Grand crew, p.23
Forced Fracture, page 23
“The word is aphrodisiacs, dumbass, and that aint what’s happening. Want to see some photos?” Jagger slid a folder across the table. It spun and came to a rest in front of Rick. Jagger moved in close and flipped the folder open. A photo of Heather Cartwright’s murder scene made him jump back from the table. Jagger continued. “Stasia Peterson, Casandra Romero…”
“Stop man, no, no I don’t want to see this. I didn’t have anything to do with this!”
Jagger continued. “Amy Collins, and who knows how many more women have been drugged, assaulted and murdered?!” He walked around the table, stood across from Rick and put his palms flush on the table. “You did have something to do with this. You have a whole supply of this shit. After the lab has finished analyzing it, and its composition matches that of the murder victims, and it will match, guess what it does to you?”
Rick turned pale. “I, I, pfft. I didn’t do it. I didn’t know about those women. I didn’t.”
Jagger laughed. “Oh, contrary to what you and your cohorts may think, ignorance is not an acceptable defense.”
There was a knock on the door. Ron stepped in. “So, Rick. Are you going to help us get this shit off the street?”
He laid his head back and rolled his eyes. “You know, it’s not gonna stop. You know if there’s a demand for the shit, it’ll be here. It’s cheap to make, it’s marked up higher than jewelry, and these guys are making a mint off it.”
“Of course, we know Rick, but one less manufacturer, is one less manufacturer. If we’re lucky, it also means a lot fewer deaths.”
“So, what do you want me to do?” He then added, “And will it help me, you know, stay out of jail?” Jagger and Ron both laughed and left the room.
“Wait! Where ya goin’? You can’t leave me here like this!”
They stepped into the adjoining room and watched Rick from behind the one-way mirror. “I don’t know, Ron. I just don’t know. You think we can get this done? I mean, do you think he can do it?”
“I think Rick here will do his best to keep his ass out of prison. I think we can do it, if I didn’t, we wouldn’t be standing here. A lot more buy money is going to be involved but if it goes down right, it’ll be worth it.”
“Exactly.”
The lab had the evidence from the scene, but knowing the scene was a public restroom, and the normal result of processing ‘Sandman’ scenes, Peyton doubted any evidence would come from it. She didn’t like feeling pessimistic, but she had no reason not to. Lane’s cell phone had been found, crushed, seven feet behind the convenience mart, in a field overgrown with wild spring flowers. Peyton was hoping there might be some notes, photos, or something Lane had been able to leave behind. So far, there was nothing. The lab would let her know as soon as possible.
Peyton mused about Lane. She was a sharp girl and she figured she would’ve told her everything when she saw her. She could imagine her eager smile and face beaming with satisfaction at having uncovered information from Whitman National. She wished the day had started differently and knew wishes rarely came true. Wishes without hard work and preparation for them were wasted thoughts. The conversation she had looked forward to was never going to happen. She was heartbroken. Not having a lot of friends, she’d allowed herself to feel something like a big sister to Lane. When she mentioned wanting to attend the academy, Peyton had developed a fast attachment to the girl. The search warrant had distracted her, and the feelings of guilt were flooding her thoughts; she shouldn’t have let Lane go alone. Somehow, Lane had dropped her guard. Somehow, this fucking killer was in her backyard.
Not wanting to wait, she decided she would go to Whitman National and called to set up an appointment. After having an unmarked car assigned to her, she left to meet with Greg Whitman after finding out he was Kane’s supervisor. It sounded odd to her, and she wondered if Lane had seen it the same way?
The rain continued, and it was a cruel reminder of her mood, her outlook, and grief for Lane. She needed to put those feelings aside and work this case. She shook the dampness off and asserted herself. “Hello. I’m FBI Agent Peyton Morgan. I’m here to speak with Mr. Greg Whitman.”
“Wow, you’re the second law enforcement person to want to talk to him. Yeah, I spoke to you earlier.” She looked down at a note she’d set before her. “He would like for you to meet him on the sixth floor, in his office.”
