marker by which he judged his baseline success in life from then on.

  “Y’all right?” Detective Weischel looked Winton over, shielding her eyes from the sun. He finished his turn and nodded. “Yeah.” He took another breath through his nose, enjoying the free passage of air. He smiled wide. “I’m good.”

  “Hope you’re not expecting payment for your damaged vehicle,” Plimpton said to Julius.

  “That’s a funny way of saying thanks.” Julius stood taller.

  “This wasn’t part of the plan,” Plimpton said.

  “Was letting him just fucking drive off the plan, then?” Julius opened his arms out.

  “Yeah,” Winton said. “Glad it all worked out in the end, but what were you guys doing back there?”

  “We don’t answer to you.” Plimpton puffed up, whites of his eyes growing in defiance.

  A car pulled up behind Julius, and a man with a shaved head got out, five and a half feet tall with an overly-assertive posture and gait.

  “Here’s why,” Weischel said under her breath.

  The man’s fleece jacket read DEA in small letters under a crest. His badge stuck out from a lanyard beneath his fleece. But by their tired reactions, Plimpton and Weischel didn’t need to ask who the man was.

  “Two months!” the DEA man said, holding so many fingers up. “Two months I’ve been watching this guy, building my case. Now it’s blown.”

  “Two months?” Plimpton asked. He brought out a cigar from his breast pocket and stabbed it at the DEA agent. “You knew about this for two months, and you didn’t take him off the street? You just letting kids take this grip shit?”

  “I don’t know how you podunk Texas cops work, but in the DEA we like to take down the entire tree, not just a branch or two to impress our bosses and get our name in the paper.”

  “Listen, you bald-headed maggot,” Plimpton said. “I don’t give two shriveled shits about your Napoleon complex. So take your little ass on outta here. We’ll take things from here. And don’t you worry. We know how to chop a tree down. Believe that.”

  The DEA agent scoffed then backed away toward his vehicle. “You didn’t go through the proper channels,” he said. “There will be repercussions.” He got in his car and peeled the tires out as he spun around in the other direction.

  “That nuisance is what happened at the buy,” Plimpton said, now so spitting mad at the DEA agent that he could be friendly to Julius and Winton again. “We’re about to move and we get comms barking at us about a conflicting investigation.”

  “But it all worked out,” Weischel said.

  “He’s gonna be a problem.” Plimpton set his jaw around his cigar and crossed his arms.

  “Maybe you didn’t get my text,” Winton said. “This is the car that met with Beatrice Spencer fifteen minutes before she died.”

  Weischel’s eyes darkened. “Say what?”

  “It’s true,” Julius said. “We tailed him afterward. Got a real good look at this tail.” Julius gestured at the rear end he’d rammed into.

  Plimpton removed the unlit cigar from his mouth. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “What do you say to that, Plimpton?” Weischel stuck her thumbs in her belt loops. “A murder charge on top of distribution?”

  Plimpton brought out his butane lighter and roasted the tip of his cigar, turning it until it glowed. He puffed twice and rested it between his teeth. “What I think is maybe I’m beginning to feel glad I trusted this here odd couple.”

  “Odd couple?” Julius asked down at Winton. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Winton patted him on the arm. “Come on. Let’s get your car in for a check up. I know a place.”

  NINETEEN

  Winton found them a mechanic in town only a half mile from the police station. They waited for the inspection, and the needed repairs turned out to be mostly superficial. Julius was out a broken radiator, though. Lucky for them, the mechanic was having a slow day, so he assured them he could fix it as soon as the part arrived from the mainland.

  Winton bought them both ice cream, and they took a leisurely stroll back toward the station, where they hoped to learn more about the dealer.

  “You know, I don’t think I’d want a super hot car,” Julius said. “I mean if I was doing legit James Bond shit on the reg.”

  “Why not?” Winton asked. “The government pays for it.”

  “Yeah, but I’d feel bad bashing a Bentley into someone, even a little. It ain’t right.”

  “Who cares? Maybe that’s part of the fun.”

  “Nah, man. You just can’t wreck a beautiful car every time you get in a tight spot. At the very least, it would cause hesitation.”
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  “That’s true. Maybe in that world, you wanna drive something inconspicuous that can also be used as a battering ram should the need arise.”

  “There you go.”

  “So how does this work?” Winton asked. “Think they’ll get him to give up his supplier?”

  “No idea. In the movies, they get him to turn over for a reduced sentence.”

