Drift (22 page)

When Pruitt came back, his shades were in his hand, his eyes were red and wet, and his face was ashy and gray. He seemed ten years older. “Come on. We’re going back.”

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Friend of mine’s kid died.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Just get in the goddamn car.”

45

We drove back in a stony silence until we pulled up next to my driveway and Pruitt turned to look at me, chewing the inside of his bottom lip. “Look here, Carrick, I brought you out there out of professional courtesy, understand? ’Cause you did okay on that bust. But I’ve had enough of you for a while. I’m going to leave this alone because I have other things to do, but I want you to lock up your weapon somewhere safe and keep it there. And then I want you to stay off my radar, you hear? I know you’re in the shit back in Philly. You cause me any more work, I’ll make sure they hear about it, okay?”

I nodded.

“Okay, now get out, and let’s you and me not run into each other for a while.”

As I got out of the car, I said, “Sorry about your friend,” but he sped off without looking at me.

Little more than an hour had passed since Pruitt came knocking on my door, but it seemed like a lot longer. The thought of sleep entered my mind as I walked through the front door, but then I saw the mess in the kitchen, the rotting food Nola had left on the counter, the bits of casserole dish scattered across the floor. As sleep seemed less and less likely, I felt more and more tired.

I took a broom from the closet and swept the shards of Corningware into a pile in the corner then grabbed a trash bag from under the sink and started with what was on the counter. It didn’t seem as bad as it had the night before. I could picture the bread and the strawberries covered with mold, but now they both just looked kind of wilted. The mushrooms were a mess, reduced to a brown slime, but the rest of it didn’t look so bad at all. I puzzled over it for half a second, then dumped it all into the trash.

Grabbing a yogurt from the fridge, I checked the date, then gave it a brisk shake and opened it up. For a brief moment, I stood there drinking my yogurt and wondering which domestic chore should come next, or if I should take another stab at sleeping.

Then I noticed a thin film of white powder on either side of the kitchen windowsill, and I remembered there were more pressing things to consider. Like what the hell was going on in this crazy-assed town, what kind of death from above was being sprayed in the middle of the night. Like why Nola’s neighbors tried to kill me instead of saying, “Hey, you going to pay for that apple?” Or where Squirrel was. Or whether any of it had anything to do with Roberts and Arnett, or if it was some bored paranoid fantasy and that was just how things worked out here.

A light breeze came in through the opened window, and I closed it so as not to disturb whatever was on the windowsill. Using a spatula, I scraped the powder into a Ziploc bag and taped it closed. As I was washing my hands and the spatula, the phone rang, a blocked number, and I kept right on washing, making sure I did a thorough job before I answered the phone.

“Doyle?” said a voice that sounded like the woman at the crop-dusting place but with twice the nicotine habit.

“Nola? Is that you?”

She coughed into the phone. “Yeah, more or less,” she croaked. “I want to come home.”

“You sound terrible.”

“Thanks. I feel pretty lousy.”

“But you’re okay, right?”

“If you mean are any bad guys messing with me, I’m okay. Other than that, I feel like poop.” She coughed again. I thought about all the coughing during the funeral, Pruitt’s sick cops. “How are you doing?”

“Me? Um … I don’t know. Okay, I guess. We had a bit of an incident last night.”

“What kind of incident?”

It wasn’t until that moment that it really sank in, the implications for Nola’s farm of what had happened the night before.

“I’m not sure, really. Last night, late, a crop duster dive-bombed our houses.”

“A plane?”

“Yes. A crop duster. One of the ones that sprays crops and stuff.” If someone knew how devastating this could be for her, for her farm and her organic certification, it could be an easy way to get her to sell.

“A crop duster.” She paused to cough. “Did it … spray anything?”

“Yeah, it did.”

There was a long silence on the other end. “On my crops? On my house?”

If someone knew she had chemical sensitivity, it could be attempted murder. “Yeah, both.”

Through the silence I could hear her breath becoming wet and thick.

“So, what does that mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, practically a sob. Then she inhaled deeply. “It means I want to come home and I can’t.”

