T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril (10 page)

“I work for myself,” I said. “Oh, wait a minute. I’m actually retired. So I don’t even work for myself any longer.” I pointed to my passenger, still sitting in the hearse. “Just helping out the brother of a friend.”

Brad excused himself and walked out of hearing distance to make a phone call. Three calls, actually, if I counted correctly. He came back to stare at me, arms folded across his chest.

I gave him the once-over, blatantly, like men had done to me a thousand times. “Let me guess. You’ve just learned that I own the Barnes Agency in Wilmington.”

“Already knew that. But now I know that you were a marine MP and you did a stint with the government. Pay grade, duties, and name of agency are, unfortunately, unavailable. I can probably find out, but it would be easier if you tell me.”

“Basically, I did the same thing you do. The only difference was that I dealt with terrorists while you deal with drug suppliers.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “They’re often one and the same.”

“Yep.”

Brad sized me up. And back down. It was appraising, not leering. At least he had some class. “You’re like a female version of me. Too bad we never got the chance to work together. Could have been fun.”

“Yeah, well, my assignments took me all over the place. Besides, as I said, I’m retired. And you, well, you’re just a young thing,
babe.”

“Touché, Jersey Barnes.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Shall we meet somewhere to talk after you finish up with your client?”

“Are you going to keep following us?” I seriously doubted that I could lose him while driving the meat wagon.

“Depends. Where you going?”

“To take a look around Morgan’s father’s house.”

Brad shook his head. “Nah, I’d rather go grab a bite of lunch. I’ve already been through Garland’s place. Nice pad.”

We agreed to meet for dinner at Dock Street Oyster Bar, one of my favorite downtown joints, and I had no doubts that Brad would show. I pulled out of the gas station and waved good-bye through the sunroof. As I said, it’s a tricked-out hearse.

“What the heck was that all about?” Morgan said.

I told him that Brad was a drug enforcement agent.

“What does he want with me? I don’t get it. I’m an accountant who inherited a restaurant. I didn’t ask for any of this. Hell, I don’t even know what
this
is.”

“Neither do I,” I told Morgan. “But I’m always up for a good challenge.”

Brad
was right about Garland’s home being nice, and I told him so when I saw him later. We literally parallel-parked alongside the street at the same time, dropped coins into our corresponding meters, and walked the few blocks to Dock Street Oyster Bar together, like a real couple on a real date. The server tried to seat us in a corner booth, but neither of us would sit with our backs to the entrance. We ended up sitting side by side, in the same bench seat, but decided we looked stupid. Plus, it was difficult to talk. We moved to the bar area, where we both had a clear view of our surroundings, and asked for ice waters and beers. I ordered a dozen steamed oysters with a side of garlic bread, and Brad opted for the jerk-spiced grouper.

“When did you toss Garland’s house?” I asked.

Brad reminded me that anything we discussed was off the record and asked for an assurance that I wouldn’t muddle up his investigation. I assured him.

“We’d just gotten a warrant to search the home the day, he, uh … passed away,” Brad said. “We’ve been tracking a pharmaceutical drug
ring for more than a year and had reason to suspect that the owner of Argo’s was involved by association. We’d identified several end users who ate at the restaurant on a regular basis. Initially, we thought an Argo’s bartender or server might be involved, but by process of elimination, I ruled that out.”

“And Morgan?”

Our waters and beers arrived, and after declining the mugs, we paused conversation to down the cold water before reaching for the beers. Our actions happened in unison, as though we’d practiced.

“Good grief,” I said, “you’re a male—”

“Version of you,” he finished my sentence, and threw the dazzling smile at me. “I was thinking the exact same thing about you. We’re very much alike, I’d bet.”

We clinked the mouths of our beer bottles together.

Brad studied my face for a beat. “Okay, here’s the deal. We—my boss—could care less about the individuals who are getting prescription drugs to have a little fun. At least when it comes to criminal prosecution. We want the sellers. The traffickers. If we can nail down one of the middlemen, it will lead us to the top dog. That’s my big picture. That’s my job, to track this thing to the top.”

“How does this involve Morgan?”

