States of Grace

by Mandy Miller

  “You said he didn’t have a sheet.”

  “No way to know for sure, but I’d guess Sinclair agreed to help the cops.”

  “You tellin’ mean he was a rat?”

  “If he was in the business, he could finger other dealers to save himself. And if the cops dropped the case, Sinclair could have all evidence of his arrest erased. It’s called an expungement. Presto, all gone from his record. And the fancy folks at St. Paul’s are none the wiser.”

  “Snitches make enemies, sweetheart.”

  I rub my chin. “Maybe you’re onto something there. Maybe he paid the ultimate price for trying to save his own ass.” I wave the second police report. “But why would he risk everything—his job, his freedom—a second time?”

  “People do stupid shit for money. That’s why you stayed with that creep for so long, remember?”

  “That’s not why, Vin.”

  “Sure, I forgot. You loved his sorry Cuban ass.”

  “That’s ancient history. I pinch his arm. “Let’s get back to why we’re here.”

  Vinnie slides down in his seat. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  A group of twenty-somethings emerges from the pill mill, all emaciated with skin so white it’s translucent, like parchment paper. They get into a white panel van, the type we used to call a pedo van at the State due to the fact they are the vehicle of choice for pedophiles. Before climbing in, each one hands the driver a brown paper bag. They’ll get their cut later, as well as a few bills for their trouble. The rest goes to the big boss, back wherever they came from.

  “Not that I’m a fan of cops or nothin,’ but why don’t they shut these places down? Look at this circus. Kids going in an out like it’s a candy store.”

  “Pain clinics are legal.”

  “Shameful.”

  “And you want to know the best part? Anyone can own one of these places. All you need is to hire one doctor with a medical license and a DEA number to order narcotics, and you got yourself a cash cow. Doc writes the script and it gets filled on site. Everyone goes home rich or high.”

  “What gives with all the out-of-state plates?” He points at a Tennessee license plate with the dubious state slogan, Sounds Good to Me, above the number.

  “Tennessee, West Virginia, Kentucky, they’re all just a day’s drive away. It’s gotten so bad the cops call I-75 in and out of Florida the Blue Highway to Hell.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “There’s a flight every Monday into Fort Lauderdale from Huntington, West Virginia that never has an empty seat. The Oxy Express.”

  “Where the heck is Huntington, West Virginia?”

  “You get my point.”

  “How’s it you know so much about this?”

  “I once prosecuted a woman who testified she was sponsored by a guy back up in Nowheresville, Kentucky, who ran five vans packed with addicts down here every week. Did the circuit of all the pill mills. Addicts got their visits and drugs paid for, and got to keep some of their prescriptions. The rest, the guy sold back home for ten times what he paid for it down here.”

  “Doesn’t anyone keep track of who’s buying what?”

  “Nope, our good old governor has blocked a statewide database to shut down doctor shopping.”

  “Jesus. What’s this place called? There’s no sign.”

  “They don’t need to advertise.”

  After a half hour of watching zombies parading in and out with brown paper bags stuffed with enough pills to anesthetize a small island nation, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what Sinclair was up to. Just as I’m about to tell Vinnie to get us out of here, a young woman strolls in front of the car.

  I snatch Vinnie’s threadbare Marlins World Series cap from his head.

  “What? What you doin’?”

  I aim both index fingers at the young woman. “That’s Serena Price! Zoe’s BFF.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl who found Sinclair’s body.”

  “You sure?”

  “Damn straight, I’m sure.”

  “Wait here,” I say, bolting out after her.

  “Wait! Maybe I should come…Wait!”

  ***

  By the time I get inside the pill mill, Serena’s nowhere to be seen. Two giants stand sentry outside the only door off the interior hallway, their otherwise trim suit jackets bulged out with handguns. One has a tattoo of a teardrop under his left eye.

  The man without the teardrop holds out his tree trunk of an arm. “Phone?”

  I nod.

  He signals for me to deposit my phone in one of the pigeon holes on the wall. “Frisk her,” he says to Teardrop.

