"Fuck you," Steidle said, stepped backward, and started slamming the door.
Spinney threw his shoulder against it and barreled across the threshold, sending Steidle stumbling in the process.
"Dave?" Spinney shouted into the house. "Get down here. Now."
"I don't think so," Steidle said menacingly, and pulled a switchblade from his boot top.
Spinney didn't hesitate. He spun on one heel and buried his foot in Steidle's stomach, doubling the man up and making the knife skitter along the floor. He then unholstered his gun and aimed it at him. "You're totally nuts, right? Dropped on your head when you were a kid? Get your face on the floor, asshole, and put your hands behind your back."
Groaning, Steidle did as he'd been told. Spinney retrieved and folded the knife, put it in his pocket, and snapped a pair of handcuffs on Steidle's wrists.
"You move, you'll be in worse shit than you are already," he warned him, and headed upstairs.
He didn't call out his son's name again. From the loud music pulsing behind a door at the end of the hallway, he figured it would be a waste of time. Instead, still holding his weapon, he walked the length of the house and paused at the door, listening for more than just the raucous music.
Hearing nothing else, he placed his hand on the knob, gently turned it to see if it was unlocked, and then threw open the door, entering simultaneously in a crouch, his gun covering the room before him.
He saw his son, Dave, a joint falling from his open mouth, holding a small packet of aluminum foil that Jeff Sherman had just handed him.
"Dad."
"Nobody move," Spinney ordered.
Jeff said softly, "Holy shit."
"Who else is in the house?"
"Dad," Dave began.
"Answer the question."
"Craig," Jeff answered.
"That it?"
"Unless someone came in after us. The rest of them went off somewhere."
Spinney holstered his gun and straightened up. He tilted his chin at the shiny packet they were still holding between them. "What is that?"
"Crack," Jeff answered immediately.
"You're doing heroin, too." It wasn't a question.
"Yes, sir."
"Collect it all, put it in a bag or something. If there's more outside this room, get that, too. I want it all."
Dave was watching him carefully. "Dad, what're you doing?"
"Later," Spinney ordered. "Do it. And crush out that joint you dropped."
Quietly, fearfully, Dave set to work collecting bags and bottles and joints from various corners of the room, as Jeff squeezed by Spinney to do the same elsewhere in the house.
About halfway through his labors, Dave found the courage to address his silent father again. "What's going to happen?"
"You and I are going home. Jeff's father is waiting downstairs. I'll have one of the local cops pick up Steidle."
Dave kept working. "What about Jeff and me?"
"I'll try to keep you out of it."
His son stopped and stared at him.
"I can't promise anything," Spinney continued. "If Steidle talks too much, you might get sucked into it. We'll just have to deal with that if it happens."
"Couldn't you get in trouble for this?"
Spinney hesitated a moment, mulling over just how true that was. He was risking his job certainly, and maybe more.
"Yeah," he conceded.
Chapter 20
Sammie opened her eyes at the sound of the doorknob turning. Joe stepped inside the hospital room and quietly closed the door.
"Hey, Sam. How're you doing?"
She smiled lopsidedly. "A little sore. My pride took it worse."
He crossed the room, sat down on the edge of the bed, and placed his hand on hers. "Yeah. Your fairy godfather told me."
"Really? I thought he'd stay in the woodwork."
Gunther laughed. "Willy? And spare reaming me a new asshole? I don't think so."
"I am sorry," she said.
"Those things happen, Sam, and he was right. I should've dug into those names deeper—found out where everyone had been busted and who by."
"Nothing went off in my head, Joe. Not even Stuey's name. I hate to think—if Willy hadn't showed up."
Gunther squeezed her hand. "His full name's Allan Steward Nichols. He was calling himself Al when we knew him. I checked. 'Stuey' is part of his new, cool image. Should serve him well in jail. And even Willy conceded he'd changed his appearance."
"Is my cover still good?" she asked.