Peyton gave her a cursory smile and turned on her heel toward the bank of elevators. Another reception desk awaited everyone who exited the elevator at the sixth floor.
The small line of people disappeared quickly. “Hello, I’m Agent Peyton Morgan,” she raised her badge, “here to see Greg Whitman.”
The middle-aged somber woman announced her and directed her to Whitman’s office. “Just there on the right, Miss Morgan.”
Peyton stood at the open door until the man behind the desk ended his call. “Miss Morgan, please come in. I must say, you are the second lovely woman to inquire about Kane. Just earlier...”
“Yes, I know, Mr. Whitman. Lane Holcomb came to ask you questions about Kane Whitman?”
“Yes. Very nice woman.”
“If I may ask, what questions did she ask you? I’m curious.”
“Let me think. She asked how long Kane had worked here if I was related to him if I knew his brother.” He laughed.
“Why do you laugh?” She watched his face as he spun his fingers through the air in a gesture of absurdity.
“Kane has no brothers, he’s an orphan. I told her.”
“Interesting. Is he related to anyone, in any way, to any employee, here at Whitman National?” The puzzle pieces she’d temporarily put together in her head began to fly apart.
“Oh yes, I gave her a photo of Kane. A copy of his employee photo.”
“Could I also have a copy?”
“Of course. In answer to your question as to whether he’s related to anyone at Whitman, no, he isn’t. As I told Ms. Holcomb, my grandfather started the company in the early seventies. What is all the commotion around my employee, Miss Morgan?” He paused. “I’m getting a bad feeling here. Why haven’t you asked Ms. Holcomb these questions? They’re the same ones she’d asked.”
“Because; Mr. Whitman. She’s been murdered.”
Peyton returned to the station and found that the evidence, as in all the cases, showed nothing. Lane’s car was clean. There were no photos of Kane, no notebook, no clue that she’d even been to Whitman National. Her station liaison was now Sergeant McCallister. “Hello, Sergeant. Do you know if the video tape from the convenience mart is available?”
“Yes, it is. I’ll go to the evidence room and sign it out. Would you like for me to bring it to where you’re working, view it at the same time?”
“Sure, fantastic, thanks.”
Rick stepped into his apartment while the team monitored his words with video and microphones. The satchel he’d received the day Ron and Jagger were surveilling him was now ten vials lighter. The rest of the supply was now a fluid resembling the original drug but had no deadly effect. He had the amount of money his associates expected for payment, and he looked terribly nervous.
Ron was shaking his head and breathing ragged. “Oh my God, he’s going to get himself shot. He’s shaking like a speed freak.”
Jagger grunted. “I thought you were the positive one?”
“Look at him, Jag. He needs a pep talk.”
“Calm down and be patient. He doesn’t want to go to prison. Trust that.”
The video showed Rick pick up his phone and dial. Jagger and Ron listened while his quivering voice spoke. “Yeah, it’s me. I’ve sold some, ten, I think…no, I know, yes, ten…of course…want to meet here, or…no, of course not…ten more…sure thing.”
“Damn! They want to wait for more sales.”
Jagger sighed. “Of course, would you want to make a trip to see Rick for 5K? He knows if he loses any of it, he’s dead. We need to feed some stories to the media, or these guys are going to get curious, we don’t need curious. They’ll expect police activity, a report, something. With ten vials sold, there’s bound to be victims.”
“I agree. Has the lab come back with anything on the composition of the drugs?”
“I’m not sure, I meant to check with the lieutenant. I’ll text her.”
They knocked on Rick’s door and he let them in.
“Geez Rick, calm your shit down. You’re going to have a stroke.”
“A stroke would be better than what they’ll do to me if they find out I’m a rat.”
“Well, what do you guys want me to do till then?” He hopped back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Nothing,” both Ron and Jagger chorused.
“Nothing?”
Ron stepped up to him placing a hand on his shoulder. “Do what you normally do when you aren’t dealing. You’re gonna be alright, man.”