  More than a little uncomfortable about having the monster’s paws on me, I widen my stance and extend my arms like a scarecrow for Teardrop to pat me down. I ball my fists to refrain from clocking him when he spends way too long on my chest.

  “Go,” Teardrop says, waving me through.

  Douche bag.

  Florida Center for Pain is stenciled on the inside door in benign, small black letters. I step into a room which looks like a warehouse, not a waiting area. I pull the ball cap low and walk around, as if I’m looking for a place to sit. No Serena. Rows and rows of folding chairs are set up in the middle of the space, like at the DMV. At the far end is a door to the clinic’s inner sanctum with a No Entry sign. The cement walls are bare, except for a poster, a twist on the classic Florida mantra: No shirt. No shoes. No problem. Instead, it reads: No Weapons. No Phone. No Cameras.

  Those waiting are in various stages of deterioration. It’s obvious some are too far down the road to survive much longer, their bodies shriveled, teeth mostly gone along with any hope for a better tomorrow. Today, along with whatever they can swallow, snort, or shoot, is all they have, all they will ever have. There are a few bright faces, young, for now. They too will look as old as time soon, the light in their eyes extinguished by what will become their single-minded obsession—the next fix.

  On the side wall there are three bulletproof-glass windows: Check In—Cash Only, MRIs—Cash Only, and Prescriptions—Cash Only. Dozens of people are lined up in front of each, not one of whom is standing still. All biting nails, scratching skin, sniffing and sighing, every second getting closer to their next high. Behind the glass are women wearing scrubs decorated with pictures of Winnie-the-Pooh characters. Yellow background for Pooh, pink for Piglet, and blue for Eeyore.

  I join the Check In line. The attendant takes two hundred fifty dollars in cash from each patient and drops the bills into a large red garbage bag labeled BIOHAZARD. A heap of identical bags is piled behind her chair.

  “You have appointment with doctor, miss?” asks a young Asian woman in the Piglet scrubs seated behind the glass.

  “No, but I’d like to see a doctor.”

  “Not today, sweetie. We too busy.”

  “I just want to get some information. I was thinking about making an appointment, but—”

  The woman shoves a clear plastic bag through a slot under the window. “Here, information. Cash only, no insurances, fill in forms before come. Next please.” She flicks her wrist for me to step aside. I grab the bag and step back.

  A cheer rises from the crowd when a woman wins a car on The Price is Right, playing on an ancient TV mounted high in a corner. A security camera is bolted to the top of the TV. I count seven other cameras.

  I sit and tip the contents of the bag onto my lap. A photocopy of an ad from South Florida Weekly, a free local newspaper, saying, Chronic Pain? Stop Hurting and Start Living!, along with a list of all Florida Center for Pain locations: Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Delray Beach, Riviera Beach, and Orlando. Coupons offering a free first visit and twenty-five dollars cash for bringing in a new patient. The final item in the bag is another ad, this one for a fifty percent discount on an MRI at Mobile MRI.

  On the far side of the room, a crowd has gathered around something. Shouts of “Out of the way. Out of the way!” burst from the center of the group. Four p
aramedics from the Fort Lauderdale Fire Department charge in and load a woman onto a stretcher, a twig of an arm dangling off the side.

  I approach one of the medics who is packing away equipment. “That was scary. That happen a lot in here?”

  The medic slings a heavy pack over her shoulders and shakes her head in disgust. “Every damn day. We’re over here every damn day. Overdoses, fights, you name it, it happens here in Zombieland every damn day.” She trots away to catch up with her colleagues toting the stretcher.

  I sink onto a chair beside a sleeping woman, head tipped back, mouth open, no doubt one of the few moments in her day when she’s not trolling for her next high. In her lap, an open purse, a pill bottle visible on top, its contents a brownish color through the amber plastic. I don’t need to see the blue to know they’re oxycodone.

  It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Just one pill. She’d never miss it. At least not until long after I’m gone. A moment of relief, the feeling that all’s right with the world. It would be easy.

