Blue Molly (Danny Logan Mystery #5) (10 page)

“That’s right. And they would have been. Except both times, the witnesses inexplicably recanted. Well, I guess one of ’em wasn’t so mysterious. Guy claimed he fell down some stairs and ended in the hospital with a broken leg. Said he couldn’t testify. Poof—case gone.”

“You said ‘almost three times’?” Toni said. “How could he ‘almost’ get arrested?”

Miguel shook his head. “Don’t remind me. That one was our operation. We turned one of his guys and had a deal all set. We were almost ready to move in, and then our man mysteriously disappeared. We had to put the operation on hold and start looking for him.” He shook his head. “Never found him. There’re a lot of theories, but my money is on the one that says Laskin got tipped off somehow. Had what you might call an influence on our man’s vanishing act.”

Steve said, “We figure maybe our guy let things slip, maybe to a girlfriend or something. She gets nervous, word makes its way back to Laskin, and that was that. Laskin probably chopped him up into little pieces and dumped him in the Sound.”

“Could be,” Miguel said. “But wherever he disappeared to, for whatever reason, as far as we were concerned, he was gone for good.”

“And so was our case,” Steve added.

Miguel nodded. “That’s right. And we haven’t been that close since then.”

“Tough break,” I said.

“Especially for your witness,” Toni added.

“Sure was,” Steve said.

“So what’s the takeaway?” Miguel asked. “It’s this: Pavel Laskin is a bad dude: mean, vicious, willing to do whatever it takes.”

“Including possibly killing one of his own guys who stepped out of line,” I said.

Miguel nodded. “Yeah, probably more than one.” He clicked a button on the remote, and a picture of 49ers Cap appeared. “This guy is Freddie Sokolov.”

“He was in our bar fight last week,” I said. “We’ve seen him a few times since.”

Miguel nodded. “Makes sense—Laskin has two lieutenants.”

“Had,” Steve said.

Miguel nodded again. “Right. Had. Sokolov is one of them.” He clicked the remote again and a picture of Eduard Markovic appeared. “Here’s another one, Eduard Markovic.”

“He’s the man who was killed?” Darcy asked.

“He is,” Miguel said.

“He’s also the guy that started the bar fight,” I said.

“Markovic was killed last Thursday—ended up in Danny’s Dumpster.”

“You think Laskin killed him?” Dwayne asked.

I nodded. “Laskin himself told us the fight was a mistake. Maybe that’s the way you pay for mistakes in Laskin’s organization.”

“Jesus,” Gus said. “Talk about your hostile working environment.”

“That’s right,” Dwayne said. “And you thought I was a tough boss.”

Miguel nodded. “Yeah, and the side benefit for Laskin is he stashes the body in a potential enemy’s backyard—maybe taking him out at the same time. I got to say, based on our experience, that’s exactly how Laskin would think.”

I thought for a second, then said, “So in a perfect world, all that needs to happen is Inez needs to bust the guy for murder. Then, our client’s anonymous bidder—and the associated harassment—go away. And you guys get a major drug dealer off the street. Inez catches a killer. Everyone wins.”

Miguel smiled. “True. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up just yet. Inez is a good cop—good as they come. I briefed her on all this and I guarantee you she’s sitting in her office right now, tearing into things—you can count on that. She’s a bulldog. But she’s going to have to be damn lucky to nail Laskin. Based on what I’ve been seeing, you can just bet there’s not going to be much in the way of evidence. And I’d especially be willing to bet there won’t be any witnesses.”

“Great,” I said. It was quiet for a minute, and then I continued, “Maybe we should talk about Laskin’s motivations. What’s he likely to be up to?”

Miguel smiled and nodded. “Simple: drugs and money. But I suppose this is a good segue back around to Blue Molly.”

He pressed a button, and another slide appeared. This one showed a handful of bright blue capsules with
Blue Molly—150
printed on them in silver. “This is Blue Molly. The little 150 refers to milligrams.”

The room was silent for a few seconds, everyone studying the photo.

Miguel continued. “What used to happen around here and what usually happens probably most every other place is that whoever retails ecstasy usually buys a good-sized batch of pure MDMA, and then they get greedy and they try to stretch their supply. Instead of selling it pure, they mix it with God-knows-what: cocaine, speed, methamphetamine, and a bunch of really nasty designer psychotropic drugs with unknown effects on the human physiology. They press this into pills or fill up little capsules and foist it onto the market.