“I’m not sure it does. We don’t know whether or not Morgan is aware of the drugs that were filtering through Argo’s. But we are certain that Argo’s is a link in the puzzle.” Brad blew out a long, heavy sigh. “This is turning out to be the most frustrating case I’ve ever worked. Believe it or not, it’s actually easier to bust people dealing cocaine, pot, or methamphetamines. The prescription drug market—painkillers and such—is a whole different ball game.”

I took a swallow of my Red Stripe, noticing with amusement that our bottles had exactly the same amount of beer left in them. We even drank at the same rate. “Out of curiosity, where do the pills come from? I thought it’s a regulated industry.”

“Unethical overseas pharmacies. Burglaries of pharmaceutical hot zones by employees of nursing homes, medical clinics, mom-and-pop drugstores. Pilfering from military medical supplies and hospitals. Valid prescriptions written by crooked doctors. Even individuals. Another DEA agent found a caregiver who, using her employer’s health insurance card and a fake driver’s license, was visiting walk-in clinics. She’d see six or eight different doctors in one day and fill prescriptions for muscle relaxers and painkillers, paying in cash. She had a standing group of customers ready to buy the pills from her.”

“Wow. And I thought our drug problem in the U.S. was mainly drug cartels.”

He shrugged. “This is just another piece of the pie, and I happened to draw the short stick to get this assignment.”

Our food came and we dug in, not talking for a few minutes. We may have made food appreciation noises.

“I can’t give you any further details,” Brad told me. “I do think Morgan is clean. But there may still be activity at the restaurant, and weak though it is, it’s a thread.”

The garlic bread was perfect, and my oysters were fresh and tasty. I shelled one and dunked it in cocktail sauce. “Why not tell Morgan what’s going on and enlist his help?”

“I didn’t want to put him in unnecessary danger,” Brad said. “Of course, now that he knows DEA is keeping an eye on him, who knows what could happen? If he mentions something to the wrong person, one of two things will happen. Either the person bolts and I lose my thread, throwing yet another dead end at a yearlong investigation. Or Morgan unwittingly puts himself on the firing line.”

“Far as I know, he keeps to himself. No friends, no girlfriend, doesn’t socialize with the restaurant help. To play it safe, though, I’ll stress to Morgan the importance of keeping quiet about this.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “I wonder what Morgan plans to do
once the estate is settled. It’s just him and his sister, and from what I gather, they stand to inherit a big chunk of change.”

“I doubt it.”

“You doubt what?”

Brad finished chewing a bite of fish, swallowed, wiped his mouth, drank water. “Let’s just say that Morgan won’t be getting an inheritance anytime soon.”

“His father was broke? Or in debt?” I’d checked the tax records, and Garland’s house didn’t have any liens on it. And the place was amazing. Loaded with collectibles, artwork, and antiques. Not to mention a room full of wines from around the world. Morgan made me take several bottles as a thank-you gift for my help. I’m not big on wine, but a few of my friends are. And in my world, freebies are a good thing.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” Brad shook his head. “I’ve already told you much more than I should have, so now it’s your turn. What is your involvement with Morgan?”

I told him that I was friends with the judge and she’d enlisted me to introduce her brother to Wilmington and basically keep an eye on him while he got settled. The explanation sounded reasonable enough to my ears, but Brad didn’t seem to buy it. He gave me a look.

“Hey.” I gave him a head tilt. “It’s the truth.”
Sort of.

I felt sure that Brad was withholding pertinent information, so I didn’t feel too bad about holding out on him. He didn’t need to know about the one-eared man. He certainly didn’t need to know what I’d found in the safe, which I now decided might be a list of Argo’s drug customers. And I didn’t mention to Brad that somebody had searched Morgan’s apartment and car. Heck, for all I knew, it was Brad who’d done it. We changed the subject and ordered two more beers and finished our meals and split a single piece of pie.

Dock Street had filled up by the time we were contentedly full. We gave up our table and went for a walk. The fall days were growing shorter, and the post-sunset hour had thrown a pinkish cast over the river. If we kept going, we’d come across the Block. I wasn’t up for bringing Brad to my bar. My home. He seemed to sense that I didn’t care to walk farther. We found an empty bench and settled into it, staring at the Cape Fear, the glow of lampposts and storefronts casting a golden glow over the evening.