  No one will ever be the wiser, will they? Tomorrow will be just as good a day as today to rebuild my life as today. I deserve a break, a few moments of euphoria, don’t I?

  Easy maybe. But also, wrong. So wrong.

  I stand and shake myself so hard the woman awakens.

  “One day at a time,” I say under my breath, a non sequitur which results in the woman clasping her purse to her chest.

  “You okay, honey?” she asks.

  I nod and walk away, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand—how to defend Zoe.

  I clasp my shaking hands and close my eyes. When I open them, Serena and a stocky man are emerging out of the restricted area. He hands her a duffel bag. It’s the albino guy from the Sinclair house.

  I stuff the paraphernalia back into the bag and take off after them.

  At the exit, I tap Serena on the shoulder. “Excuse me, you’re Serena Price, aren’t you?”

  Serena keeps walking, the man’s beefy arm around her waist.

  “If I could talk to you for a minute. I’m Zoe’s lawyer. You guys were friends.”

  The man deposits his bulk between me and Serena. “Who she is ain’t none of your business.”

  I grab my phone at the entrance and chase after Serena, the man having disappeared back inside the clinic.

  “If I could just ask you a couple of questions, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Serena keeps walking. “Crazy bitch killed Brandon. No way I’m gonna do or say anything that could help her. I’m not telling you nothing.”

  “But you guys were friends.”

  Serena tucks the duffel under her arm.

  “Why are you at a place like this?”

  She clicks her key fob in the direction of her white BMW.

  “You know anything about Brandon Sinclair selling drugs?”

  Serena whips around, her eyes spearing me like dual daggers.

  “How about you?” I point at the duffel. “What you got there?”

  She shoves me aside and drops the duffel in the trunk. “Get away from me.”

  “From what I hear, you were pretty close with Brandon. Maybe too close, is what I hear. I bet that’s something your parents might be interested in.” I step back. “You can’t avoid me forever. You’re going to have to answer my questions in a deposition.”

  “Screw you,” she says, before getting in her Beemer and taking off.

  Back at the car, Vinnie’s fiddling with the radio. “Why can’t I get the Marlins on this thing?”

  I change the frequency to AM and tune in the Marlins game.

  Vinnie grabs my arm. “And next time, give me a heads-up when you’re thinking about doing something stupid.”

  “What?”

  “This place ain’t exactly safe.”

  “You mean for someone like me?”

  “I mean for anybody.”

  Chapter 24

  West Sunrise Boulevard is a panorama of ghetto landmarks: a cash exchange, a Dollar Store, two pawn shops, and an establishment called Pussies Galore.

  “You see the MGM behind us?” Vinnie asks.

  “The what?”

  “MGM. A Mercury Grand Marquis. The dead giveaway undercover cop car? What, you forgot the lingo already?”

  I check the side mirror. “Wise ass. And no, I can’t see any MGM.”

  “Maybe nothing.”

  I pat his arm. “Old habits die hard.”

  “You can’t never be too careful,” he says with another peek in the rear view. “Who was that girl you said was stupid enough to chase back there?”

  “Serena Price. The girl who found Sinclair’s body.”

  “She tell you anything?”

  “No, but she sure as sh— Let’s just say she really wanted to get rid of me, though, so I must be on to something.”

  “Nice save, sweetheart. You, too, can learn new tricks.” He glances at Miranda. “But not anywhere near as fast as you.”

  “Zoe’s trial’s around the corner, so I better learn a lot more soon or she’s going down, along with my chances for a big payday.”

  “I thought the blonde paid you.”

  “She only gave me a retainer. We agreed I’ll get the rest for the trial. Or more when it pleads out—more likely given the evidence. There’s always the risk they’ll stiff me, but given all the attention the case is getting, it’s one worth taking.”

  “The bloodsucker who had my case made me pay him everything up front.”

  “It’s never easy to collect from someone on the inside. Maybe he thought you were going down.”

  “And I did. At least until you came along,” he says, his hands flexing and unflexing on the steering wheel.

