Cut in darkness, p.4
Cut in Darkness, page 4
I rolled my eyes, but I wanted to pound my head into the table. The waitress returned to take our order, saving me from harming myself. She took our orders, and when she was gone, Dad excused himself to the restroom.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered under my breath.
Declan turned to me. “I was disappointed to find you gone when I came back this morning.”
“You came back? Why?” I asked, attempting to sound uninterested.
“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I come back?”
“I just assumed you had business to take care of, and you’d left early.” I ran my finger around the rim of my coffee mug.
“That’s what this hostility is about? You’re angry with me for leaving?”
My head snapped up at him. “What? Of course not.” I let out an exasperated breath. “Declan, I don’t expect you to always be there when I wake up. You and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”
He drew back slightly. “And what kind of relationship would you say we have?” he asked.
I studied his face. His jaw was set. And the fingers on his left hand—the one farthest from me—were curled into a fist, resting on the table. Otherwise, he looked rather calm.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry. My dad surprised me, and I’m just…”
He leaned forward in his seat. “What happened this morning? What changed?”
What had changed? I was assigned a case, the first since I’d returned to the FBI, which made it a very important case to my career. A policeman nearly died from being the first responder on the scene of one of the overdoses I was now going to investigate. What if the woman I’d almost treated in the hospital waiting room had had some of her drug on her fingers and had touched me? I could have died in the line of duty.
Could I tell Declan all these things? Teddy, or someone else in law enforcement, would have understood. “Nothing happened,” I said finally. “It’s just… I’ve been assigned a new case. It’s going to take a lot of my time.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it when Dad returned.
Declan angled his head to my father and said, “Jack, you mentioned on the phone that I might be able to help you with a case.”
I turned to Dad with wide eyes.
“That’s right. The doctors suggested this morning that the rash of overdoses they’ve seen since Friday appears to be from a new drug. They’re very confused by it, and seeing as the Kentucky State Police Laboratory is extremely backed up and the FBI lab is quite a distance away, I was wondering if you or your colleague, Mr. Hahn, might help the FBI again.”
My mouth sat agape as I studied my dad. I knew he could put a rush on any lab he wanted. He was getting Declan involved for some other reason.
“I’m happy to help in any way I can.” Declan spread a napkin in his lap just as a server arrived and set plates of eggs, bacon, waffles, and grits in front of us.
When the server was gone, I turned to Dad. “I thought I was lead in this case. Shouldn’t I be the one who finds experts to help?”
“Of course, honey. But since you’ve just taken charge, I’m helping you get started. The same way I would any agent.”
Having Dad show up so unexpectedly, then insert himself into my personal life by inviting Declan to breakfast, had thrown me off balance. And this had come after facing off with Agent Marshall before the sun was even up.
“And how do you suppose Declan, a civilian, is going to help with this case?”
“The senator called me shortly after I left him early this morning. He has reluctantly agreed to hand over the drugs he found in his daughter’s possessions.”
“Why didn’t he give them to the police?” I asked.
“Because he wanted me to have them. He trusts me—and the FBI—to get to the bottom of whatever this is. Don’t worry—I’ve already warned him not to touch the drugs. We sure wouldn’t want a United States senator accidentally overdosing. Imagine the political fallout. Anyway, I told him I was assigning my best agent to the case and that you would be by to talk to him.”
“He thinks he can control you,” I speculated.
“Well, it won’t be me he’s dealing with. But if he gives you any trouble, I want to know about it.” He picked up his fork and took his first bite. He moaned with closed eyes when he tasted the cheesy, garlicky grits. “Okay, enough talk of the case. Tell me more about the two of you. What plans do you have for the Fourth?”
With all of the weekend festivities, I’d forgotten that the Fourth of July wasn’t even until Tuesday.
“Well,” Declan started when I didn’t, “O’Roark Industries is sponsoring Lexington’s fireworks celebration Tuesday night.”
“Your company is putting on the fireworks show?” I asked. “I didn’t know that.”
“I was hoping you and I would watch them together. Until then…” He turned back to my father. “We’re having people over to the house for a cookout this afternoon. We would love for you to join us.”
The way he included me in his “we” when talking about having people to his house…
Just like that, my heart constricted, and I felt like such an ass for having given him so much trouble all morning.
The ringing of Dad’s phone stopped him from responding to Declan’s invitation.
“Director Waller… Yes… That would be fine. I’ll be back this afternoon.” He hung up and focused back on us. “As much as I would love to enjoy fireworks and a cookout with the two of you, I must catch my plane back to DC immediately after breakfast.”
We ate the rest of our breakfast while making small talk.
Afterwards, Dad stood and slipped into his suit jacket despite the ninety-degree outside temperature. “Your new partner will be here tomorrow,” he said.
“You’re still not going to tell me who it is?”
“And ruin the surprise?”
I furrowed my brows. Declan, too, was eyeing Dad curiously.
“Meanwhile,” Dad said, “see what you can find out about the company the senator’s daughter has been keeping.”
Gray Packstone, I thought. “I’ll start digging.”
