CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
DELIA
Blanche Weber jumps out of her chair and moves to intercept me when I come into the squad room. “I’m dying to know,” she says.
“Know what?”
“About Fetchin’ Gretchen.” Her grin runs from ear to ear.
“Ah, Gretchen.”
“No more Fetchin’?”
I lead the way into my office. “I’ve been feeling guilty all night, Blanche. The girl was so scared that I thought she’d faint. I didn’t think I was that intimidating.”
“I think it’s more about Danny.”
“Danny makes Gretchen afraid of me?”
“Danny’s beautiful, Delia, seriously beautiful, and an athlete to boot. To a freshman, he’s a stud, a perfect catch sure to draw likes on whatever social media kids are using these days.” She stops, lowering her chin so that she’s looking up at me. “There’ll be others. Other girls. Gretchen won’t keep him without a fight. Your boy-child is high status. Sit beside him in the lunchroom and he lights you up.”
I lay a paper bag on my desk, carefully remove a latte and a toasted almond doughnut. “So, I should have asked her to prove herself worthy of my son?” I don’t wait for an answer. “Gretchen’s a nice kid, and very . . . very earnest. She wants Danny to keep his grades up, to get more sleep, to eat healthy foods. And Danny, he lapped it up like a kitten at a bowl of ice cream. Her concern, her motherly attitude, crap he’d never take from me. And it feels like only a week since I was teaching him to read.”
Blanche takes a seat and we sit in silence for a moment while I get started on my latte. I’m determined to close the Corey Miller investigation with an arrest, but I’ll have to move fast. Charlie’s smart. Smart, analytical, and ruthless. And Bruce? Let’s say he’s a loose end and leave it there.
“I want a search warrant for the Paradise Inn. Get on it right away.”
“The grounds?”
“Corey Miller almost certainly died there. That makes the Inn a crime scene.”
“What are we looking for?”
A good question. Search warrants have to be specific. No fishing expeditions. “Fentanyl or any object that might have held fentanyl.”
“That a real long shot, Delia. Corey was killed two weeks ago.”
“True enough. But I’m really after Bruce Angoleri’s DNA. We can’t include that in a search warrant, but if we get inside, maybe we’ll find an excuse to grab his toothbrush or a comb. At worst, it’ll give me another chance to brace the women who work there. Now, off you go. I’ve a doughnut to savor, the same doughnut I promised myself I wouldn’t buy when I left home this morning. I intend to enjoy every nibble and crumb.”
An hour later, caffeinated and caloried, I head for Baxter Medical Center and its star patient, Mary-Anne Carlson. She’s where I left her, in bed with her arm in a hard cast. She’s looking miserable and I have to suspect that whatever they’re giving her to kill the pain isn’t enough to feed the habit she brought with her.
“Hey, Mary-Anne, how’re you feeling?”
“Shitty.” She presses the little button that controls the flow of morphine. Twice. Unfortunately, the little button is programmed to work only every four hours. I know because I checked at the nurses’ station on my way in. When Mary-Anne’s effort comes to nothing, she looks up at the clock. “So, whatta ya want?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
“Probably not. See, you witnessed a homicide that’s still being investigated.”
“I told you what happened.”
“Did you? Until our investigation’s completed, we can’t be sure. Like we can’t be sure you’ll stick around. You know, in case we need you to testify. Face it, you’re a flight risk on steroids. So, we’re moving to hold you as a material witness.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Sure, I can. Can and will. Plus, until a judge signs off on the application, I’m posting a uniformed officer to make sure you stay where you are. Visitors will be screened, of course, with the officer in the room during visits. To keep you from conspiring.”
May-Anne’s so pissed, her freckles light up. I half expect them to blink on and off.
“You fuckin’ cops are all the same. Doesn’t matter what you got between your legs, you’re all the fucking same.”
“I can’t argue the point. We all wear the same uniform. But I have a question, let’s call it hypothetical. A man named Bruce kills a woman named Corey. He does it because she’s pregnant with his child and won’t get an abortion. My question is this, Mary-Anne. Given the nature of Corey’s employment, how does he know the child is his?”
Mary-Anne responds quickly. “Condoms. With the johns. That was the rule. Condoms or go home and jerk off.”
