Jamie Garrett - Riley Reid 01 - Jesters and Junkies (3 page)

I remember the first day I met Richard Greyson. It was a week after my parents had vanished. Despite my ingrained distrust of the police at the time (a memento from my dad), I had no one else to turn to.

There I was, sitting in what later became a very familiar setting. I was nervous. It was an illogical fear. Part of me felt like I had done something wrong. When you are raised by delinquents, a bit of guilt gets inherited along with their genes.

“Riley Reid?” I heard a deep voice behind me. It came from a tall man with beard stubble and short brown hair. He was dressed in a button-up, collared shirt, tie and dress pants. A badge was attached to his belt. And his eyes were sympathetic.

“Yeah?”

“I’m Detective Richard Greyson.” The detective held out his hand. I shook it. That was the day I met my surrogate father.

Three months after meeting the man, I moved into his home. Turned out that Richard was once an orphan. He got shipped from foster home to foster home until he was old enough to be independent. It wasn’t a pleasant experience for him. The detective wasn’t going to let the same happen to a vulnerable teenage girl. 

When I joined Richard’s small family, it was him, his sick wife Molly, Sam (who was a freshman at Old Dominion at the time) and the dog, Tyler. Nothing was ever formalized, but it was nice to have somewhere to call home. They lived in a nice house on a street full of working class folks. I wouldn’t say it belonged in a Rockwell painting, but it was a far better place than where I grew up.

There were plenty of pleasant memories with the Greysons. So why did I feel dread as I pulled up to the house the next day? Because I knew how uncomfortable those little get togethers could be.

Since Mrs. Greyson died, all the light seemed to be sucked out of the family. She had cancer when I first met her. But Molly Greyson was an exceptionally strong woman. The doctors had given her only a couple of months. It took a couple of years.

After Molly died, Richard turned to drinking. He wasn’t a bad man. Losing someone you loved, someone who you shared a life with has to be hard. And he only drank when he wasn’t on the job. Still… it put a dent in our happy home.

Every night, Richard seemed to come home later than the one before. I’d wake up to go to school and find him asleep in his recliner with a half drunk glass of bourbon in his hand. I ended up picking up the domestic duties around the house.

Shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I moved out on my own. College was close by for me, but I needed to get out. Yes, I felt guilty about leaving Richard. He had done so much for me and I abandoned him. But it was time to move on.

I visited Richard often. He was retired and had a lot of time to himself, by himself. I enjoyed spending time with him. This night was different though. It wasn’t just going to be me and Richard. Sam was going to be there, along with his two kids, Rich and Jenny. They were accompanied by Sam’s ex-wife Samantha who I didn’t particularly get along with.

“We were wondering when you’d show up,” said Sam with a grin as he opened the front door.

“Me, too.”

Over Sam’s shoulder I caught a glimpse of Samantha giving me the evil eye. She was my complete opposite. I’m short, she was tall. I have black hair, hers was short and blonde. All we had in common was that we could both be bitches at times.

“Riley!” I heard two little voices, almost in unison. Then the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

Sam’s kids, Rich, three years old and Jenny, four years old, ran up and hugged me before I could get two steps inside. They were sweet kids. I genuinely missed them. There was a comfort in feeling their little arms wrapped around my waist. It almost made me want children of my own… almost.

“Where is he? Where’s the birthday boy?” I was referring to Richard.

Sam pointed towards the kitchen. “He’s in there, cooking.”

“On his birthday?”

Samantha got up and walked over. “We tried to stop him, but you know how he is.”

“Stubbornness runs strong in us Greysons,” said Sam.

I nodded and smiled at Samantha, trying to be pleasant. She didn’t return the gesture. Right then, I knew it was going to be one of those nights.

“Hey, old man,” I said upon entering the kitchen.

Richard was standing by the stove, stirring spaghetti sauce. He turned, and when he saw me his face lit up. That moment alone would make enduring the ice queen, who once was Sam’s wife, worth it.

“Riley! Glad you could make it.” Richard wiped his hands off on his jeans. He looked like an older version of Sam, only with more grey and wrinkles. When he hugged me I could smell liquor.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I handed him the present I had been holding since getting out of my car. “For you.” I handed it to him. It was some new hair clippers. He mentioned to me how his old ones broke the previous time I was over.