  “But he’d have to admit to murdering Beatrice. That’s a big ask. You know, if I were a lawyer, I’d stick to the fact that we didn’t see him personally, just the car.”

  “Hmm, damn.” Julius poked his spoon at his Rocky Road.

  “I wish they’d let me in there. I’d go all A Few Good Men on him.” Winton jabbed out his plastic spoon, shouting, “You ordered the Code Red, didn’t you?”

  “I bet that’d flip him, easy.”

  “Thanks.”

  As they stepped off the curb to cross a side street, an unmarked government car turned to cut them off and braked to a sudden stop. Winton was startled, holding his ice cream up in a protective manner. “Whoa. Whoa.”

  An instant later, a bald head popped out of the driver’s door, barely tall enough to glare angrily over the car at them. “I know you two,” the DEA agent said in his clipped manner. “Who are you?”

  “I think those statements are contradictory,” Julius said, picking at his ice cream. His nonchalant manner eased Winton’s nerves.

  “Shut up, wise guy. Names. Who are you?”

  “Julius Vincent.” He took a bite and shrugged.

  “Winton Chevalier.”

  The DEA agent eyed them, then stepped around the front of his car to get a better look. “You two were at that arrest. Who d’you work for?”

  “We don’t work for nobody, man. Just innocent bystanders.” Julius turned and pointed down the street. “Got my car in the shop from that dust up. Just out for a walk until it’s fixed up.”

  Julius talked to the agent with the practiced calm of someone use to dealing with unfounded suspicion.

  The agent walked to his rear door and opened it. “Get in.”

  “Why?” Winton asked. “Where we going?”

  “Just get in!”

  Winton and Julius exchanged a look, a tired look, a “we’ve done this before” look.

  “All right,” Julius announced. “But I’m bringing my ice cream.”

  The agent pulled a little way down the street to a bare shoulder and parked. He fetched out a handheld device of some kind that resembled a portable DVD player in size but worked more like a mini laptop. He played a video, and Winton recognized the parking lot near the abandoned warehouse. It was the drug buy from earlier, but shot from a different angle. The agent watched with them as Julius met with the young buyers near their car.

  “I knew I saw you somewhere earlier,” the agent said.

  Julius frowned. “Now… hold on.”

  “Now nothing,” the agent said. “I got you on tape buying drugs off a known dealer.”

  “Man, what you talking about?” Julius said. “I was wired up for the cops. I had a recording thing, a pen in my breast pocket.”

  “The police van was monitoring the feed,” Winton said. “We helped them catch the dealer.”

  “I don’t got proof of that,” the agent said, when what he clearly meant was that he didn’t care. He put the car in gear and drove with deliberate speed to the police station, parked across two disabled spaces, then said, “Pass up those ice creams, ladies.”

  Julius obeyed, muttering, “Here we go.”

  The agent got out and opened Julius’ door, ordered them both out and marched them into the police station.

  “Hey man,” Julius said. “Just get Plimpton or Weischel. They’ll tell you.”

  But it was no use. The agent turned them away from the workstations and offices, toward the holding cells. At the processing desk, the agent flashed his badge and told the duty officer to take them inside for holding.

  Winton looked at the duty officer before he moved to obey. “The detectives won’t be pleased. There’s no reason to lock us up.”

  “Yeah, man. We didn’t do nothing. You gotta accuse us of something.”

  “I’m accusing you of being a pain in my ass, and officer, you will detain these men in the tank on my personal authority. Special Agent Jeremy Midge, DEA.”

  Julius and Winton protested, but ended up getting frisked for their possessions and escorted to the holding cells all the same. As the door clanged shut behind them, locking them in the six by ten cell, Winton leaned back against a bench and let out a serious of small coughs of indignation.

  “See, when even you’re fucking speechless, you know it’s some astonishing bullshit,” Julius said.

  “How are we in jail?” Winton asked in a high tone. “How?”

  “Hold up,” Julius said in a whisper. “This is all about some feud he’s having with the local cops.” He put his hands on his hips and inhaled through his nose, simultaneously frowning at the urine and body odor smell and nodding to himself for reassurance. “That’s all this is. A little tit-for-tat.”

  Julius was right. “I guess it was clear as day we’d been helping the Galveston cops who ruined his investigation. But still. We’re citizens. The balls on this DEA guy.”

  “Did you hear his name?” Julius put a fist to his mouth and lowered his voice further. “Jeremy Midge?” He sat next Winton on the bench. “He’s so short. And his name is Midge!”