*   *   *

When I got off the phone with Nola, I called Stan Bowers.

“What’s up, Doyle?” he answered.

“I need a favor.”

“A favor, huh?”

“I need you to get me some lab work.”

He laughed. “Don’t you have friends who can do that for you?”

“Just Danny, and if our lieutenant finds out Danny’s doing that for me, he’s toast. C’mon, who just got you your biggest bust of the year? Fifty keys of H has got to be worth a little lab work.”

He sighed. “What’ve you got?”

I told him about the incident with the crop duster.

“Jesus,” he laughed. “You can’t even take a couple of weeks in the country without some kind of shit storm finding you.”

“Yeah, it’s hilarious. Anyway, whatever the guy was spraying, it settled onto my windowsill, some kind of white powder. I figured, if anybody can get away with sending an unidentified white powder in for analysis, it’s my best buddy at DEA, right?”

“White powder, huh?” He suddenly sounded serious. “You think it might be anthrax or something? I’m at a breakfast meeting with Homeland Security, should we get them involved?”

“I don’t know, Stan. They spray shit all the time out here. Could be pixie dust for all I know, but I’d really like to find out.”

“Yeah, all right. They’re a bunch of assholes anyway. You got no idea what it is?”

I didn’t want to give him any excuse to back out, so I left out the part about the neighbors trying to shoot me. “I don’t know. There’s a woman next door, has a small organic farm. There’s been some pressure on her to sell her land. Could be an herbicide or pesticide, something to kill her crops or contaminate them so she can’t sell them as organic.”

“That’s pretty obscure.”

“Maybe, but someone already torched some of her crops with gasoline. I don’t know, I’m just guessing. She’s also sensitive to chemicals, like allergic. They could be trying to hurt her that way, or make the place uninhabitable.”

“All right, I got you. I can put it in, but my guys are pretty busy. Could take a little while.”

“Even if they know it’s for you?”

“Jesus, Doyle. You’re pushing it, you know that?”

“But you love me anyway, right?”

“Yeah, but only as a friend.”

46

I had arranged to meet Stan at a Dunkin’ Donuts in a town called Hamburg, about ten miles away. I’m not a huge fan of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, but with a shot of espresso and a doughnut on the side, it ain’t bad. I was finishing my second coffee when Stan came in. He had a suit and a briefcase and an adhesive “Hello, My Name Is” tag, with “Stan” written across it in big, blocky letters.

He ordered a large coffee and brought it over to the table.

“Hope you’re not working undercover,
Stan
,” I said, making it obvious that I was reading his tag.

He looked down and peeled it off, then folded it up and threw it at me. “Asshole. You’ve worked cases with Homeland Security, right?”

“Couple times.”

“You know a guy there named Craig Sorenson?”

“No.”

“You’re lucky. Guy’s a complete tool.” He paused, studying my face for a moment. “Jesus, look at you. You look like
you’re
undercover. I’ve seen meth addicts with more color in their cheeks.”

“Thanks. I’ve been working on it.”

“Apparently. Being attacked by airplanes, huh? That’s impressive, even for you. Who’d you piss off this time, the Air Force?”

“That would explain it.”

“So why don’t you take it up with local law enforcement? I mean, apart from the obvious.”

I shrugged.

“You think they’ll fuck it up?”

I shrugged again.

“By accident or on purpose?”

One more shrug.

He shook his head. “Right. I don’t want to hear about any of that. Munschak’s dad is chief in some bumblefuck town near Scranton. Thinks these salt-of-the-earth types can do no wrong.” He took the lid off his coffee and slurped it, then put the lid back on. “So what’ve you got?”

I slid the envelope across the table.

“It’s sealed?” he asked before touching it.

I gave him a look to remind him I wasn’t an idiot, but I nodded.

He shrugged a mild apology as he palmed it and put it in his briefcase. “Like you haven’t done some dumb shit lately.”

“Point taken.”

“I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Stan.”

He picked up his briefcase and stood, looking down at me. “Try to stay out of trouble, okay, Carrick? Doesn’t look like suspension is agreeing with you.”

