Dead Frenzy (15 page)

Osborne
swung around the corner and into the UPS parking lot. As he pulled in, he was shocked to see the big green-and-black motorcycle parked near the entrance to the building. Caressed by the setting sun, the big bike gleamed with all the flash and dazzle of a silver spoon muskie lure. And the sight of it had the same effect on Osborne’s heart as the strike of a big fish: life-threatening heart fibrillation.

Lew was waiting for him in a tiny cubicle behind the receiving desk at the UPS station. She was in uniform but wearing the black leather jacket he’d seen her in that morning. Leaning up against the wall, arms crossed, she motioned for him to take the stool beside her.

Osborne sat down. Smiling over at him from where she sat on a folding chair next to a well-worn card table was Lucy Priebe. Actually, the prim, tight line of Lucy’s lips was an attempt at a smile. While her mother had been a patient up until he sold his practice, Osborne hadn’t seen Lucy since she was in high school. She hadn’t been happy to see him then, either.

“Hello, Dr. Osborne.” Lucy glanced back over her shoulder as she spoke, an eye on the door that opened from the parking lot to the receiving area. In her late thirties now, Lucy was small-boned and a little too thin. Her features were delicate under a cloud of graying brown curls. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and no makeup. A Goody Two-Shoes just like her mother.

“I was explaining to Chief Ferris that my husband insists I have no part in this even if I am the night supervisor. He wants me off the premises by seven o’clock.” Osborne looked over at Lew. She caught his eye with a slight nod. Fine with Lew.

“Lucy,” said Lew in a reassuring tone, “that’s fine. I want people to think that Doc is taking over for you these next three nights. Following your directions, he will supervise the drivers and the delivery schedule. You have no drop-offs from the public after six, is that correct?”

“Yes, and I will take care of all the paperwork,” said Lucy. “People will wonder why you’re working here, Dr. Osborne.” That prim snottiness again. Of course, what Lucy was dying to ask was why he was working with Lew.

“Tell them I lost money in the stock market.” Osborne thought that sounded darn good given the condition of his retirement portfolio at the moment. “I need the benefits.”

“I don’t care what they think so long as you don’t tell anyone he’s working undercover for me,” said Lew.

“Not even my husband?”

“Especially not your husband, Lucy. Now would you take a minute to update Doc on everything we’ve discussed, please? I want him to hear your version, every detail.”

“Excuse me, one minute,” said Osborne. “Before I have a heart attack, Chief Ferris, would you explain why that motorcycle is out front. You don’t expect me to ride that tonight, do you?”

“Heavens no,” said Lew, dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll explain later. I need Lucy to fill you in before our visitor arrives and we don’t have much time. Lucy?”

“Our first inkling that something was not quite right with this particular customer was about two years ago,” said Lucy. “A UPS station in upstate New York had several shipments stolen—an inside job, we think. The stolen packages were overnight shipments of very expensive, custom-made bamboo fly rods. At first, the boxes disappeared. Then later—this was months later—we found that they had indeed been shipped but the labeling had been altered. The boxes were delivered to this station. To a regular customer of ours—the Webber Tackle Company up on Hagen Road.”

Osborne looked at Lew. Patty Boy’s operation.

“The owner of Webber Tackle is Patrick Baumgartner,” said Lew. “Right, Lucy?”

“Yes, my understanding is that Mr. Baumgartner runs Webber Tackle Company and he is a dealer in antique fishing equipment of all sorts. Until recently, he moved quite a few shipments through here daily—sending and receiving. One of our best customers in the area.

“When we checked with Mr. Baumgartner about that lost shipment, he insisted those boxes were never delivered to his address, even though our driver distinctly remembers dropping them off.”

“Did anyone sign for them?” asked Osborne.

“That was the problem. The driver often left boxes in their barn—without a signature. He had a signed release to do that because many times there’s no one on the premises. But in this case, Mr. Baumgartner was adamant that he never saw those boxes. He said they might have been stolen or we were wrong. We couldn’t prove they hadn’t been stolen so we had to drop it.”

“What was the value of the shipment?” said Lew.