“Why don’t you tell everyone it’s time to eat?”

I did just that. The six of us took our places around the dining room table. Richard was at the head. I was to the right of him, along with the two kids. Sam and Samantha sat next to each other on the left.

“So, how are things down at the station?” asked Richard as he took some salad.

“Oh, you know. Slow,” answered Sam.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Slow means uneventful. Uneventful means people aren’t committing crimes. No crimes mean people aren’t getting hurt out there. Thank you, buddy.” Rich passed his dad the plate of garlic bread. Or at least he tried to. His little arms couldn’t reach cross the table. “You know how it is, Dad.”

“How about you, Riley? How’s the … what is it you do again?” asked Samantha. There was mischief in her eyes.

“Private investigation.” I wanted to just punch her straight in those high cheekbones.

“How’s the private investigation thing going?”

I was pretty sure that Samantha was baiting me into a trap. She’d find some way to make me look stupid. Trouble was, I was smarter than her. So I’d answer and trample over anything she tried to add. Snide remarks and little disguised verbal jabs from her wouldn’t even be heard. It’d drive her nuts.

“It’s going okay.”

“Really just o—”

“I just took a case yesterday.” I talked right over Samantha. I could feel her eyes. “This kid, Dennis Clark, was found dead a couple of weeks back. You remember, the one they found outside of Saint Mercy?”

I heard the clink of the ice in Richard’s cup. He finished a sip of his bourbon. “I remember. It was all over the news. Rich kid. He overdosed, right?”

“Yeah, on heroin.”

“Horrible stuff,” added Sam.

“What’s hero in?” asked little Rich in his androgynous kid voice. It was adorable.

“Nothing, baby. Eat your spaghetti.” Samantha was cold, even to her own son.

“Anyway, his parents hired me. They felt like the police weren’t doing enough.”

“That’s because there was nothing else to do,” said Sam defensively. “It was an accident. The kid shot up a little too much and his ‘friends’ dumped him at the ER.”

“I don’t know about that. They seemed pretty convinced that he didn’t do it to himself.” After finishing those sentences, I stuffed my mouth with spaghetti. It was delicious.

“Of course they are. He was their son. No one wants to believe that their son killed himself; whether it was an accident or not.” I knew that tone in Sam’s voice. He wasn’t going to let it go.

“You may be right. But, then again, you may not be. And if the Clarks are correct, then don’t they have the right to find out what really happened to their son?”

Sam spun up a fork full of noodles. He kind just held it halfway between his plate and his mouth as he talked. “And what if they’re wrong?”

“They still have the right to know.”

“I think that’s enough talk about drugs and dead kids.” Samantha squashed the conversation. I would love to say it was because she was an awful human being. But in this instance, she was right.

For a couple of minutes, the discussion died down. Everyone ate their dinner. There was an underlying tension in the air. With the exception of the kids, we all stopped just short of getting nasty.

Samantha and the kids were the first ones to leave. Rich and Jenny were sad to go. They always loved visiting their grandpa and getting to see their dad. Not necessarily in that order. Sam got a call from the station. He was next to leave. Even though it was late, I stayed a while longer.

Richard was barely holding it together. No one else noticed. I had spent enough time with the alcoholic version of the man to know the different stages. The first was the friendly cheerful one. That was when he only had a buzz going. Next came the over-enthusiastic version who seemed very social. Then came the end of the alcoholic odyssey. When Richard drank too much he got quiet and tried his best not to appear drunk.

I helped my surrogate father into his recliner. As I untied his shoelaces, he began to speak.

“Did you have fun?”

I hadn’t, but there was no need to rain on his parade. “Of course.”

Richard laughed. “No, you didn’t.”

Even inebriated and retired, the man was still a detective. I couldn’t lie to him, never could. So why did I even try?

“You know I was never good at these sorts of things,” I got one shoe off.

“Good at what? Being social?” asked Richard. His head was back and eyes closed. It wouldn’t be long before he was out for the count.