  I count off the street numbers, in search of 6555 NE 6th Avenue, regretful for my failed attempt at humor.

  “Coming up, stop number two on our whirlwind tour of the pill mills of South Florida. If I’m not mistaken, this next place was one of the places we raided when I was working with Marcus on the task force for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and the Feds.”

  “Way too many cops in this world,” Vinnie says, a renewed twinkle in his eyes to remind me, while he may owe me his life, he reserves the right to rag on me for having once been a military cop and a prosecutor.

  “Wise ass.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. But why’s this place still open if it was raided?”

  “We closed it down, but another owner stepped in and picked up right where the old one left off. It’s a game of whack-a-mole. Didn’t even change the name. Sunshine Pain. Sinclair was arrested here by the same task force Marcus and I worked on together. They caught Sinclair red-handed with a boat load of Oxy. He was going down for a long time.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. That’s the point. The case mysteriously disappeared.”

  “Don’t tell me. He ratted again?”

  “Seems that way. Maybe the task force didn’t even know about his other bust by Lauderdale PD at FCP. Or simply didn’t care. Who knows? The only thing for sure is if St. Paul’s had found out about the arrests, they would have fired him.”

  He turns right onto NE 6th Avenue and rolls to a stop in front of 6555, an old Florida-style house, yellow striped awnings shading jalousie windows. Carport. A hand-lettered sign on the front porch reads Sunshine Pain.

  I double check the list the FCP attendant gave me to make sure Sunshine Pain isn’t part of the FCP pain clinic industrial complex. It isn’t. Looks like Sinclair went doctor shopping to lay in inventory.

  “Wait here. We’ll be back.” I clip on Miranda’s leash and she leaps down in a single, fluid motion.

  “Walk time, pretty girl. And no biting, okay?” I say, thankful she’s not a drug sniffer dog, or she’d be alerting to every vehicle and person in sight.

  The street’s a junkyard. Cars, trucks, vans, and even a battered old yellow school bus, all squeezed in nose-to-tail. We walk down the block, checking license plates undistur
bed because everyone moves out of the way when they see Miranda. Maybe they’ve seen one too many police dogs in their lives.

  When we get back, Vinnie’s leaning against the hood of the car, arms crossed across his favorite Guy Harvey T-shirt, a picture of a blue marlin in full flight. He’s only wearing it because I gave it to him for his birthday. Vinnie hates to fish. Despite his prior occupation as an enforcer, he can’t bring himself to kill an innocent creature. He once told me a story of how back in the day, when he was the superintendent of an apartment building in Chinatown, a Chink—Vinnie’s words not mine—kicked an orphaned kitten he’d been bottle feeding. “I taught that piece a shit a lesson he’d never forget. Never did come back for his security deposit.”

  I jerk my chin at the line of shifty people spilling out the clinic’s front door onto what had once been a lawn, a space long ago given over to weeds and ant hills.

  He shakes his head. “Same caca, different place.”

  “Bet you can’t guess what I saw back there?”

  He gives me a self-satisfied smile. “A guy getting a blow job.”

  I stamp my foot like a willful child. “How’d you guess?”

  “Because I saw the same thing over here.”

  He motions with his head to an ancient Cadillac with purple neon rims which are spinning even though the car is parked. Inside, a woman is hunched over a guy in the driver’s seat, head bobbing up and down like the drinking bird toy I won at a carnival when I seven.

  “Now we’ve confirmed Sinclair was a scumbag, what next?”

  “We? Taking this investigator role seriously, are we?”

  He gives me a crooked salute. “At your service, ma’am.”

  I plop the Marlins cap on Vinnie’s balding head and settle in to observe the macabre, hypnotic rhythm of the scene. The living dead shuffling in and out, faces full of anxiety on the way in and vain hope on the way out.

  Before he sits down beside me, I notice a bulge in the small of Vinnie’s back, the place where a person might stash a gun. If one were in need of protection. If one were not a convicted felon and, as such, prohibited from carrying a weapon.