“It was insured for twenty thousand dollars. Two antique fly rods that a dealer was sending to a collector in Scotland. Each was valued between ten to fifteen thousand dollars. And another thing—Webber Tackle Company often got shipments from that particular dealer. So it was a curious situation, as you can see.”

“Were you the supervisor then?” Osborne asked.

“No, I was promoted last spring, but I was working here at the time.”

“I see.”

“The Chicago office got involved because the company had to pay the insurance, of course. But then things worked fine up until three months ago.”

Lucy leaned forward. She dropped her voice, even though the loading area behind them appeared to be empty. The primness was gone. In its place was an edge of fear. “Our driver, the one who delivers to the Baumgartner address, became suspicious of shipments he was handling for them. He had an unusually high number of COD deliveries and some of the boxes had a funny rattle to them.”

“From that same dealer with the expensive fly rods?” asked Osborne.

“No, no. These came from a variety of addresses in Canada.”

“A rattle?”

“Sounded like little BBs or cookie decorations—or pills.”

“We opened one finally, which we have the right to do if we suspect something illegal or dangerous is being shipped. It was very strange. The box was full of fishing lures, wrapped in bubble wrap and padded with foam—”

“What kind of lures?” said Osborne.

“Wooden. Old ones—used, you know. We took everything out. Nothing. Then I noticed that the foam units that were packed around the lures rattled. We cut one open and it was full of pills. That was pretty unsettling, I can tell you. I called Chicago right away and they called the authorities.”

“That’s when the DEA entered the picture,” said Lew. “Right?”

“Right. They told us to put everything back together the best we could, but keep some of the pills. I glued the foam back together with Super Glue and we delivered the box.”

“How long ago was this?” asked Osborne.

“Two weeks ago. I’ve been a nervous wreck ever since,” said Lucy. “Thank goodness, we didn’t have any more COD deliveries for that address until last week—”

“I checked the date and it was the Wednesday before that rave last weekend,” said Lew. “I still can’t believe that Chicago never said a word to anyone until yesterday. Sorry, Lucy, I interrupted.”

“When that box came in, I called down to Chicago right away and my supervisor said that the authorities wanted us to deliver as contracted, that they were monitoring the deliveries and to let them know each time a shipment like that came through. Well, I can tell you I did not feel right sending a driver out there. I mean drug dealers? Forget it.”

“Did you look in that box?”

“No. What I did do was call Mr. Baumgartner and tell him he had an overnight delivery that had arrived here but my driver was ill. He sent someone down to pick it up. When she came, she said that they were just as happy to pick up all their deliveries this month because they’re renovating their barn and the road is a mess. That was fine with me.”

“Thanks, Lucy,” said Lew. “Doc, the pills were analyzed and they were Ecstasy, all right. My directions from the DEA agent in charge are to work with the UPS supervisor to monitor all incoming shipments these next few days, strictly observation only. Lucy isn’t comfortable doing that, so UPS has agreed to let me bring you in. Under normal circumstances UPS personnel are the only parties legally allowed to open a questionable package, not me, not the DEA.”

“They have two boxes here right now,” said Lucy. She checked her watch. “That woman is due to pick them up soon. She’s always right on time at seven-thirty. And that’s interesting, too. The Webber Tackle deliveries are always timed to arrive so close to the pickup time that they are never on the floor more than thirty minutes.”

“CODs, these packages?” said Lew.

“No, and none since last week. No rattle either.”

“What time is it?” said Osborne.

“Seven twenty-five.”

“I don’t understand why they don’t just arrest these people,” said Lucy.

“The DEA is trying to corral the entire operation from the suppliers to the dealers, within the U.S. and in cooperation with Canadian authorities,” said Lew. “If they shut this dealer down too soon, they’ll miss the chance to put the kabosh on other major players in the network. At least”—she raised her hands—”that’s what they’re telling me and I have to take orders on this one.

“Doc, you and I are going to keep an eye out that window by the loading area. See if either of us recognizes the person making the pickup,” said Lew. “We better hurry.”

Osborne followed her past the dark plastic curtain closing off the public receiving area. Anyone walking in to mail a package would have a difficult time seeing past it.

