The Price of Cash

by Ashley Bartlett

  “What?”

  “That. You totally blew him off.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said.

  “You said like two words and went back to typing.”

  “Sorry, Detective. You know how us drug dealers are. No manners.”

  “What is your problem?” she asked.

  “You have to ask?”

  “I’m at a loss. I can’t imagine what he did in those ninety seconds to piss you off. Unless it’s your usual sunny disposition.”

  As if I conjured a poor disposition to inconvenience her. “The man followed me for a month. Photographed me. Recorded me. Watched me with my friends and family. And he just came in here all smiles like, ‘oh, it’s great to meet you.’ When, in reality, he’s like, ‘hey, I think the blue boxer briefs really brought out your eyes more.’”

  She rolled her eyes, which felt super legitimizing. “I did the same thing. You talk to me.”

  I shrugged. “You at least bought me dinner before violating me.” I went back to the computer. This was all information she already knew. I didn’t see a need to rehash the whole thing.

  “That’s grossly unfair.”

  “I’m glad you can admit it,” I said.

  “No.” She grabbed her chair and brought it around to sit next to me. I ignored her. She gently spun my office chair so I was facing her. “Your analysis is unfair. We were doing our jobs.” Her tone was a fascinating mix between pleading and anger.

  “So what?” My tone had no plea. “Take out the fact that you guys are law enforcement. That dude stalked me. You led me on, manipulated and used me. Which is more abhorrent? Can you quantify violating someone?”

  “You’re glossing over a pretty crucial detail. We are law enforcement. We did those things because we are law enforcement. Stalkers have completely different motivations.”

  “Tell that to a stalking victim. I’m guessing they don’t really give a fuck about the perpetrator’s motivations.” I tried to spin back to the computer, but Laurel gripped the armrest and kept me in place.

  “Stop.”

  “I’m trying to stop this conversation. You’re the one dragging it out.”

  “No, I mean you need to stop talking about us like that. Your language is cultivated to make us—to make me sound like a rapist. I’m tired of it.” Her voice caught. She was right. That was exactly what I’d been doing. “Do you—I’m sorry, okay?” She took a few deep breaths, swallowed convulsively. She was trying not to cry. “Did—”

  I’d pushed it too far. I put my hand on her thigh to stop her. “You’re right. I was trying to make you feel shitty.”

  “I didn’t—Did I—Cash?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask. Maybe that was cowardice. Maybe that was human.

  I was suddenly very aware that we were in an empty squad room that could become not empty at any moment. This was not the place to have this conversation. “It was consensual. You lied and I’m pissed, but it was consensual.”

  “But could you consent?” Her voice was so low I could barely understand her.

  “Yes. With Laurel Collins.” There was a longer answer. A much longer answer. We couldn’t get into it though. So I finally admitted what I knew was the truth. “You were going to tell me who you are beforehand. That’s why you were so hesitant, right?”

  Laurel nodded but still refused to meet my eyes. I really didn’t want to feel this. Any of it. I didn’t want to feel guilty for making her feel guilty. I didn’t want to make her feel better. I didn’t want to want to kiss her. But denying it didn’t seem to be making it less real.

  “Listen, we obviously need to work some shit out or this is never going to work. And then you won’t be the Sac PD golden boy and I’ll be in jail and you won’t be able to get me out ’cause you won’t be the golden boy anymore. It will all be super tragic.”

  She smiled a little and finally looked at me. “That does sound tragic.”

  “So we will talk or whatever.”

  “Or take up bare knuckle boxing,” Laurel said.

  “I actually prefer that idea.”

  “But not here, right?”

  “Definitely not here. Later,” I said. “So get your shit together.”

  “Okay.”

  I watched her put herself back together. It was captivating. She rolled her neck, arched her shoulders. She popped her collar and refolded it. After vigorously rubbing her eyes, she stood. Whatever vulnerability had been present was gone. But I knew it was there. She was just better at burying it than most people. Not exactly shocking.

  “I’m almost done here. If you want to go wait with Reyes and your boyfriend.” I nodded at the interview room.