"Sure. Nichols is under wraps, in isolation for as long as we can get away with it, and you're in here under an alias. The doc said he had one more test coming back and that if it clears, he'll kick you loose in half an hour. You think you'll have a problem with Manuel?"
She shook her head. "Don't see why. I'll come up with something. If they're doing a blood test, by the way, it'll probably come up dirty. I had to take something when I interviewed Ralph Meiner. He said it was Ecstasy, but I don't know for sure. I kept a few extra for analysis. He held a gun on me and put the damn thing in my mouth himself. I couldn't get out of it. I was going to tell you at our next check-in."
"You do all right with it?" he asked, concerned.
"It was weird. I hope I don't have to do it again."
"Bad, huh?"
"No," she admitted. "Too good, I mean, it's not my taste, but I could see what people get out of it."
He gazed at the floor. "Yeah—that's the irony, isn't it? It's like telling a bunch of kids they shouldn't eat ice cream 'cause it'll kill them."
A meditative silence fell between them, after which Sam confessed, "I think something's a little screwy with this case."
He looked at her carefully "What?"
"I told Willy about it last night. It's the pale blue bags the heroin's being packed in. I saw ones just like it when we visited the Torres headquarters in Holyoke. First time I've ever seen colored baggies. I knew they weren't Rivera's, so I called the Holyoke PD's drug unit an hour ago to find out what they knew about it. It's Torres's trademark, like I thought. He calls it Blue Heaven."
"And that's what Nichols had?"
"And Meiner," she added. "Willy thought maybe they were leftovers from when Torres dominated the route, but heroin has a short shelf life—sold within a couple of days of arrival. I mean, I know Manuel and I are stocking it in quantity, but that's supposed to be revolutionary for around here. Otherwise, it's first come, first served, bim-bam and you're out of town for more."
Gunther scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "What do you think?"
"I don't know. I can't figure it out. And there's another thing: After Meiner thought I'd passed his undercover test by taking the Ecstasy, he asked me what I thought Torres would do if he found out we were setting up shop here. I was surprised, 'cause despite Jimmy Hollowell getting killed, Rivera had told me he now owned the route, at least for the moment."
"I remember," Joe commented.
"Well, Meiner said that Hollowell had thought the same thing and that I should ask myself what had happened to him."
Gunther scowled. "We figured he was a combat casualty, that there might even be more. Do you have any idea who else Rivera has in place? I know he wouldn't tell you because you had to pass muster, but it seems now would be the right time to bring everybody together."
"I could go down there and rattle his cage," Sam agreed. "Be a reasonable question to ask. I might as well do it now, so I can tell Manuel that was the plan when I disappeared last night."
Joe glanced at her stomach. "You up for that?"
She flipped the cover off and swung her legs off the far side of the bed, looking like a kid in her hospital johnny. "It's sore," she said, moving around, touching her toes, "but if the doc clears me, I think I'm good to go. What'll you be doing in the meantime?"
Gunther stood up and moved toward the door. "I think I'll drop by the Rutland BCI unit. Find out where they are on the Hollowell case."
&nb
sp; Sam looked up sharply and saw him smiling at her. "Thanks, Joe. And thanks for not being ticked off."
* * *
Lester had called his wife at work from his cell phone, so by the time he and David reached home, she was only ten more minutes from joining them.
They were sitting in stony silence at the kitchen table when she entered, wearing her usual nurse's uniform and a concerned expression on her face.
"Is everything all right?" she asked. "Where's Wendy?"
"She's fine," Lester said. "I sent her over to Louise's for a while." He pulled out a seat facing the third side of the table, between his son and himself. "Sit down, Susan. David's got something to say."
Tentatively, she joined them, looking at Dave as if he might break apart before her eyes. Dave stayed silent and withdrawn, staring at his clasped hands.
"Dave?" she asked fearfully. "What's up?"
"Dad found me at Craig Steidle's house."
Susan glanced at her husband, the name meaning nothing to her.
