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THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Sam’s contact at the lab called with the preliminary test results for the pills I found in Lisa’s purse. Not only did the screening identify an excessively large dose of poor-quality fentanyl, but the lab picked up significant amounts of lead and other contaminants, including arsenic, matching what Dr. Patel said.
“We have to find out who manufactured these counterfeit meds, and where they got their ingredients.” Sam tossed the Whitmore file on the desk. Earlier in the day Jax, our IT guy, had emailed a report on whatever information he could recover from Jason’s laptop. There wasn’t much that looked promising.
We’d regrouped at the office after the harrowing night at the hospital. Lisa was still hooked up to a machine and she still hadn’t recovered from the earlier blood pressure drop, but she was alive, and for that I was thankful.
“Ian gave me his dealer’s contact information, so that’s a start.”
“Have you given any thought to calling Chance?”
Chance was retired Drug Enforcement Administration supervisor Chance Goodeve. I’d made his acquaintance when he helped me get out of Mexico and escape from my ex, Roberto Salazar, and I trusted him implicitly. He had extensive contacts that could prove useful in our search for the source of the drugs.
I nodded. “Chance is the one person I trust, but I don’t think Mac would like having the DEA in his face.”
“Then again, he might welcome the help.” Sam studied me for a moment, his dark eyes boring into my soul. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I shifted in my chair.
I hadn’t told him that I’d been thinking about what I could do to find the source myself. By necessity, the wheels of a police investigation turned slowly. If the DEA got involved it would take even longer. Not only were the police answerable to the state of Washington, the DEA was beholden to government oversight, and going off the reservation opened the agency up to public scrutiny and harsh penalties. Additionally, either agency had to build a watertight case that would hold up in court. I, on the other hand, had no such restrictions.
“What’s going on in that beautiful, devious brain of yours?”
Like I said, Sam was spooky.
Shrugging, I looked him in the eyes. “I’m trying to figure out a way to help them in their investigation. You know, speed things up a bit.” Which wasn’t really a lie. I just didn’t elaborate.
Sam leaned across the conference table and took my hand, his expression grave.
“Go through the proper channels, Kate. If you don’t, you know where this will lead. You’ve dealt with these types before.”
“It’s my sister. I have to do something.” I stifled the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. The thought of my baby sister lying in a hospital bed oblivious to the world around her wasn’t a memory I wanted to keep having.
He released my hand and leaned back in his chair.
“I know. But think long and hard before you do anything that might compromise their case.”
“I promise.”
***
Deciding that it might help bring a faster resolution to the ongoing police investigation, I sent an email with my contact information to Chance’s former assistant, requesting that he contact me. Two hours later, my phone rang. It was Chance.
We played catch-up for a few moments—I asked him how retirement suited him (he was bored), and he asked me how life was without Salazar and Anaya. Surprisingly, the first answer that popped into my head was similar to his.
“What can I do for you, Kate? I assume this isn’t a social call.”
“No, it isn’t.” I paused, thinking how to frame my request. “I need to talk to someone I trust. Obviously, I’m still leery of going directly to your old organization.” When I was on the run from Salazar and Vincent Anaya, the man who took over Chance’s supervisory role when he retired turned out to be a mole on Anaya’s payroll. He was still out there, somewhere, although both the DEA and the FBI were looking for him.
“Understood. What have you got?”
I told him about the Jason Whitmore case, my interview with Bobby and his subsequent murder, and concluded with my sister’s overdose. Then I told him about the Seattle PD’s ongoing investigation and my frustration with the lack of results. I left out Ian’s role in Lisa’s overdose, although told myself I’d give the DEA the information after I found out more about Ian’s dealer.
“The attending physician mentioned a spike in fentanyl overdoses over the last couple of weeks. Sam’s contact in the SPD confirmed it.”
“I’m sorry about your sister, Kate. That’s a terrible thing. But I’m not sure how I can be of help.” Chance’s voice had turned cautious. “I can certainly give your information to my contacts at the DEA, but unless the SPD requests their help with the investigation, there’s not much more I can do.”
“Thanks, Chance. I appreciate whatever you can manage.” The information would be taken more seriously coming from Chance than it would from me. “I can’t sit around waiting for the SPD to take action. I need to do something for Lisa.”
“I get it. Your little sister’s hurting and you feel responsible. But you need to remember, these things take time. Every little bit of information helps these agencies build a case, helps them find the major players. Each operation is different, with myriad details that need to be taken into account and looked at as a whole.” Chance paused. “Don’t work at cross purposes with them, Kate. Things aren’t always as cut and dried as they were with Salazar or Anaya. The SPD could be working on someone higher up in the food chain that you don’t know about. Any interference could at the very least cause a distraction, delaying the case. Worst case scenario, an agent winds up dead because you didn’t know the whole story.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. I only want to help.”
We ended the conversation with Chance’s promise to give the information to the person in charge of investigating the fentanyl overdoses nationally, as well as suggesting the DEA assign a contact I could call in case Sam or I came across anything in our investigation for the Whitmores.
Talking to Chance relieved some of the pressure I put on myself to find answers, giving me the illusion of having done something to find the source of the counterfeit meds. Obviously, someone was going to great lengths to disguise the drug as a legitimate medication, which would put even the most paranoid addicts at ease. People trusted Big Pharma, even though the blessings of the Federal Drug Administration meant less and less these days. The lack of FDA funding and personnel was a recipe for disaster, especially when it involved so much profit for the pharmaceutical companies. Often, important findings fell through the cracks or were cloaked in subterfuge, which made it easier for Big Pharma to market their drugs for far more than the originally intended use.
Which earned them boatloads of diñero.
But I wasn’t interested in going up against Big Pharma. I was interested in finding whoever was responsible for Jason’s overdose.
And getting payback for Lisa’s.