The Sour Cherry Surprise (11 page)

Right away, Des felt an uptick of her pulse.

“Atlanta’s their distribution center, okay?” Grisky put in now, chomping away at his gum. “All of the ice shipments headed for the midwest and northeast pass through there, okay?”

Des said, “Okay.” He wasn’t going to be happy until she did.

“Over the past six months,” Cavanaugh continued, “we’ve assembled a joint task force made up of the DEA, the FBI, the Connecticut Organized Crime Task Force and, most recently,
Captain Amalfitano and his Narcotics Task Force. U.S. Attorney Stokes has also been involved in an advisory capacity for quite some time.”

“And why did you end up in Dorset?” Des wanted to know.

“Because they did,” the Aardvark told her, slurping from a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Like you said, they aren’t dumb. If they stash a huge quantity of product somewhere like the South Bronx then it’s always at risk. You’re talking about a high-crime area crawling with dealers, users and various and sundry lowlifes. Maybe a rival dealer rips them off. Maybe a strung-out snitch whispers in some beat cop’s ear. Bottom line, their product is never secure and they know it. So they’ve started using stash houses in nice, quiet little towns like yours where there isn’t a whole lot of crime or drug traffic or scrutiny. It’s under the radar there. Who would think to look for three hundred pounds of crystal meth in Dorset, am I right?”

“You’re not wrong,” Rundle wheezed, putting the lie to Des’s theory that he’d fallen asleep behind his desk with his eyes open.

“Just last year,” Cavanaugh revealed, “one of the other Mexican cartels was using a lovely little village in the Pennsylvania Amish country.”

“Yeah, right up until we nailed their sorry asses.” Grisky let out a cocky bray of a laugh.

“And Dorset is ideally situated,” the Aardvark went on. “It’s halfway between New York City and Boston. It’s close to I-95. Perfect locale for a wholesale supply house.”

“Clay Mundy is their point man here,” Cavanaugh said. “He and his sidekick Hector set up the stash house on Sour Cherry Lane, and they’re operating it quietly and efficiently right there under everybody’s noses. That so-called seamless gutter business of theirs is strictly a shell. The only thing Nutmegger uses its vans for is transporting product in and out.”

“I knew they smelled wrong,” Des said. “Neither man has a sheet, though.”

“Because they’re cautious and they’re smart,” he said. “Mundy also appears to be a world-class player when it comes to the ladies. He moved right in on the Procter woman after her husband left. We gather she was already drinking heavily. He turned her on to crystal meth and ever since then she’s been floating in the clouds while he and Hector go about their business. We’ve been running a tap on their calls, intercepting their mail. The full monty. But these boys are incredibly careful. They conduct no business over the phone. Not a single incriminating call. Not a coded message. Nothing. Either their delivery schedule is prearranged or it’s communicated to them strictly face-to-face.”

“Meanwhile,” said Grisky, “we’re staked out in the woods twenty-four seven. Three of us on eight-hour shifts. Near as we can tell, they’ve got the ice stashed somewhere inside of the house. Neither man ever goes near the barn or wanders into the woods. Once a week, one of them will take off in their van to make drops. He’ll be gone for a day, sometimes two. The other one stays behind to guard the stash. They get resupplied every couple of weeks by another Nutmegger van—usually late at night. They keep an ultra-low profile. No parties. No hangers on. No fooling around. These are total pros. The neighbors don’t suspect a thing.”

“Have any of them made you guys?” Des asked him.

“Only Molly, the little girl. I told her I was with the DEP. She bought it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Des said. “Molly is way savvy. She will also, I hope, be far, far away from this mess very soon.”

Cavanaugh stared at her for a moment before he said, “Master Sergeant, I think you’d better explain that remark.”

“When I stopped by Carolyn Procter’s yesterday I found Carolyn
to be in a highly drugged-out state. Molly is currently living in the presence of illegal behavior. She is also unsupervised.”

“We share your concerns,” Cavanaugh said. “And we intend to remove the girl to a safe location when the time is right.”

“That’s fine for you,” said Des. “But I’m blessed with no such wiggle room. As my commander can tell you, I’m required to report my observations to the Department of Children and Families.”

Grisky immediately let out a groan of protest.