“Exactly.” Off came the other shoe.

I got up and went to get the blanket off the couch. I draped it over Richard.

“Well, it was good seeing you all together. Makes an old man remember he’s got family. And everyone needs…” Richard drifted off into sleep.

I went around the house and turned off all the lights. Then I made sure all of the doors were locked. The kitchen needed some cleaning, I did that, too.

Richard wasn’t fully asleep. He stopped me before I left.

“Be careful, Riley,” said Richard without opening his eyes. “Don’t get mixed up in something too dangerous. Promise me. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“You know me, old man, I’m always careful.”

“I don’t know if this is the greatest idea,” said my best friend, Lisa Williams. She was over at my apartment.

“You may be right. But I can’t think of any better way to get the info I need.” I was in the bathroom, in front of the mirror.

“Yeah, but you, a junkie? I can’t even picture that.” Lisa was in my small living room. She was flipping through television channels.

“I could use some tips. You’re good at this stuff.”

Lisa got up off my couch and joined me in the bathroom. “Girl, I specialize in making folks prettier, not uglier.” And she was right. She worked at a department store in the makeup section.

“No, you specialize in helping people hide who they really are.”

Lisa appeared in the mirror next to me. God, she was a lovely woman. I envied her light brown blemish-free skin and almond-shaped brown eyes. If I were attracted to my own sex, she’d be on the top of my list.

“Just because you don’t wear make up doesn’t mean everyone else who does is some kind of liar.”

“Fair enough. So, can you help me out?”

“I suppose.” Lisa proceeded to do exactly that. She picked out some foundation that was only a shade lighter than my natural skin tone. In order to color my cheeks and jaw, she applied some blush. No lipstick and no eyeliner was used. All this was done to make me look a little sickly and pale.

Like a pro wrestler, Lisa ripped at the George Mason College T-shirt I was wearing. I slipped on some worn jeans and a pair of sneakers I hadn’t seen for years. Some fake track marks were suggested, but I felt that would be a little over the top. If it came up, I’d say I shot up between my toes or something.

“Success!” exclaimed Lisa as she presented me to an invisible audience.

“I feel like it’s Halloween. I don’t know about this.” I did feel a little silly.

“You look fine.” There was a smile on Lisa’s face that I had trouble reading. Did she mean it? It was one of the many reasons I loved her.

I checked myself out in the mirror one last time before leaving. Since I didn’t recognize the person I saw in the reflection; I felt better. After finishing in the bathroom, I flipped off the lights and made my way to my bedroom.

My room was nothing special. I had a painting I bought from a flea market a year ago hanging over my bed. It was of a lone woman in a red dress on a stormy city street. Other than the painting, the only other thing in the room that could be considered decorative was a lamp made of copper that I had purchased from Metal Works.

The reason I went into my bedroom was to retrieve my gun. It was a .38 caliber revolver. Richard had gotten it for me on my twenty-first birthday. The piece was chrome plated and had my name engraved on the side. I stuffed it in between my waist and jeans.

“Okay, I’m ready,” I said, emerging from my bedroom.

“You sure about this?” asked Lisa. She had been noticeably concerned since I first told her my plan.

“As sure as I’ll ever be. This is the only way I can think of to track down where he got his drugs.”

“If you say so. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

I hugged Lisa. “I promise.”

Both Lisa and I left my place at the same time. She went towards her car and I went to mine. Once I got inside, I took a couple of deep breathes. I watched my best friend’s tail lights shrink in the distance.

My plan was to go to the only bar in town, “Tim & Terry’s”, and ask around, looking for heroin. Specifically, I’d be looking for heroin that came in a baggie with a purple jester on it. I was really hoping it’d work. I’d rather not have to ask homeless drifters.

Time & Terry’s was in the bad part of town. It was just outside of downtown, near the abandoned train station. I drove down to the Reid Private Investigations office. There, I parked my car and decided to go the rest of the way on foot.

Walking through downtown at that time of night was not advisable. The shiny silver weapon tucked in my waist gave me the confidence to go through with it. It helped me ignore the stares from predatory eyes and lost addicts. It helped me shrug off that animal feeling that you’re being followed.

