As I stepped into the gas station, the bells on the door handle jingled. The clerk on duty had a handheld plastic fan blowing in her face. She stared at me for a beat, and then went back to watching the fan.
I made a beeline for the men’s room and did my business. As I dried my hands, I read the descriptions of the various papa-stoppers for sale in the restroom vending machine. The big metal case on the wall promised all variety of sensual seductions, from glow-in-the-dark rubbers to studded Tinglers (“for her pleasure”). Take your pick. Just three quarters apiece. I had three quarters, but I wasn’t going to blow them on a Tingler.
Outside the restroom, there was a pay phone. It was the fifth gas station we’d stopped at looking for one. I was beginning to think it would have been easier to contact the police via carrier pigeon. I fingered the rosary around my wrist and prayed to Mary that the phone wasn’t out of service.
I inserted the coins. When the third quarter clunked down, I heard the dial tone. Who says Jesus doesn’t answer small prayers? All you have to do is ask His mother.
I dialed the main police number. No sense tying up 911. Alvin didn’t need EMTs. He needed a forensic pathologist.
A woman answered: “Wilmington PD.”
“I’d like to report an overdose. A death.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want the address?”
“Hold on, let me get a pencil,” she said with a sigh. “Okay, you said someone overdosed? Heroin, pills…?”
“There was a bottle of pills. I didn’t read it.”
“Is the victim breathing?”
“He’s dead. I already told you—he’s dead. So, no, he’s not breathing. Dead men don’t breathe.”
“What’s your name?”
“Joe…Tingler.”
“Okay, Joe. Are you with the victim now?”
“He’s back at his apartment.”
“The victim’s apartment?”
“Yeah, the dead guy. His name is Alvin Harrison. He lives at the Brandywine Hills Apartments. Number twenty-three.”
“Okay. Where are you now, Joe?”
I hung up. Stay on the phone too long, and they can trace the call. Heck, the name of the gas station probably showed up on her caller ID. I figured she’d send a unit to Alvin’s apartment first. They might check up on the gas station caller later, but “Joe Tingler” would be on the road by then.
I returned to the car.
“It’s done,” I said.
“Did you get my protein bar?” Barack asked.
I fumbled for the health bar I’d purchased inside the mini-mart.
Barack accepted it with a skeptical look. “Hmm.”
“Hmm what?” I asked.
“Nothing. It’s just—this protein blend is pretty low quality. Look at the label. Hydrolyzed collagen? That won’t give you a full spectrum of amino acids.”
“So what are you saying? Did I just waste four dollars on a candy bar?”
Sensing my irritation, Barack unwrapped the bar and took a bite. If the taste bothered him, he was careful to hide it. “Is something bothering you, Joe?”
“You mean, besides the mounting body count?”
“Fair enough.”
“Here’s a crazy idea that just popped into my head: maybe we have it wrong. He was a sixty-something guy, on the verge of retirement, right? Let’s say he found something out about Amtrak—they’ve been cutting corners on passenger safety. That would also explain why he was on his way to see me. He was a whistleblower, and I was the only person he could trust. He had a bunch of documents, so he packed them up and carried them with him. But someone knew. Someone up high. They killed him, then made it look like an overdose.”
“Corporate espionage.”
“Why not?”
“I hate to burst your bubble, but it’s just too far-fetched,” Barack said. “And this is coming from someone who knows state secrets that would scare Ellen straight.” He paused, but neither Steve nor I laughed. “It was a joke. Sexual orientation is biological in nature, determined by your DNA, meaning it would be impossible to—”
“I get it,” I said.
“Do you really think Finn was a whistleblower?”
I sighed. “No. It’s just some fantasy. What’s really bothering me is what I’m going to do if I find out Finn wasn’t some innocent victim. Marked bills, a gym bag filled with who knows what…I keep telling myself that there’s a man’s reputation on the line, but maybe that man isn’t Finn. Maybe that man is me. What happens if I find out Finn wasn’t a good guy? What does that say about me?”
Before Barack could answer, my phone started buzzing.
It was Grace. She was sobbing.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Two men just showed up with a warrant. They’re going through the house right now.”
“Cops?”
“No,” she said. “DEA.”