*   *   *

When Stan left, I ordered another coffee, to go. I didn’t know how long it was going to take to get the results back on the white powder, and I didn’t know what my next step should be. At some point, I needed to get some sleep, but I had too many unanswered questions to sleep well. For the moment, caffeine would have to do.

When I took out my wallet to pay for the coffee, though, I found the slip of paper with the information I had written from public records: Redtail Holding Company, Reading, PA, Jordan Rothe, CEO. I called the number and asked if Mr. Rothe was there. The receptionist said yes, but that he was in a lunch meeting.

“When do you expect him to be finished?”

“At least an hour, maybe a little longer. Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Thanks. I’ll try again later.”

*   *   *

Redtail Holding Company occupied the tenth floor of an eleven-story brick building in the center of Reading. There was a historical plaque out front, but I didn’t read it. The lobby was funky, like it had been restored on the cheap. Or maybe it had never been all that nice to begin with.

I got off the elevator on the tenth floor and was greeted by a small woman in her late sixties sitting at a reception desk. She had a sweet face and smart-looking eyes. She reminded me a bit of my mother. Behind her was a wall of pale blue glass, and behind the glass was a seating area with four low angular armchairs and a massive glass coffee table.

“Can I help you?” she asked, friendly but efficient.

“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Rothe.”

“But you don’t have an appointment.”

“No, I don’t.”

She smiled. “You’re the gentleman who called earlier.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, your luck is good, but I don’t know about your judgment. Mr. Rothe just had several meetings cancelled, but I doubt he’ll see you without an appointment. What is your name?”

“Doyle Carrick.”

“Can I ask the purpose of your visit?”

“Some real estate over in Dunston recently came into my possession, and I understand he has an interest in that area.”

She eyed me for a second, then picked up the phone on her desk and spoke quietly into it. When she put the phone down, her face conveyed nothing.

“You can have a seat, Mr. Carrick.”

The chairs were more comfortable than they looked. After fifteen minutes I was starting to wonder if she had parked me there so Rothe could leave through the back door, but at that moment he appeared down a hallway and strode across the waiting room with his hand extended. He had a friendly face, with the more-than-skin-deep polish of someone who has been in sales from an early age.

“How do you do, Mr. Carrick?” he said.

He gave my hand a hearty shake, and I returned it. “Thanks for seeing me,” I said.

“Come on back to my office,” he said, turning. “I only have a minute. But tell me what I can do for you.”

“I understand you’re planning a development in Dunston?”

“Yes, that’s right. The Village at Mountainside Meadows. But it’s more than a plan at this point. We’re breaking ground in a few weeks.”

“Really?”

He stopped for a moment and looked back at me. “You sound surprised.”

Then he was walking again, cutting a sharp left into a spacious office with a large desk. In the middle of the room were four tables with white, three-dimensional models of houses. The walls of the office were covered with aerial photographs of existing residential developments. Rothe didn’t break stride as he went behind his desk.

I stopped in the middle of the room. “I didn’t realize you had already acquired all the property you needed for that project.”

“Not officially. A lot of it is still under agreement. But we’ll be closed on it all by the end of the day.”

“Today?”

He nodded, a little smug.

“All of it?”

“All of it we need.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why are you here again, Mr. Carrick?”

“Actually, it’s Detective Carrick.” I paused to let that sink in, but not long enough for him to ask to see my badge, or where I worked, or if I was suspended or anything. “A friend of mine has been pressured to sell her property. She’s being harassed and her property vandalized. I’m going to make sure it stops.”

A few cracks formed in the salesman’s smile. “Ms. Watkins.”

“How did you know?”

“Everyone else sold. So, you’re not really interested in selling a property in Dunston.”

“I might be.”

“Where is it?”

“North of Bayberry. Just east of the Watkins property.”

He shook his head. “Not interested. Sorry, but it’s not contiguous. Although I think you already knew that.”

“That’s too bad. Now, I want you to make sure these bad things stop happening to Ms. Watkins. Now. Before bad things start happening to other people.”