The neon sign in front of Tim & Terry’s was the only working light on Main Street. It drew me in like a moth to a flame. Not until I got close did the butterflies start to creep up.

Standing outside the bar were a couple of what looked like truckers. They were smoking cigarettes. Both surly-looking men undressed me with their eyes as I passed by. I was watched until I opened up the deceptively-heavy front door.

Upon entering Tim & Terry’s, a wave of alcohol, stale beer and vomit hit my nostrils. My eyes watered a little. I hoped that no one saw.

The lights were low, typical of a dive bar. Brightest things in the room were neon signs advertising the brands of beer sold. Surprisingly, the place was packed. Sure, it was a Saturday night, but weekends in Stone Harbor weren’t very festive.

All manner of social outcasts were in Tim & Terry’s. There were the regular drunks who had their favorite booths or stools. They didn’t talk to anyone and stared at their drinks. A couple of kids were there, just old enough to be allowed in. Some shady types were lurking in the darker corners. I even spotted a couple of working girls trying to sell their services.

I figured I’d start at the bar. Behind it was a large woman with tattoos covering each arm and an eagle above her revealed cleavage. She saw me, but paid me no mind. Instead she kept wiping. I’d have to get her attention.

“Excuse me?” I was too polite. I was supposed to be a junkie. “Hey!”

“Yeah, what can I get you?” asked the bartender without looking up.

“I’m looking for something.”

“Night like this, everyone is looking for something, sweetie. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Something with a purple jester on it. You know, little something to take the edge off?” I scratched at my arm as I said it. The junkies I saw on TV did that.

The bartender looked up at me. She gave me a look of disgust. “Unless you order a drink, you have to get the hell out of here.”

I had to stay true to my part. “The cheapest beer you got.”

“Coming right up,” said the bartender as she reached under the bar for my beer. She half whispered, “damn smackhead.” At least my costume worked.

I went from patron to patron. Aside from a few lurid offers and phone numbers, I got nothing. But the whole time I noticed that feeling of being watched again. The perpetrator was in a booth in the back. Careful not to be detected, I took a sly glance at him.

He was a rather wimpy-looking guy. I guessed that he may have been in his early or mid-twenties, tops. There was a beanie on his head, even though the temperature was in the mid sixties. Under his black tank top, I could see a myriad of tattoos. Neither of his arms were any more muscular than mine. And he had beady little eyes, like a rat.

“Hi,” I said with a fake smile after approaching the wimpy guy’s booth.

The man grinned, revealing one oddly placed gold tooth on his top row. “How you doing, beautiful?” He was one of those guys.

“I couldn’t help but notice you staring,” I said as I slid into the booth next to him. He smelled of cheap body spray and menthols. It was less than enchanting. But I kept pretending he was the most handsome thing I’d ever seen.

“I couldn’t help but notice you were looking for something.” The wimpy guy revealed that he was holding something in his palm. It was a baggie of heroin with a purple jester printed on it. I reached for it but he quickly closed his hand. “Not yet.”

I got closer and put my hand on his thigh. It made me a little nauseous, but I hid it well. “What then?”

“What’s the rush, honey? The night’s still young. Let’s have a couple of drinks, on me.”

I didn’t want to have any drinks with the guy. He was my only lead, though. Sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and endure, for the sake of the case. “Sure.”

My new friend held out his hand for me to shake. “The name’s Marty. And you are?” His fake “urban” accent was starting to get on my nerves.

“Kelly.”

“Kelly? I like that, Kelly. Well, Kelly, whatcha drinking?”

For an hour, I endured Marty’s bad jokes and poor attempts to hit on me. I allowed him to build up hopes of going home with me. All the while I was trying to get him to sell me the drugs. And as soon as he did, I got out of there.

Upon inspecting the forty dollars worth of heroin I purchased, the purple jester baggie was indeed used. That meant that either Marty was the one who supplied the drug, which I doubted, or he knew who did. I was on the right track.

When I got home, I took a nice long shower. I had to wash the whole experience of Tim & Terry’s off. It took a good fifteen minutes under hot water to do the job. Then I went to bed with a new plan in mind.