“MDMA is dangerous enough on its own,” Miguel said. “But when you add in all that other crap, what you’ve done is you’ve multiplied the risk. Just by looking at it, you have no idea what that individual tablet or capsule really contains. Hell, a sizable percentage of the ecstasy we used to get and that we
still
get that’s not Blue Molly doesn’t have any MDMA in it at all—it’s all filler! You’re definitely taking your life in your hands. I think that might be part of the reason why your normal, garden-variety ecstasy kind of fell off the charts for a while—the kids wised up and got tired of being somebody’s lab rat.”

“Then a couple of years ago,” Steve said, “we start hearing about this stuff called Blue Molly. It was supposed to be different. Everyone said it was supposed to be pure. Yeah, right. We didn’t believe it. But the hell of it is, sooner or later, we ended up with a couple of Blue Molly capsules from busts; we had the lab test it and, sure enough, the stuff
was
pure: hundred percent pure, uncut MDMA. Lab quality—no cut, no additives—nothing. Damnedest thing. And it’s stayed that way. We’ve never tested any Blue Molly that wasn’t pure.”

Miguel nodded. “Whoever’s behind it has resisted the temptation to cut it and stretch it. And by doing that, whether it was their intent or not, well, it turned out to be a stroke of marketing genius. They’ve actually been able to create a recognized brand name for Blue Molly. Eventually, just about everyone got on board the Blue Molly train because they trust it—they think it’s safe. That’s not really the case, witness the two dead kids last month, but relatively? Who knows. Anyway, everyone
thinks
it’s safer, so nowadays they ask for it by name, and the stuff’s everywhere. Most of these kids now? It’s all they’ll use. And it’s growing by leaps and bounds.”

“And Laskin’s involved,” I said.

Miguel nodded. “Damn straight.”

I digested this, then took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Well, son of a bitch. I guess the Lyons went ahead and picked themselves a hell of a next-door neighbor, didn’t they?”

Miguel nodded. “That they did.” He turned to Cal. “Well, Cal? What do you guys think? Was it worth the trip? Did you learn anything?”

Cal nodded. “It was indeed. Very interesting. This Laskin guy sounds like a . . . a nasty customer. Actually, I do have just one question. In your opinion, is Laskin the primary Blue Molly source in Seattle?”

Miguel looked at Steve for a second and then turned back to Cal. “Laskin’s the
guy
. If it comes to ecstasy—Blue Molly in particular, he’s right in the middle of things. I’d actually say that as far as we know, when it comes to Blue Molly in Seattle, he’s not the primary source—he’s the
only
source.”

Toni said she wanted to talk to Kenny on the way back to the office, probably something about giving Valentine’s Day advice to him. So she and Doc switched rides in the SPD garage. Doc and I were headed north on Fourth Avenue on our way back to the office.

“Was Toni pissed at you?” he asked.

“Why?”

“When we got busted?”

I chuckled. “No. She said she wished she had been there.”

He nodded as I slowed to pass a double-parked delivery truck in front of a clothing store. “Why?”

He shrugged but didn’t say anything.

So I pried. “Why? Was Pri mad?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it mad. More like ‘funny.’ A little weird. She’s not like Toni. Toni’s part of this—she’s tougher. Pri isn’t. Her world’s a little . . . gentler.”

“Is it serious?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. She seems to be over it now. I was just wondering.”

I chuckled. “She hangs around you long enough, she’ll get used to . . .” I was about to deliver a snappy observation designed to cheer Doc up when I noticed something in my rearview mirror that made me pause. I was northbound on Union and the light at Fourth Avenue turned yellow as I was passing through. The white sedan behind me also went through, the light changing from yellow to red as the car was halfway through. Okay, a little dicey, but at least it was close. But then the black Hyundai behind them
also
went through, and by then the light was solid red. The really interesting thing, though, was not that there was no cop around to ticket the guy—there’s
never
a cop around when you need ’em, right? The real interesting thing was that I’d noticed the same car hanging two or three cars back when we left the police garage. I hadn’t paid much attention back then, but now I was. Now, here he was running a light. Why? To stay with us? Was I imagining things? Given the Markovic body in the Dumpster situation, I wasn’t taking any chances. My threat meter jumped from yellow to orange instantly.