“Molly also happens to be one of my people,” Des added, raising her voice over him. “I don’t want to see anything happen to her.”

“And you think we do?” Grisky demanded.

“I think you gentlemen have your priorities and they don’t include the welfare of the Procter family. Which is why I resent you keeping me in the dark all of these weeks. You had to have witnessed the altercation between Richard Procter and Clay Mundy. Yet you did nothing to intercede. Nor did you alert me. Hell, for all I know you were aware that Molly had hidden him out on Big Sister Island.”

Grisky didn’t dispute this. No one did.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Cavanaugh said to her quietly. “But we’ve had some huge cases go into the crapper lately because too many people knew about them. We desperately want this one. Secrecy is vital. Which is why I must point out that bringing in the Department of Children and Families would not be a very good idea right now.”

“Really, really bad idea, girlfriend,” echoed Grisky. “Last thing in the world we need is a bunch of social workers hanging around.”

“Okay, two quick things,” Des responded. “I am not your girlfriend. And DCF caseworkers do not travel by the bunch. And, okay,
three
things—I’m no fan of the DCF bureaucracy myself.
I reached out to Carolyn’s sister. My hope is she’ll take the girl home to Maine with her. Maybe get Carolyn into some kind of rehab.”

Cavanaugh considered this carefully for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “We’ll be happy to see the girl relocated. Even happier if it’s expedited outside of official channels. As far as Carolyn is concerned, no one here wants to see the woman destroy her life. My only worry is if the sister topples the apple cart. Leans on Clay and Hector to move out, for instance. We’re at a very sensitive juncture right now. I’m talking days,
hours
away from landing on them. Our informant down in Atlanta has tipped us off to a big shipment of ice that’ll be making its way north to the Sour Cherry house within the next seventy-two hours. We intend to dog the delivery van from the moment it leaves there until the moment it arrives here—witnessing every drop it makes along the way. This is our chance to roll up the entire operation, master sergeant. It’s the culmination of a lot of hard work. And we do not want Clay suddenly getting spooked.”

“Understood,” Des said. “And, again, if you gentlemen had included me before now I would have made every effort to accommodate you.”

“Perhaps we should have,” Cavanaugh conceded. “If we’ve created an awkward situation for you, I apologize. We know you have a job to do. We’re just under a lot of pressure to deliver this one. Also, speaking candidly …” He cleared his throat, coloring slightly. “What I mean is, we were assuming that U.S. Attorney Stokes was keeping you up to speed. Strictly off the record, of course.”

“Well, you assumed wrong. Brandon hasn’t said one word to me about it.”

“The man is a pro’s pro,” Grisky said admiringly.

Indeed. A pro’s pro who’d spent last night bedded down in Bella’s old room. When Des woke up he’d already taken off for
work. Left her a note on the fridge that read:
I love you. Let’s sit down and talk tonight, okay?

“Now that I’m up to speed,” Des said to Cavanaugh, “exactly what is it that you want me to do?”

“Go about your normal business,” he replied. “Just don’t do it anywhere near Sour Cherry Lane. Stay away from there.”

“Not a problem. But what if the unforeseen happens?”

“Such as?”

“Such as I get another routine call to go out there.”

Cavanaugh opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Which left it up to Rundle to tell her, “Pray that you don’t.”

“You’re not pregnant, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“This much I already know. I took a home test.”

“Have you taken any allergy or cold medication? Used a nasal spray?”

“No, why?”

They were all done with the physical part of her examination. Des had been poked inside and out. Blood and urine samples taken. Now she had her uniform and dignity back on as she and Dr. Lisa Densmore sat there in the tiny examining room on Park Street in New Haven. Lisa was a generously sized slab of a sister out of Newark, by way of Yale Medical School. Also a friend dating back to when Des and Brandon were living in Woodbridge. Lisa’s husband Ron, a research chemist, used to play basketball with Brandon Saturday mornings.

“How about diet pills?” she asked as she pored over Des’s medical file.

“Why on earth would I take diet pills?”

Lisa smiled at her. She had a space between her two front teeth that gave her the look of a mischievous little girl, which she was not. She was a serious, tough-minded doctor. “Desiree, you are
one of the most superbly conditioned patients I’ve ever treated. When a fine, healthy specimen such as yourself tells me she’s been blacking out I start with the basics, okay?”