"The guy he was picked up with that night at the Zoo. The one we told him to stay away from. There's more."
"What else?" she asked her son, touching his hand with her fingertips.
He moved his hand away. "There were drugs."
She covered her mouth. "Oh my God. Were you taking any?"
"You bet," Lester said.
Dave looked up quickly. "It was only weed. I wasn't doing anything else."
"Only weed?" his father burst out. "What the hell were you holding when I walked in—after I cuffed the guy downstairs for coming at me with a knife?"
Susan's mouth dropped open.
"Jeff was showing me what he had, Dad. I wasn't doing anything."
"What was it?" Susan asked in a small voice.
"Cocaine," Lester said.
"Oh, sweetheart. What were you thinking?" She looked at her husband again. "And someone came at you with a knife? Were you hurt?"
"Not physically. I don't know about professionally."
She turned her head from one to the other of them, as if they were lobbing a ball back and forth. "What do you mean?"
"Ask Dave."
Their son sighed, still watching his hands. "Dad covered for me."
"Les," she exclaimed, "what've you done?"
"I had them collect all the dope, and I dropped it in a Dumpster near the town offices. That way, Steidle will have to stand for assaulting a police officer, probably with mitigating circumstances, but the cops can't nail him on the drugs. Not this time, anyway."
"But why?" she asked, dumbfounded.
Dave broke in harshly, "It was a deal, Mom. He let Craig off the hook so he wouldn't tell the cops Jeff and me were handling dope."
She put her hand on her forehead. "Jesus. So, what's going to happen?"
"Don't know," Lester answered her. "Time will tell. I told Steidle our story was that I came looking for Dave because I'd heard he might be at Steidle's from Natty Sherman, who was with me to get Jeff. Steidle denied Dave was there—despite his bike being outside—so we got into an argument, he pulled a knife, and I brought him down. Which is pretty much the truth, as far as it goes."
"But what about the drugs? What happens to them? Couldn't someone else end up with them?"
Here her husband looked shamefaced. "An anonymous phone call was made to the PD fifteen minutes ago, telling them where to find them. When we were pulling in, we heard on the scanner that they picked them up."
"That was taking a big chance, wasn't it?" she pushed.
His expression darkened. "That's hardly what's important here, is it?"
A strained silence filled the room.
"Why, honey?" she finally asked David. "Did we do something wrong?"
"No," he said reluctantly.
"We must've," Lester stated flatly. "Otherwise, why slap us in the face?"
Dave looked up. "I didn't."
"The hell you didn't. What the fuck do you think just happened?"
"Les," Susan said sharply.
But Lester paid her no attention. "We both bust our humps to feed you, clothe you, send you places on vacation. You got a computer, a new camera, CDs up the wazoo—"
"Thank you very much," Dave shouted at him, his face red and contorted. "And I make the beds and shovel snow and do the laundry. I'm the only kid I know who does the whole family's laundry, for Christ's sake. And why? Because I'm the only one who lives here most of the time."
"Your sister—" Lester began, but his wife stopped him with her hand.
"Wait. Hang on. This is important. Dave, is that really how you feel? Like you're living alone?"
Dave rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Mom, look around."
Spinney stiffened at his son's tone, but Susan grabbed his wrist to keep him quiet. "Go on."
"Dad and you are never here. Yeah, you feed us and send us on vacations and all the rest, but when was the last time we did anything together?"
"That's what you want?" Lester asked incredulously. "For us to go on vacation together?"
David looked like he'd been caught in a trap. "No. I mean . . . No, not to Disney World or anything dumb. I just meant . . . I don't know. Nothing. Stupid idea."
"I don't think so," Susan said quietly. "I know you wouldn't want to go to Disney World, but a family meal now and then wouldn't be so bad, would it? Or a trip to the movies?"
"You wouldn't like the movies I like."
Lester could see what was happening, even through his anger, disappointment, and fear. Wasn't that why he'd just put his job on the line? He swallowed hard and commented, "How do you know?"