“Yeah, yeah. I can do it.”
When they returned to the car, Jagger smirked at Ron. “You know you’re going to be a great dad one day. The way you handled Rick. Golden man.”
“Shut up, Jag.” He started the car. “Did we get any information off their car last week?”
“Ah no, plates were cold, nothing of course. I take it Rick has no idea of what their names are?”
“Unless they matched the identity of a Maria…” He pulled his pocket notepad from his shirt…Swankowski. The registration for the car with those plates is under her name. The photos we have aren’t enough to make an identification.” Ron laughed. “Thanks to you. We have the back of their heads.”
“Yes, well, who was driving? Who parked on the wrong side of the street?” Jagger blurted in his own defense.
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get them. At least we have their shit off the street. Cranky ass… someone needs a nap!”
They left Rick and took the money and drugs back to the site. They knocked on the lieutenant’s door.
“Come in.”
“Hello, lieutenant. Just finished a possible pick up for the buy money from our guy. The subjects opted to wait until more of the product is unloaded.” Ron sat in one of the chairs across from her. Jagger stood with his arms crossed.
“So, what’s the question, gentlemen? You don’t usually come in unless you need something. I’m all ears,” she said with a smile.
Jagger stepped forward. “It’s more of a measure we feel should be taken to keep the manufacturers of this shit in the dark about our plans. If they don’t see victims, they’ll doubt the efficacy of their ‘new popular drug’ they may not believe Rick actually dealt with anyone.”
“I see, I’ll get the department liaison on it.” She relaxed in her chair. “Detective Scott how is your sister doing?”
“She’s well. Just got engaged. She is looking forward to being able to walk around the city again.”
“I got your text about the lab reports. I have a call into them now. Once the lab gets back with what the composition is of the drugs your boy is dealing, we’ll know if it’s related to what the serial cases in the south revealed.”
Ron leaned forward. “There haven’t been any more victims other than the six, so far as we know. If, heaven forbid, there are any more victims, we could compare the composition to what Rick was given to offload.”
“We’re bound to lose some victims, just from recreational use.” Jagger sadly shook his head side to side.
“Sounds like you have a hold on what’s happening. Go home. Forget this crap for the night. There’s nothing we can do at the moment. When we get the comps back then we can move forward.”
McCallister picked up the video and took it to where Peyton was looking over notes. He was tall, sandy blond, thirty something, and quite handsome.
“Agent Morgan, here we are.” He set the jump drive in front of her. He sat on her right and as she glanced at him, she saw he didn’t wear a ring. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. A lot of officers didn’t wear wedding bands while on duty. She bowed her head and rested her head and neck between her palms.
“It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”
“It has, yes it has.”
He patted her shoulder. “Go easy on yourself. Lane wouldn’t have wanted you feeling this way.”
She wiped a tear from her eye. “You two knew each other well?”
“I was her training officer. She was one of a kind. Always lit the place up.”
“Yes, I didn’t know her long, but I felt that we were fast friends. She was thinking of attending the academy in Quantico. We spoke about it.”
“Oh. wow, Lane Holcomb, in the FBI? She would’ve been a natural.”
“I think so too.” Peyton rolled her neck. “Alright, let’s look at this video.”
Twenty-Eight
He hated Charles. Charles had never done anything to make things easier for him. He liked to come off all high and mighty, but was a coward, a pacifist, only wanting to satisfy his own lofty goals. Charles never gave him enough respect for the lengths he went to as the protector.
He stepped up to the ticket counter. The flight was due to take off in an hour.
“Hello. I’d like a ticket for the next flight to LaGuardia?”
“Round trip?”
“One way only.” He smiled. “Not sure when I’ll be back.” … ‘If ever,’ he thought. “New York may just be my kind of town.” He winked.
He watched the passengers walking slowly through the airport. It was slower than what he normally experienced at the bus stations. He mused about Sara. So, she had survived his last attempt at sending her on her journey? It angered him. It was as if he hadn’t folded the clothes, as if, he hadn’t done all that he could to appease her. He had to finish it. The repercussion of not completing the task was too harsh to fathom. He wouldn’t be able to survive it again. He barely survived it the first time. It had to be this way.