“Such as …?”

“Your blood pressure, which today registers one-forty-three over eighty-eight. Would you like to know what it was when you were here for your regular physical back in February?” She glanced down at Des’s file. “One-twenty-five over seventy-two. It’s
been
one-twenty-five over seventy-two for as long as I’ve been treating you, give or take a few points. Not only is your pressure significantly higher, it’s
high
. You and I will need to have a serious conversation if we establish this as your new baseline. Which it may not be. Could just be a one-time deal.
Except
there’s more. Such as your resting pulse rate. This afternoon it’s ninety-seven beats per minute. In February, it was seventy-four. Somehow, my dear, you have also managed to lose nine pounds.”

“I haven’t been very hungry lately.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a bit wound up. When I get tense, I lose my appetite.”

“We should all be so lucky,” Lisa sighed, patting her soft tummy. “How much coffee do you drink?”

“One cup in the morning.”

“Alcohol?”

“A glass of wine now and then.”

“How about drugs? Please be honest or I can’t help you.”

“I don’t do drugs, Lisa.”

Lisa set the file aside and crossed her arms before her chest. “Talk to me about these blackouts. How many have you had?”

“A few over the past couple of weeks.”

“Are you on duty when they occur?”

“No, I’m usually at home. Or out socializing.”

“Do they happen after you’ve just stood up?”

“No, I’m already standing up. I’ll just suddenly feel very lightheaded and dizzy. And my heart will speed up. Next thing I know, I’m either out cold on the floor or sitting there with my head between my knees, praying.”

“I know this is embarrassing, but when you black out do you lose control over your bladder or bowels?”

“No.”

“Have you been experiencing any blurring or loss of vision lately? Hearing loss? Impairment of memory or motor skills? Do you notice yourself slurring your words?”

“Nothing like that. Lisa, what’s happening to me?”

“Darned good question. You have no buildup of fluid in your ears or sinuses. Your cardiogram is normal. I
could
order up a whole bunch of really elaborate brain scans, but I’m not sure that’s called for at this point. Obviously, I’ll want to look at your blood work. But most likely what we’re dealing with here is something lifestyle related.”

“Lifestyle related,” Des repeated doubtfully.

“You say you don’t eat when you’re stressed out. Start eating—three square meals a day, doctor’s orders. And let’s talk about your stress load. Lord knows there’s plenty of it in your job. How is that going?”

“I enjoy what I’m doing. Sure, it can be frustrating sometimes. But I’m happy being a resident trooper. I feel like I’m helping people. Although I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m thinking about transferring to a different community. Some place where they don’t know every single damned thing about my private life.”

Lisa raised her chin at her slightly. “Does this have to do with you and that nice Jewish boy you were seeing?”

Des lowered her eyes, nodding.

“Then you’ve answered my next question.”

“Which is …?”

“Have there been any major changes in your life? The answer is Hell, yes. You’ve ended a serious relationship and taken up again with your ex-husband.”

“Are you suggesting that Brandon is hazardous to my health?”

“Not at all. But there’s no way you aren’t feeling conflicted, possibly even a bit freaked out about your decision. I know I’d be.”

“And that’s why I’ve been blacking out?”

“You want my best guess? Yes, it is. And if you were someone else I’d write you a prescription for a mild antianxiety medication.”

“No way, Lisa. I’m a first responder. I carry a loaded semiautomatic weapon that I’m expected to be—”

“Down, girl! I know this. So I am not even going to bother. But I am not happy about your blood pressure. If you’re anywhere near a clinic in the next few days I want you to stop in and have it checked again. Keep track of your numbers. If your systolic continues to average around one-forty with a diastolic of over ninety then we will have to consider putting you on medication. Let’s talk again when you call me to discuss your blood samples, okay?”

Des nodded unhappily. She was not used to warnings. Or anything short of perfect health.

“This other man you were seeing …”

“His name was Mitch. Still is.”

“Are you still in contact with him?”

“No, not at all.”

“Would you like to be?”

“It’s over with Mitch, Lisa. Brandon and I are getting along great. I’m very happy.”