  Kallen rolled her eyes, but this time it felt like I was in on the joke. “You’re an ass.”

  “Yep.” I smiled.

  “That hat makes you look like a twelve-year-old boy.”

  “If I’d known we were having important meetings with FBI agents, maybe I would have dressed appropriately.”

  She laughed. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  That was true.

  She left and I was finally able to finish proofreading. I’d nailed my report. It was perfectly self-deprecating in that my memory for exact words was imperfect, but my memory for feelings was impeccable. Ionescu and Gibson emerged as the report was printing. Ionescu looked surprised when I handed one of the copies to him. The other, I folded and tucked into my pocket.

  “You’re finished?” Ionescu asked.

  “Yeah.” I was surprised that he was surprised.

  He slid it into a folder and tucked it under his arm. “Where are Kallen and Reyes?”

  “Interview room with Michelson.” I pointed at the closed door.

  Ionescu nodded once. “Let’s try this again.” He led the way to the interview room. I followed him. Silent Gibson surprised me by following as well. Was he included in this circle jerk? Ionescu opened the door and ushered both of us in.

  Michelson and Kallen were intently studying a piece of paper. Reyes hovered behind them, pointing at a highlighted line on said paper. It looked riveting.

  “Agent, thank you for joining us.” Ionescu shook Michelson’s hand. “This is Detective Gibson. He will be sitting in today.”

  “Good to meet you.” Michelson shook Gibson’s hand.

  The detectives fanned out around the conference table. Ionescu sat at the head of the table, but in an unobtrusive way. Like he was trying to be the farthest from the action. Reyes made it a point to sit next to me. It felt protective rather than intimidating, which was nice.

  “Ms. Braddock, we have an unusual case that crosses some jurisdictional and departmental lines. We’re hoping you can point us in a better direction. Any direction, really,” Michelson said. I hated how appropriate and polite he was. It gave me nothing legitimate to dislike.

  Kallen laid two mug shots on the table. One was Gibson’s perp. She added a glossy picture that looked like a senior photo. The last two photos were candids. Gibson’s perp, the senior photo, and one of the candids were former customers of mine. I wasn’t digging that connection.

  “Do you recognize any of these men?” Kallen asked. Men was a generous term. All of them were teenagers or early twenties.

  “Yes.” I pulled the three photos toward me. I almost identified them, listed their drugs of choice, the intricacies of their vices, but then I remembered Reyes’s advice that morning. Don’t elaborate. “I recognize these three.”

  “Can you identify them?” Kallen asked.

  “Yes.” I was tempted to leave it there since she only asked if I could, not if I would. But the silence stretched and I only wanted to make them irritated, not angry. “Freddie Bauhaus.” I pointed at the mug shot. “Josh Erickson.” The senior photo. “Miles Yang.” The candid.

  “And how do you know them?”

  “I used to deal drugs to them.”

  “Can you expand on that?” Kallen asked.

  I glanced at Reyes for guidance, but he couldn’t g
ive me any. So I tried to keep it simple. “Freddie is smart as hell and uses his brains to be as lazy as possible. He used to buy recreational amounts of Oxy from me.” The detectives all wrote that down. “Then he started using five times that amount overnight. I figured out pretty fast that he was selling it. I was never a wholesaler so I cut him off. He got mad. I blocked his number. Haven’t seen him in…” That was the summer Nickels got fleas and drove me insane. I remembered seeing Freddie when I was buying her a flea collar. “Two years.” More note taking.

  “He was reselling Oxy? He would need to charge quite a bit to make a profit,” Reyes said.

  “Yep.” This wasn’t the time for speculation.

  “What about the other two?” Kallen asked.

  “College students. Both of them. Josh is probably in grad school by now. Miles is younger. He’s an undergrad. Should be in his final year.”

  “What kind of substances did they purchase?”

  “Josh was strictly an Adderall guy. He ran cross-country or something for the school and was deep into academics. I don’t think he slept all that often.” They wrote that down.