“Tell me about you, Jersey.”

I gave him a sideways look. “You’ve already done a background. What else do you want to know?”

“Cut me some slack here.” He turned his head to look at me. “You know what I mean.”

I looked ahead, leaving him to stare at my profile. “I retired from the government to open my own agency. Then I got great people to run the agency and I retired from that. I’m hoping to play and enjoy my retirement, but I’m finding it difficult to leave home without a weapon. I love this area. My father lives with me, in an apartment that is attached to mine. I have a white Labrador retriever named Cracker. I like to work out. I drink a lot of beer but am trying to cut down. My favorite food is everything. And I have an unreasonable fear of dead people.” I smiled. “That’s pretty much it.”

Brad laughed. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Committed?”

Was I committed?
I wanted to be, if Ox and I could keep the special bond we’ve had since high school without allowing sex to get in the way. If we could be together romantically, as a couple, and not dominate each other. Separately, we complemented each other in a
beautiful way. Together, either we’d meld into something incredible that was off the charts, or the relationship would turn volatile and explode into a hundred pieces that could never be repaired.

“It’s complicated,” I finally said.

Morgan didn’t know
if the hidden microphone had served its purpose for his father, but it had certainly opened his eyes. He was glad he hadn’t destroyed it on first impulse. Truth was a good thing, and the tiny wireless microphone in the Green Table’s candleholder had served up the truth about Maria. Now it was time to set things right and remove the peppercorn-size electronic. Especially since a drug enforcement agent was snooping around.

Each time Morgan made an early morning trip to Argo’s, though, he got sidetracked. Once he’d even unfolded the ladder and pulled out a couple of tools. Maybe the phone rang, or he might have gone shopping for new restroom light fixtures, or perhaps some tables in the main dining area needed rearranging. He couldn’t recall, specifically, what diverted his attention every time he arrived at Argo’s with good intentions. Like any addict, he justified his lack of action by thinking of the next day. The Green Table’s secret wasn’t going anywhere. He could always get rid of it tomorrow,
in the day’s maiden hours. Tomorrows were a great thing. They kept coming.

Meanwhile, he found himself ensconced in the small office more and more. A sympathetic friend, the office was his second home, his private domain. He felt hidden and safe from the world. He made it a point to be seen coming and going from Argo’s and sometimes told employees that he’d be out running errands when he was really nestled in his swiveling leather desk chair like a moviegoer playing hooky from work, snatching a break from reality. He came and went through the rear delivery door, and when the restaurant buzzed at full capacity, everybody was too busy to pay him much attention anyway. The thrill, the high, the sheer addictiveness of eavesdropping on strangers, had crept up in baby steps until it enslaved him like an opiate. The gratifying rush was the high point of his day. Some conversations were more interesting than others, but all were good escapes. Even the garden-variety birthday dinner groups proved more interesting than his own life.

“Have either of you ever wondered what would have happened if there were air bags back then?” Morgan heard one of the doctors say. He thought it might be Jonathan but couldn’t be sure. It was one of the Divine Image Group doctors. He squinted at the overhead view on the monitor. Yep, Jonathan, the one with the bald head who was the psychiatrist. The one who probably made his living by matching his patients’ symptoms to the current popular three-letter abbreviated disorder of the day. The three men were in for their usual Friday night meal. On Fridays, Morgan knew, the Divine Image Group closed shop at three o’clock. Which gave the doctors plenty of time to have a drink somewhere before hitting Argo’s when the doors opened at five.

“Man, oh man, this fish is good,” Leo said. “The only fish my wife knows how to cook is salmon, and she smashes that up into patties that taste like plasterboard.”

“I’m serious,” Jonathan said. “Think about it.”

Checking the monitor, Morgan noticed that the man’s food hadn’t been touched, although he was near the bottom of his third Scotch and soda. “Simple air bags could have changed everything when that car ran off the road and wrecked. If the driver had been cushioned”—he had trouble pronouncing the word—“he wouldn’t have been so disoriented. And if that were the case, he might’ve shot us straight out. Without bothering to talk first.”