It was his responsibility, his alone. Charles was a loud mouthed, do nothing, free- thinking, artsy-fartsy kind of guy that never thought of anyone else, ever. The rules didn’t apply to Charles. He’s never had to answer to anyone or anything. He did as he liked, without any thought of anyone else. He was a selfish bastard, and it was why he was where he is right now. In the closet and out of the way. Now it was time to clean things up, again.
The cash he’d taken from Charles would get him by. It was the one thing he could always count on. Charles had money. He never did anything remarkable with it, but he had it. He didn’t understand how giving boring lectures and vague opinions of the arts through the years paid off well. Who gave a fuck what cavemen drew on their walls to evolve?
He sat in the rear of the plane, watching the frantic passengers scramble on and sit like good little tiny children, doing exactly what they should. When the plane reached cruising altitude, a sweet petite flight attendant snared his attention. Short dark hair, plump red lips.
“Hello. Is there anything I can get you?”
“I’d like a seven and seven if you have it. Double the Seagram’s, please.” He sheepishly cocked his head.
“Are you a nervous flyer?”
“No.”
She pursed her red lips in a forced smile. “I thought you might be nervous to fly.”
“I just feel like celebrating.”
“Birthday? Promotion?”
He shook his head. “It’s more of a freedom regained situation.”
She giggled and looked at his hands. “I see, a divorce?”
“I will agree with you on that point. It was a divorce, of sorts.” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. He had Charles out of his way and out of his system.
Minutes later she returned with his cocktail. He took a generous swallow. “Thank you.” The sentiment relayed something more than a graciousness for the drink. She gave him a quizzical look and continued to serve the other passengers.
Female newscaster, JoAnn Johnson, looked at her notes and then directly to the studio camera. “A deadly new concoction of drugs has hit the streets of America. Beginning with victims in the Northern United States bordering on Canada, and moving southward to Texas and Florida, the drug has changed into a deadly mix which can kill within minutes. Dubbed, ’Sandman’s Tears,’ authorities are warning partygoers to watch their drinks, and to cease taking any, and all, ‘party drugs.’ Reports claim the drug has taken two lives in the greater New York area. Authorities also ask that if you see or witness anyone selling, using, or speaking about this deadly drug, please call them at once.”
Jagger listened to the report. “I hope this is going nationwide.”
Lieutenant Ignacio stepped up to Jagger. “It is. Detective, I have the added buy money. I would warn against setting up the buy for the same amount as last time. I would also stagger the buy times. Wait for the news to circulate and anyone actively asking for this shit is going to be held on suspicion of murder.” Lieutenant Ignacio sat at her desk. Her eyes glossed over. Sighing, she asked, “What ever happened to the days where simple marijuana and pills were the big bust of the day?”
Ron stepped into the Lieutenant’s office. “What did I miss? I heard the news report. That should shut down most of Rick’s business.”
“Yes, but as the Lieutenant was just saying, with the news having claimed what it has, anyone asking for ‘Sandman’s Tears’ will be arrested for suspicion of murder.”
“Or suspicion of the intent to commit murder.” Ron shook his head. “Let’s just sit back and watch what kinds of cockroaches contact him.”
Peyton and McCallister’s eyes were red and weary from concentrating on the video feed that they’d gotten from the convenience mart. Peyton watched as Lane’s cheerful smile had greeted the cashier. He had smiled back at her and punched some numbers into his cash register and then closed it. She had poured her coffee and put a lid on it. Shaking her head at the cashier, she pulled some bills from her pocket and placed it in the donation jar for the American Cancer Society. She was following the rules and wouldn’t accept gratuities.
“I wish we had audio.” Lane turned and walked out of the store, walking to the left side of the building. A few moments later a shadow appears, partially showing someone at least six feet tall. No image of the man, only the shadow of a baseball cap for a split second, and then nothing.