As Osborne walked over to the window, Lew followed. He felt her shoulder brush his arm and she looked up with a slight smile. Up close, he could see lines of fatigue around her eyes. He resisted the urge to put his arm around her and pull her close.

Just as they reached the window, a silver van pulled into the parking spot next to Osborne’s SUV. “Looks a lot like the one I saw Catherine Plyer in the other day,” said Osborne. He kept his voice to a whisper.

“Any way to be sure?”

“Hers had rude stickers on the side window behind the driver,” said Osborne, “but I can’t see anything from here.”

The door of the van opened and a short, squat woman hopped down. She appeared to be four feet by four feet square, an impression enhanced by what she was wearing: baggy jeans, a too-wide short-sleeved black T-shirt hanging out over the pants, and a black leather vest decorated with silver conchos and a great deal of fringe.

The brown hair framing her square face was chopped short and shoved behind her ears, the edges of which glinted in the fading sun thanks to a series of metal studs outlining each lobe. But it was her arms that fascinated Osborne. From the wrists on up, not a patch of bare skin was evident, only swirls of blood red and black. Even her elbows were tattooed.

“Recognize her?” said Lew.

“Never saw her before in my life.”

“Good.” Lew hurried over to the plastic curtain and whispered something to Lucy.

As the woman neared the UPS entrance, Osborne realized that he had assumed she was a woman only because of what Lucy had said. Given the sullen expression and the stocky build, he couldn’t be sure she was female until she was close enough for him to make out the sagging slopes beneath her vest and shirt.

She didn’t appear to be in a hurry. Instead of entering UPS, she sauntered over to where the big green-and-black motorcycle was parked. Crouching, she looked it over. Then she walked around to examine it from the front. Finally, she stuck her hands in her pockets and headed for the entrance to the receiving room.

“Nice bike,” she said to Lucy, who was at the counter. “You ride?”

“Heavens, no,” said Lucy cheerfully. “That belongs to our new night supervisor.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, he starts tomorrow. We’re training tonight. Cheryl, you’ve got two heavy boxes here. Let me get someone to give you a hand.”

Lew shoved Osborne toward the receiving room. He walked through the plastic curtain. “Did I hear someone needs a hand?”

“Hell, no, I can manage fine,” said the woman. Osborne could see a bundle of keys hanging from a belt just visible under the edge of her shirt.

He reached to pick up the larger of the two boxes. It weighed a good forty pounds. “Not to worry, save you a little time,” he said.

Arms full, they walked out into the parking lot and past the bike. “That yours?”

“Yep. Some of us never grow up, doncha know.”

“How much did it set you back?”

“Twenty-one big ones.”

“Oh yeah? You been riding long? You don’t look like you ride.” She was right about that. He was still wearing his good khaki shirt and pants from the morning.

“Just starting, I’m taking that motorcycle safety class over in Rhinelander.”

“You’re just starting and you spent that kinda dough?”

“I’ve always dreamed of owning a Harley. Call me crazy, I guess. But if I don’t do it now, when?”

“No, I understand, I do. Are you in the class that starts tomorrow?”

“That’s the one, wish me luck.”

“I’ll see you there. I’ve been waiting all summer to get in—how long you been on the list?”

“You will?” Osborne could not keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Yeah, I’m sick and tired of riding on the back of my old man’s bike. I’m getting myself a cherry red Low Rider. Cheryl Hikinnen,” she said, sticking out a beefy hand. “We’re moving pretty soon so I was real glad to hear I made it into this session.”

“Paul Osborne.”

“Nice bike, Paulie. Keep the rubber on the road and the shiny side up, man.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She paused as she opened the van door. “You’re not riding tonight, are you?”

“Gosh no, I just had it delivered here.”

“Good, I saw a lotta deer on my way down Highway 45 tonight. You don’t wanna hit one of those on a new bike—on
any
bike for that matter.” Cheryl gave Osborne a wave as she boosted herself up into the driver’s seat. The sullenness had vanished, replaced with a happy grin and a twinkle in her eye.