Dad threw a couple of large bills on the table, far too much cash for our quaint breakfast, and then reached out a hand to Declan. “Declan, it was nice to see you. I hope my daughter doesn’t make it too difficult for you to take care of her.”
“Dad, I hardly need to be taken care of,” I said.
“Mmm,” he said, and leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “Maybe when you’re on the job, but off the job? You could use a little looking after.”
When Dad was gone, I turned to Declan, who was already standing.
“Want to talk here or back at my house?” he asked.
“We have nothing to—”
He leaned down, his face close to mine. “I don’t know why you’re so upset, but we will talk it out. That’s what people in a relationship do. Here or back at my house?”
Relationship. “Fine, I’ll come to your house after I make a couple of stops.”
“Great.” He smiled, then placed his lips on mine. “Bring your bathing suit. It’s a lovely holiday weekend.”
Chapter 6
I left what had turned out to be a very stressful breakfast and went straight down to Lexington Police headquarters. The media was camped out in front of the main entrance. I was buzzed into the building and led to an office where Detective May was making notes on a large dry erase board and Detective Compton was tacking Post-It notes on a cork wall.
“Hi, Detectives,” I said.
“Agent Fairfax,” Detective May said. “You just missed DEA.”
“Apparently our little case has gotten the attention of many of our federal partners,” Detective Compton said, sounding not the least bit pleased.
“I’m not surprised.” And I wasn’t. With this many people overdosing in a twenty-four-hour period, it was likely that every law enforcement agency in the region wanted in on the action. “The FBI has reason to believe that Senator Westbrook’s daughter’s death is related to the deaths of your opioid overdose victims,” I added.
Detective Compton stopped what he was doing and turned to me. “How do you figure? All the other victims are homeless or prostitutes.”
“Well, according to the senator, four doses of naloxone failed to stop Angela Westbrook’s heart from giving out.”
“We know about that.” Compton shook his head. “But the coroner has ruled the senator’s daughter’s death an accidental overdose,” he said firmly. “Not a homicide, thus not our problem.” He went back to studying the corkboard.
Detective May remained silent. I was getting the brushoff. Maybe the detectives had been ordered to let Angela Westbrook’s case go. Or maybe Angela Westbrook’s death was an accidental overdose. Maybe she simply got hold of a bad batch of drugs, like all the others.
I changed gears. “I’ve been called to the hospital twice this weekend. I was under the impression you needed intelligence from me related to outlaw motorcycle gangs.”
“We’ll call you, Agent Fairfax, if we need you,” said Detective Compton.
My brows shot up. “Did I do something to make you want to blow me off, Detective?”
“No. We simply don’t need the services of the FBI at this time.”
“Very well.” Two could play at that game. I turned on my heel and left the way I had come.
After leaving police headquarters, I stopped by the Julep Hill cottage and grabbed my bikini and a change of clothes. A dip in Declan’s pool would be the perfect way to work off the tension that had accumulated from the visit with the Lexington detectives.
I’d stayed at Declan’s place plenty of times over the last couple of months, but had refused to leave any of my clothes there. I enjoyed the casualness of our relationship; I wasn’t ready for the complications that came with sharing a living space.
I packed a bag and tossed it in the back seat of my car. On a whim, I stopped inside the café. Carrie Anne was cleaning up from lunch. “Hi, Carrie Anne.”
“Hi, sweetie.” She wiped down table after table.
“Is Marti around?”
“She’s in the kitchen.”
I pushed through the swinging door. Marti was sitting on top of a stainless steel island. Her legs swung back and forth while she shot the breeze with the kitchen staff.
“Hey, Brooke,” she said when she saw me. “You were up early this morning.” When I eyed her curiously, she added, “I was baking muffins for brunch. Saw you out the back window.”
“Do you know where your friend Charley Packstone hangs out?” I asked.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
I didn’t want to involve her in anything, especially after what had happened the last time she’d gotten tangled up in an active investigation. “Let’s just call it curiosity.”
“Well, that would be Hop House on West Lincoln Street in the distillery district.” She slid off the table. “When are we going?”
“We are not going.”
“Why? It’s a great place to get a microbrew, and Sunday afternoon on a holiday weekend sounds like the perfect time to get one. And since Mom gave me the day off tomorrow, I’d love a night out in the big city.”
I had trouble thinking of Lexington as a “big city,” but I supposed it would seem like that from Marti’s point of view. It was over a hundred times larger than Midland.
I angled my head, assessing the risk of going out with my friend to a place known to be a biker hangout. I wasn’t planning to talk to anyone or do anything, really. Not in the capacity of an FBI agent, anyway. I just wanted to scope out the scene.
She shoved off the island. “I’ll go change.” She looked down at my jeans and T-shirt. “You should, too. It’s still ninety degrees out. Go put on a sundress or something.”
I started to protest, to tell her I was due out at Declan’s, but she had already turned and gone.
Forty minutes later, Marti and I pulled into a gravel parking lot beside Hop House. Marti drew down the visor and spread some gloss across her lips.