  Winton’s mouth turned up at the corners uncontrollably, and he suppressed a laugh. “Oh, Jesus help us. It’s like Plimpton said. Major case of small man syndrome.”

  “How come you don’t have that?”

  Winton gave a wry grin. “There’s short and then there’s hey is that thing human?”

  Julius snorted. “That’s messed up.”

  “The world is messed up. Look at poor Agent Midge. He never had a chance.”

  Julius sucked his teeth. “Excuse me if I can’t muster sympathy for the man right now.” Something caught Julius’ eye. He sat straighter, peering through the bars. “Oh?”

  Winton looked over his shoulder. In a cell on the other wall, a man clad in black stood, leaning on the bars with his head in the crook of his arm. After a time, his head popped up, and Winton recognized the dealer they’d helped get arrested earlier. Julius turned back and whispered. “Oh, damn. We’re locked in here with the guy we got arrested?”

  “Be cool. Maybe he won’t recognize us.”

  “Hey.” The dealer lifted his head, looking straight at them. “Hey you.”

  Julius sighed. “Yeah, man.”

  “They got you too?” the dealer asked with a jerk of his head.

  Julius looked down at Winton. “Uhh…” He lifted an eyebrow, then stood and walked to the front of the cell and set his arms on a cross bar. He nodded silently.

  Winton looked back and forth between them. Apparently, the dealer hadn’t gotten a view of their faces during the chase.

  “One of them little shits was working with the cops,” the dealer said. He banged on the bars which were so sturdy it didn’t register a sound. He mouthed curse words, wincing at the pain.

  “You had a pretty sweet ride,” Winton said.

  “It’s all smashed up in the impound lot right now,” the dealer said, looking down at the floor. “Shit, they’ll probably sell it at auction if I go away.”

  “We saw your car the other day,” Winton said. “We were just cruising Stewart looking for trouble.”

  “Where?”

  “Like two nights ago,” Winton said. “Coming back from Sunny Beach. We were like wow, what a sweet ride.” Winton tutted to himself. “If we’d known then that you were a hook up, we could’ve avoided getting grabbed today. But that’s my fucking luck, eh?”

  “Nah, you got it wrong, little man. Two nights ago I wasn’t even on the island.”

  Winton cocked his head to the side, and glanced at Julius, mouthing the word “What?”

  Jul
ius’s gave one of his most unique looks: Confusion. Winton might mistake it for a mix of terror and nausea on anyone else’s face.

  “You sure?” Julius asked. “We saw your car for sure.”

  “Don’t know what to tell you, homes.”

  Julius got closer to the bars. “Anyone else in Galveston have one?”

  “Fuck if I know or care. I’ll be in prison. This is my second strike if it’s a felony charge.”

  “Maybe if you tell them who your supplier is…” Winton cleared his throat.

  “I ain’t no rat.” The dealer looked side-to-side as if unconvinced of that.

  “But for our sake,” Winton said. “So we can still score… Who’s the source?”

  The dealer straightened his shoulders, then slumped heavily. “Oh, fuck you. Oh, fuck you. Seriously? That’s why they sent you in here?”

  “No, no, brotha,” Julius said. “It ain’t like that.” He lifted his shirt to show he wasn’t wired up. “We’re not cops. You kidding me?”

  “We just need to know where we can buy grip. The Ryan kid killed himself. If you go, we won’t have a seller.”

  “I guess we all got problems then.” The dealer backed away from the bars, waving his hands. “I don’t know you. Stop asking me questions.”

  A buzzer sounded, and the door from the processing room opened into the holding cells. Two officers led in a man who stood a head taller than the both of them. His skin was pale and his head shaved. The officers put him in the cell across from Winton and beside the dealer, then ordered him to turn so they could remove his cuffs through the bars. As his face came into profile, Winton’s stomach dropped. One of the man’s eyes was surrounded by sagging, purplish flesh. It was the man with the droopy eye. One of Dr. Kerala’s patients, the man who ransacked the Spencer house and also the man Winton had found catatonic and in use of an adult diaper.

  The question of how it could be was overshadowed by the reality of what was.

  Something bumped into Winton from behind. Cold cement blocks of the wall. It hadn’t bumped into him, but he it, not realizing he’d been slowly backing away from the man in the other cell. No longer did he look placid and weak. He looked charged and coiled like a snake ready to strike. The veins in his neck and arms stood out, making him look strong and vital. Something about him now was so sinister, especially in the dead eyes.