* * *
Sam drove into Holyoke late in the afternoon, marveling once again at the contrast between this stained and beaten pile of asphalt and brick, and the green hills and sun-dappled waterways she'd just left in Vermont. It wasn't a fair comparison. It wasn't meant to be. Vermont had its blighted areas, just as Massachusetts had the Berkshires. But imagining her home as a pristine counterpoint to an urban combat zone helped in the attitudinal shift she needed to get herself back into Greta.
She parked in front of Johnny Rivera's large, shuttered apartment building, watched as always by the several men loitering near the entrance.
"Hey, boys," she said, recognizing two of them. She slammed her car door and crossed the sidewalk toward them. "Watch my car, okay? Unless one of you wants to wash it or something. There might be a bonus in it for you."
Most of them stared at her sullenly, but one of them actually laughed and said, "I don't think so, muchacha. I heard what a good time you gave Flaco. He's still walking with a limp."
"He deserved it," she said, stepping inside.
She took her time wending through the building's maze of staircases and corridors, still uncertain of the way. By now, she'd made the trip several times, but, as intended, it was still not easy, and slow going in any case, given the many holes in the walls she had to step through carefully.
She finally found herself in Rivera's outer sanctum, the windowless room with the armed guards, where she waited as usual as one of them announced her.
Rivera immediately appeared at the door beaming and waved her inside. "Good to see you. What a surprise. Everything's okay, right?"
He shut the door behind her and ushered her toward the couch. She took the chair next to his desk.
He laughed and sat where he'd been herding her. "Still playing with me, eh? Time will come. Nothing wrong up north?"
"No. Everything's fine. Manuel been complaining?"
Rivera shook his head forcefully. "No, no. He thinks you're great. You're not buying his vote somehow, are you?"
Christ, she thought. Give it a rest. "Just a blow job now and then."
He laughed a little too forcefully. "That is bad. You shouldn't do that to me. You want a drink?"
"No thanks. What I want is some cooperation, now that you're so happy with me."
He knit his eyebrows. "Cooperation? What d'you mean?"
"Things're g
etting going in Rutland. Manuel's moving product, I'm working on the local dealers. It's time you hand over your contact list so we can work on an overall strategy."
"So fast?" he said, smiling. "You haven't been there long. You must still have lots to do. We move too fast, we could lose everything."
"Meaning you don't trust me?"
He laughed. "Don't trust you? I'm sending you the goods, no? I'm paying you a bunch of money. Of course I trust you. But I'm not stupid, either. You have a business plan—very big, very impressive. But you're not the only one with brains. I think things are just great the way they are."
She frowned at him. "Torres is still moving product up there."
Rivera shrugged. "He's not the only one. I didn't put him out of business all the way. You have to be careful with a man's pride—something you wouldn't understand. Guys like him should be allowed to work a little. Otherwise they get mad, try to get even, and now you got a fight instead of dollars coming in. Dumb idea."
"Why did Hollowell get killed, then?"
"Why does anybody? You know who did that? I don't. People are saying Torres, but I don't see it that way. That's narrow thinking. Doesn't do any good. Till I'm told otherwise, he got killed 'cause he pissed somebody off. That's all."
"So, you're not going to give me those names? You're going to force me to duplicate our efforts, waste time and money, risk exposure to the cops, and maybe let the wrong people get in behind us, all because you claim you have brains? Get out and smell the roses, Johnny. When was the last time you left this building? You're like a rat in a steel box in here. You have no clue what's going on."
His face darkened during this outburst, and his eyes hardened. "Careful, girlie," he said threateningly, accentuating the second word. "You work for me. That means I do this"—he snapped his fingers—"and you're dead. That's all you need to know till I decide to tell you more."
He stood up, all pretense of pleasantry gone. "Now, you can get the hell back to Vermont and do your job, or I can hand you over to the men outside this door. They're not too crazy about you, after what you did to Flaco. They wouldn't mind paying you back their own way."
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