It’s a last-piece-of-the-puzzle moment. I step back and give her some room. My threat to detain her as a material witness? If it holds any water at all, it can’t be more than a spoonful. But in the short run, before she can lawyer up and get into a courtroom, there’s nobody with the authority to stop my posting a cop to make sure no visitor slips her a little something in a glassine envelope.
“So, what do you want from me?” Mary-Anne continues. “What crime did I commit?”
“No crime, which is why I haven’t read your rights to you. You’re a witness, like I already said.”
“I told you what happened, I swear.”
“I’m not talking about the shootout, Mary-Anne, and we both know it. The other day, I made an appeal to your conscience. To you and the other women. Me, I’m a realist. My appeal didn’t work. Time to move on. Which I’m doing, here and now.”
I take out my phone, punch in the number of the reception desk at headquarters. A minute later I’m speaking with Lieutenant Aaron Levanche, the duty officer. My request is quite specific and I make sure that Mary-Anne hears my instructions. Visitors are to be constantly monitored.
“Tell me what you want,” she says when I hang up.
“The drugs at the Paradise. Who handled them on the day Corey died, who distributed them?”
“I don’t know who coulda handled the coke and the smack. Why should I? Me and the girls, we weren’t interested in where they come from. Only where they’d end up, which is in our bodies. Trust me, Officer . . .”
“Captain.”
“Trust me, Captain, after a night at the Paradise, you need something to make you feel better. Need it bad.”
“I’m not here to critique your lifestyle, Mary-Anne, so get to the point. The fentanyl overdose that killed Corey didn’t materialize out of thin air. Somebody put it in her hand. Who?”
Mary-Anne isn’t ready, but I don’t back down. I wait fifteen minutes until her police-officer guardian arrives, then promise to pay a second visit later in the day. I don’t blame her for clamming up, though. She’s afraid of Bruce, Charlie, Dominick, the entire crew. As well she should be.
One more courtesy call before I return to the house. I head to Mount Jackson and Zack Butler’s manicured brick colonial. Miranda opens the door as I raise my hand to knock, then steps back to allow me inside. I’m guessing Zack has a security system that allows him to identify his visitors as they approach the front door.
“Morning, Captain.” Zack’s seated where he was last time, in a coffee-colored armchair with his oxygen concentrator to one side.
“Good morning, Zack. How are you?”
“Still breathing air.” He turns to his health aide. “Miranda, please. Coffee, and perhaps two slices of that pound cake.” The smile never leaves his face as he comes back to me. “Did you know I’m good friends with Jack Harmon, your son’s baseball coach?”
“I didn’t.”
“Jack and I are invested together. And before you indulge your suspicious nature, he’s investing money inherited by his wife.” He crosses his legs. “Well, if you know Jack at all, you know how much he talks about the kids on the team. Truth be told, I believe the man would exchange his entire investment for a trip to the state championships.”
Miranda returns to the living room carrying a tray with the goodies on top. I sip at the coffee, but leave the cake where it is, despite an alluring glaze speckled with orange zest.
“Your son, believe it or not, is Jack’s golden ticket. Or so he believes. Jack thinks Danny will be throwing in the low nineties by the end of the season.”
“Great, Zack, but I’m not here to chat. I’ve got a busy day ahead.”
“You disappoint me.”
“Sorry. Or not sorry. Not sorry because I believe that you, meaning the Boomtown investors, invited the New York crew to exploit the chaos. In return for a piece of the action.”
“Captain . . .”
I wave him off. “I’m not here to conduct an investigation. I’m here to ask a favor. You have influence in the capitol. I want you to turn up the heat on Sheriff Fletcher and the Sprague County Board of Supervisors. If we’re given the authority to patrol Boomtown, we’ll restore order.” I lean forward, staring straight into his eyes. “You made a mistake inviting these New York assholes to prey on the construction workers. Too gung ho. Too violent. Titus Klint, Corey Miller, Stitch Kreuter, a fifteen-year-old runaway? Talk about overkill. So, how many more until the state police step in hard? Until they take a close look at the grid in Boomtown, the sewage disposal system, the water supply? And one more thing, if Gloria Meacham knows about your connection to the Shearson Investment Group, you didn’t cover your tracks all that well.”