  “So Erickson didn’t use any recreational drugs?” Michelson asked.

  “No. He did briefly buy Oxy. He had an injury and didn’t want to stop training. He burned through it pretty fast. I told him I was out.”

  Michelson consulted his notes. “And when was the last time you sold him Adderall?”

  “Just before winter break.” I counted back the months. “About nine months ago.”

  “Why did you stop selling to him? Or why did he stop buying?” Kallen asked.

  “He wanted steroids. I didn’t have steroids and I didn’t plan on seeking them out. Josh was upset. He stopped calling.”

  “And Yang?” Kallen asked.

  “He’s a raver, likes recreational drugs. He came to me for codeine, Ambien, Oxy, whatever he needed to manage his high. Miles is the type of kid to cultivate different experiences for different occasions,” I said.

  “So did he buy other drugs elsewhere? You said recreational drugs,” Kallen said.

  “Yeah. I wouldn’t sell him acid or Molly. I don’t know who he bought from.” The detectives didn’t like that answer.

  “Any information about his other dealer would help.”

  I shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “Are you still in contact?” Kallen asked.

  “Haven’t heard from him in a while.”

  “How long?”

  “A year in August. It was the beginning of fall semester. He transferred schools.”

  Kallen nodded without looking at me. “Where does he go to school now?”

  “Davis.” My attempt at circumspect failed.

  Her head snapped up, then back down. Real casual. “So that means he’s Nate’s customer now?”

  “Presumably. I can’t confirm either way.” Fuck.

  “So you haven’t seen any of the victims in over six months?” Michelson asked.

  “Victims?” I realized my fundamental error. I hadn’t asked the connection between any of the boys. Not that I could have answered the questions differently.

  “Yes. All of them overdosed in the last month.” Michelson watched my reaction very carefully. “Two of them in the last forty-eight hours.”

  “Have you asked them where they bought the drugs?” The detectives didn’t answer. Again, it was the wrong question. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.” Michelson waited, studied. “With the exception of one.” He tapped the remaining mug shot. “He’s in a coma.”

  “What did they overdose on?” I tried to maintain my facade, but it was a challenge. Freddie, Josh, Miles, those boys had made poor decisions, but poor decisions didn’t mean they deserved to die. It wasn’t even their lost potential that bothered me. Plenty of people had potential to squander in their twenties. I realized that it was simply a loss. Dead boys didn’t sit well with me.

  “Fentanyl,” Kallen said.

  I stared at her hard. I really wanted to look at Reyes, but he would lose it if I did. Or I would. Either way, it would look bad.

  “Does that hold any significance for you?” Michelson asked.

  “Not particularly. I’ve never sold fentanyl. It’s not as common as other substances. And definitely less demand for it,” I said.

  “Do you know anyone who does sell it?”

  “No.”

  “What about Mr. Xiao?” Michelson asked.

  “No. Nate and I always shared inventory,” I said.

  Gibson shook his head and smirked. Which pissed me off.

  “You claim you never sold fentanyl? But you sold other opiates?” Michelson shuffled his notes like it was an offhand question. It didn’t feel offhand.

  “The opiates I sold were commonplace. My main supplier was a cop.” There was uncomfortable shuffling around the room. “He had better access to the more prevalent drugs.”

  “So you haven’t started selling fentanyl since your operation was shuttered?” Michelson asked.

  I watched my hands start to shake. This wasn’t an interview to help an investigation. It was an interrogation. “No.”

  “You briefly sold MDMA tablets this summer. Is it possible that they contained fentanyl?” Michelson asked. Reyes shifted uncomfortably next to me. Gibson grinned again. Kallen studied her notes. Her eyes weren’t moving so she wasn’t reading. Just staring.

  “I don’t know. Henry brought the tablets to me. I refused to sell them. We had words. I accepted the pills, but I never distributed any.” Nate had, but I wasn’t going to tell them that.

  “And what did you do with them?” Michelson shuffled his notes again. “I don’t see anything about MDMA tablets collected from either your residence or Mr. Xiao’s.”