“Who is it?” Doc asked, without turning his head. I’d been looking at the mirror too long, and Doc had noticed. I turned my head and looked back up the road. If Doc could tell I’d noticed the tail, so could the guy doing the tailing, and I didn’t want that to happen.

“Don’t know,” I said. “There’s a dark sedan back there.”

“Been there long?”

“Since we left SPD. Let’s make sure we’re the target.”

I signaled and took a right on Pike. Two cars back and a few seconds later, so did the Hyundai.

“Still there?” Doc asked.

“Yep. Let’s try that one more time.” I made another turn, nice and easy, this one a left on Sixth Avenue just before the big Niketown store. A few seconds later, the Hyundai followed.

“And there he is,” I said. Given my odd sequence of turns, the odds of this being a coincidence were low. I maneuvered myself so that I could make the next left on Pine just before Nordstrom, but I got held up at the light. I glanced up at my mirror. “He’s two cars back. He’s got his visor down, but . . . wait . . . I see . . .
the little bastard
. It’s Rico Maroni.”

“Maroni? Why’s he following us?”

I shook my head. “Who knows? Toni rode with me. Maybe he doesn’t know we switched, and he thinks you’re her.”

“Dude needs to have his eyes checked.”

I chuckled as the light turned. I pulled into the intersection and waited for a clear spot to turn. “Let’s see what he wants. Here’s the plan.”

* * * *

I made the turn westbound on Pine and drove slowly. I didn’t want to lose Maroni—I needed to make sure he was able to make the turn on the same light. Two cars later, he did. Fifty yards ahead of him, I slowed, then turned left again into the alley between the Starbucks and the Old Navy store.

“There’s a Dumpster straight ahead,” I said. I hurried up to it and slowed. Doc jumped out before I’d stopped, and I continued ahead, driving slowly now. A second later, Maroni’s Hyundai appeared in my rearview mirror. When he saw me appearing to be using the alley as a shortcut between buildings, he turned in to follow me.

A couple of seconds later, Maroni passed the Dumpster without noticing Doc crouched behind. When he did this, I stopped just as Doc swung the Dumpster from against the wall, turning it ninety degrees to block the alley behind Maroni. He was trapped.

Maroni stopped, still watching me. I put the Jeep in reverse and started backing up. A few seconds later, Maroni also started moving backward, but he had to stop when he noticed the barrier behind him.

I angled the Jeep sideways to make sure there was no room for him to squeeze past, and then I got out and started walking back to his car.

* * * *

I stopped in front but just to the side of Maroni’s car. He looked at me from inside, his eyes wide.

“Well?” I called out. “You gonna get out?” His response was to roll his window down slightly.

“No!” he yelled out.

Really? “Come on, Maroni. I’m not gonna hurt you. Promise—I won’t even touch you.”

“I got no problem with you,” he called out. “I don’t have any business with you. Leave me alone!”

“That so? Then why is it that you’re following me?”

“I wasn’t following
you
. . . I was . . .” He suddenly remembered that there’d been a passenger in the Jeep, a passenger he couldn’t see since said passenger was still crouched down behind him at the edge of the Dumpster. He craned his neck in both directions, looking but not able to see.

“You were what?” I asked. “You were following Toni?”

He turned back to me.

“Look,” I said. “Would you just get out of the goddamned car? Let’s have a little talk like grown-ups. Nothing more. Man to man.”

“You won’t touch me?”

“Are you armed?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Hell no. I’m not allowed.”

I was a little struck by the notion of a guy who was a repeat offender suddenly concerned about the legality of a carrying a firearm, but what the hell? It was shaping up to be a funny kind of day.

“If you’re unarmed, then I promise,” I said. “No touching.”

He waited another minute, and then he finally opened his door.

“Good,” I said, encouraging him. “Step up here to the hood, and let’s talk.”

I’ll give him credit—he sucked it up, stepped out of the car, and came forward.

Of course, Doc chose that moment to step out from behind the Dumpster and start walking toward us, flipping his hunting knife and catching it by the blade as he did. I don’t like knives, and just watching him do that with the mini-sword he carries gave me the heebie-jeebies.

“Oh shit,” Maroni said quietly when he saw Doc. I guess if he’d been expecting Toni and got Doc instead, that might be a little disconcerting.