I shot Declan a text: Change of plans. Have work to do. Will call when I’m done. Not that I owed him an explanation. He’d heard my father this morning. I had been assigned my first real case after my reinstatement. This was important if I had any intention of reviving my career.
A second after I switched my phone to silence, it buzzed in my hand. I ignored Declan’s call. “Ready?” I asked Marti.
She flipped the visor up and smiled at me. “Of course. It’s been a while since we’ve gone out.”
It was a scalding summer day, and any chance of a thunderstorm to cool us off had passed to our north already. We crossed the parking lot, gravel crunching beneath my wedge sandals. Out of professional habit, I noted that there were two entrances to the lot. And no one could have avoided noticing the row of about twenty Harley-Davidsons, all of them pointed in the direction of the exits.
We approached Hop House from the rear, which gave us a full view of the bar’s expansive back patio. The entire back of the main building was made up of three garage doors, and they were all open, creating the atmosphere of one large outdoor venue that was partially covered. The patio was busy, with some standing, some sitting around umbrella-shaded picnic tables, and my senses were on full alert, profiling the people. It was what I did—stereotyped and placed people in pre-determined boxes based on what they wore, their body language, and the company they kept.
At one end of the patio were clean-cut college-aged men dressed in tees or polo shirts and khaki shorts, and women in sundresses that could have passed for church dresses. I placed this group in a box labeled “naïve, probably harmless, but not to be underestimated.” This group had the ability to stir up trouble, usually after drinking too much.
Then there was the table of people along the far edge of the patio. Though they smiled and conversed with the people across from them, they continuously glanced up at the rest of the crowd. A red-haired woman in a black tank top made eye contact with me the second I reached the patio. I knew the people at this table were ready to bail at the first sign of trouble, though they looked relaxed enough that they weren’t necessarily expecting any.
In the middle of the patio, I eyed the third, and largest, portion of the crowd. The men in this group wore baggy jeans, black or white T-shirts, and black leather vests—motorcycle club cuts. It made me sweat just looking at these men wearing denim and leather in this heat. Some of them wore bandanas on their heads. Some wore their long hair in ponytails. Many had facial hair. All were tatted up with ink.
The women with them were dressed in cut-off denim shorts, form-fitting tank tops, rompers, or extremely short skirts. Some sat on the laps of the men. Others sat off to the side, but their eyes remained fixated on the men in the group at all times.
As I read the words on the backs of the vests—Samael’s Army MC—I was glad for the discreet firearm at my thigh. I didn’t plan on needing it, but in a large crowd, when it was blistering, hot, humid, and stifling—not to mention a long holiday weekend—people far too often drank too much and did stupid stuff.
“Let’s get a beer,” Marti said. She, too, was dressed for the heat in a thin navy and white romper. It was one of the trendy styles for the season. I, on the other hand, wore a sundress that covered my weapon but still offered easy access.
We passed through one of the garage doors and approached the long bar. A man with a white beard set a couple of napkins in front of us. “What can I get you ladies?”
He didn’t appear nervous. He looked straight at us, not over our shoulders at the rowdy group behind us. That was a good sign, so I slid onto a black leather and chrome barstool, positioning myself so that I could see the bartender, Marti, and the people behind me with a simple turn of the head. “I’ll have the Kentucky Ire Summer Ale,” I said, nodding to the ten taps.
“And I’ll have the IPA,” Marti said.
“The Kentucky Ire?” the bartender asked, and Marti nodded. Apparently he had more than one India pale ale.
He set the beers in front of us, in glasses designed specifically for the microbrews we had chosen. “If you want food, there’re a couple of food trucks behind the patio.”
We thanked him.
“Cheers,” Marti said and tipped her glass to mine. “To friends.”
“To independence.” I smiled and took a sip. This was my first taste of the summer ale from Declan’s microbrewery. It was good, not as hoppy as the IPA, which was not my favorite. I actually preferred another local brewery’s summer beer that had a tinge of watermelon, but this particular bar didn’t carry it.
As I looked toward Marti, I realized that we had captured the attention of a couple of men at one of the biker tables. They weren’t being discreet about their interest. But it was a woman seated with them who stood and walked toward us.
“Here we go,” Marti said, taking another drink of her beer. She was drinking hers quite a bit faster than I was drinking mine.
“What?”
“Charley Packstone,” Marti whispered. She turned and smiled at me, then tilted her head back and laughed as if I’d said something hilarious. “Pretend to be having fun.”
“This is me having fun,” I said.
Her smile faltered. “Are you serious?” Her eyes shifted, and I felt someone brush against my shoulder.
“Charley,” Marti said. “It’s been a while.”
The woman who had approached was dressed in jeans and a white tank top topped with a worn leather vest. There were no patches on her vest—only men could be patched into a motorcycle club—but the hint of a tattoo peeked out from under her shirt on her left shoulder, and it looked like black angel wings.
“Hi, Marti. You still living in Midland?”
“Yep. You still riding?”
Charley tossed a quick look over her shoulder and turned her back to the bikers. “I am.”