  “We sold them to Jerome St. Maris.” I enjoyed giving that answer.

  “Was it common for Henry to bring you mystery pills?” Kallen asked. The question felt like a betrayal all over again. Either she believed I was dealing pills that killed people or she was treating me as collateral damage to resolve this case.

  “No.”

  “You allegedly—” I stood and Kallen aborted her question. “Do we need to take a break?”

  “I’ve cooperated with your questioning, but it’s clear this is no longer an interview. It’s an interrogation. If you want to continue, I need to have my lawyer present. If you want to charge me in the death of any of those boys, go ahead. Good luck. I’ll let you discuss.” I carefully navigated around Reyes’s chair. Ionescu stood to let me pass. I studiously didn’t look at Laurel.

  The squad room was still quiet. Two detectives were working at their computers, but they didn’t seem to register my presence. I paced the length of the room to burn off the adrenaline that continued to make my hands shake. Pacing didn’t help. It made me feel like I looked weak so I sat in one of the chairs lining the wall. I shoved my hands in my pockets and focused on deep, careful breathing.

  The interview room opened. Kallen came out. She looked around, then walked over to me.

  “Can I sit?”

  I shrugged. She sat.

  “Do you think I killed those boys?” My voice was shockingly steady.

  She shook her head. “You’re not exactly a killer.”

  “But do you think I killed them? Do you think I sold them drugs that resulted in their deaths?”

  Laurel stared at my face. I didn’t turn to look at her. “No.”

  “Does Reyes?”

  “No.”

  “Then what the fuck was that?” I asked.

  “We were just doing our jobs.”

  “Your job is to try to incriminate someone you don’t think is guilty?”

  “No. We have to look at every possible angle to find the truth.”

  “I’m your CI. Doesn’t that suggest some level of reciprocity? You think I broke a law, fine. But respect me enough to be up-front.” I pointed at the interview room. “That was an ambush.”

 
; Laurel nodded. “You’re not wrong.”

  “So what do we do from here?”

  “I’m supposed to be getting you back in there.”

  “Are they trying to exploit your favoritism?”

  Laurel laughed bitterly. “No, you’ve got it backward. Allegedly, I’m giving you special treatment. But Ionescu knows you loathe me.”

  “I don’t loathe you.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Why would he send you out if he thinks I hate you? Wouldn’t Reyes have better luck?”

  She grinned. “He doesn’t entirely believe the complaint against me. But he’s absolutely convinced that you and Reyes are too close.”

  I laughed. “Why?”

  “Lucas tends to insulate you. A lot.”

  “At least someone is.” I arched an eyebrow at her.

  “Fuck off.” She shook her head. “Actually, no. You’re right. Give me five minutes and I’ll drive you home.”

  “Seriously?”

  Laurel stood. “Yeah.”

  Chapter Six

  It was only two minutes. Laurel came out of the interview room, went to her desk, and pulled her briefcase from under it. She hit a couple keys on the computer and turned off the monitor.

  I stood, stretched. “Ready?”

  “Let’s go.” She led me down to the parking lot. Her truck was already outlined by a thin wave of heat. We climbed in. Laurel tossed the briefcase behind her seat, then proceeded to unbutton her shirt and toss that too. The center of her white V-neck was slightly damp. She started the engine and the dull rumble woke me from my haze of watching her. I took off my own long sleeve. Doing so knocked my cap off. I picked it up from the floor and settled it back on my head. Laurel smiled and shook her head at me. We rolled down the windows once we turned on Freeport Boulevard. Breeze whipped through the car. The air movement and engine noise made talking impossible. I stretched my legs out and enjoyed the warmth against my AC cooled skin.

  I knew a part of my seeming trance was due to lack of sleep. Robin and I had been out late. Three hours of sleep wasn’t the same as it was when I was twenty. But part of it was the comfort of driving in Laurel’s truck with a tentative peace. I knew I needed to be wary. I still couldn’t trust her. I couldn’t trust me. Other humans were entirely off the table.