Last Track, The (37 page)

“No problem. You looked distinguished in those pictures, by the way,” Mike said.

“They all wanted to know who you were,” Dagget said, “and you just walked away with a wink and a nod and rode to the hospital with your family. The coverage has done a ton of good for the department. Lisbeth managed to get more funding and personnel.”

“That’s good. You said you were running an investigation . . .”

“Yeah,” Dagget said. “The chief is making me a detective—second-grade.”

“Congratulations!” Mike said.

“The announcement surprised Lisbeth a bit, but as she might say, what the chief decrees, don’t dispute, though feel free to doubt under your breath. Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Anything.”

“How are things with you and Jessica these days?”

“We’ve been talking more, and laughing together. In fact, we have a dinner date tonight. She’s coming over in a few minutes.”

“Oh,” Dagget said, with a barely perceptible sigh.

“I don’t mean to cut you off. Is there something else?”

“Let’s just say, things are better than ever with the girlfriend. But, speaking of Jessica, I guess Lisbeth shut her out of a pretty good article.”

“No worries. She wrote another piece.” Jessica had sold a review of dude ranches to an adventure magazine. A real light piece for middle-aged suburbanites. “It worked out for everyone, I think.”

“You’re one hundred percent right. Everyone got what he deserved. This guy Crotty was a lot dirtier than anyone suspected. He was running an empire behind the scenes. The DEA is still trying to sort through it all.”

“Heard anything about Sean?” Mike asked.

“The kid is doing great. Lisbeth saw those bruises on Faith Jackson’s arms and called out Sean’s dad on it. He’s going to anger-management counseling, and all three are also going to family therapy.”

Mike was pleased to hear that. “I hope it works for them. Did anything ever come of the skeletons you found?”

“Yes, in fact,” Dagget said. “Their discovery closed out two missing persons reports that have been open for two years. We ID’d them through dental records. Looks like they both had dealings with Crotty.”

“Did my coordinates for the potential facility pan out?”

“Direct hit. Lisbeth will probably call you about that. She raided a plant a few days ago. All that state-of-the-art equipment is scheduled for destruction. Didn’t find any personnel, but they got the chemicals and a weapons cache.”

“One thing that bothers me,” Mike said. “These meth labs are usually tiny. How did they get such large quantities of the raw materials like pseudoephedrine? There are a lot of laws restricting its purchase at the retail and wholesale level.”

“Went right to the source. They stole truckloads of it en route to manufacturing plants. Mostly in the US, but also in Mexico and Canada. Thanks to NAFTA, it doesn’t take much to get a truck past the borders. Every so often they lose a load, but it keeps on coming. You know, I’m sure glad Crotty is dead. He was dangerous and insane. Inside his apartment they found journal after journal, stuffed in a safe. And you know what was on the pages? Four words, scrawled over and over, sixteen thousand times. Exactly the same way.
The Partner must die.
”

“I still wonder about Erich being the Partner . . .”

“Erich is a good front, charming, and no one suspected he would do something like that for money. Plus he’s a pilot, which helps when you need materials moved around. And clearly Crotty needed help like that, because the records show the company was too big for a single person to manage. Crotty handled back-office operations, got rid of witnesses and threats to the company, while someone else ran the business day to day. Crotty didn’t care for personnel issues, so that fell on Erich. Or the Partner, as I should say.”

“What about Chappy? Didn’t he claim the Partner was somebody else?”

“What he said was Crotty killed David St. John, and not Erich. And Chappy is not saying anything these days. A guard found him hanging in his cell, dangling from his belt last week. Besides, consider the source. Chappy committed at least one homicide, and ultimately all roads end at Erich. Especially since there’s even more evidence than before. The FBI raided a guy named Regani’s house and a box of records turned up details about the financial intricacies of the partnership. The auditors are still working to sort them out, but everything on those pages demonstrates a collusion between Crotty and Erich.”

Mike remembered another detail. “Did you make out what Crotty said about the Partner? Right before he died?”

“Ah, dying men can say anything. They rarely make sense.”

Downstairs, there was a knock at the front door. Jessica must be early for their dinner date. A bit ahead of schedule, but he could deal with the last-minute change of plans.

“I should get that,” Mike said.

“Okay,” Dagget said. “I feel like I keep forgetting to tell you something .
. .
”

There was another knock at the door.

“Before you go,” Dagget said, “I just remembered what I wanted to tell you. The results just came back for that water bottle Jessica sent us. First, there was a small perforation in the top of the bottle, exactly the size of a hypodermic needle. Second, there was a chemical agent inside the liquid. Someone certainly dosed the water.”

“With what?” Mike wondered if it happened that day when Jessica found the room open and the maid down the hall.

“That’s the scary part. It’s unprecedented. It’s odorless, clear, and has no taste. It’s virtually impossible to detect in the bloodstream. We figure it’s one of David St. John’s creations. That’s probably why Crotty killed David. To keep his secret formula safe. The lab has no idea what exactly the substance is or its chemical structure, other than it affects the nervous system in all sorts of disturbing ways. In small amounts, it causes a pronounced sense of euphoria. In large amounts, dehydration, violent outbursts, blackouts, even death. It could be mixed or added to anything. Food, drink, hand soap, whatever, and the person who came in contact with it would never notice. Good thing we got this stuff out of circulation before it hit the street.”

Another knock—this one three quick taps.

“I’m out, Detective Dagget. Congratulations again. We should catch up some time.”

“Absolutely. Say hi to Jessica for me. And good luck to you both. And if you think of anything that might help, give me a call.”

Mike reached for the brass knob, the metal cool to the touch, and turned it slowly.

The oak door opened under Mike’s grip. He smiled at the beautiful woman on the other side of the frame.

“I didn’t expect you this early,” Mike said to Jessica. “Come on in.”

“Before I do, I want to ask you something.” She looked a bit vulnerable, which was familiar to Mike, but almost forgotten for the tough times.

“Sure.”

“Is us being apart working for you?” For once Jessica Barrett asked a question that sounded like one to Mike Brody.

Mike cleared his throat. “No.”

She breathed deeply. “Why doesn’t it work when we’re together?”

“I want it to work,” Mike said. “I always wanted us to work.”

“Could it?” Jessica asked.

Mike hesitated at first, moving slowly, unsure if she would reciprocate, until their lips connected.

Jessica stepped inside the house, and shut the oak door.

Seconds later . . .

When he finished his call with Mike, Dagget ripped the battery out of the phone and tossed both into the cold water flowing at the base of a mountain. The disposable phone drifted in the frothy current. It followed a few others. Destination: far, far downstream. He kept the voice scrambler Crotty built, though; the device was invaluable at disguising one’s identity.

He was glad that things ended well for Mike and Jessica. He never wanted them to get hurt again. They had suffered enough over the case. He would have preferred they had never been involved at all. But he never had control over that. And unfortunately, accidents happened at the worst of times. Or seemed to, at least. After all, one day Chappy started blabbing he wanted to make a full confession and never woke up again.

It cost a lot of money to convince the coroner to overlook the blunt-head trauma and rule the death a suicide. Shame of it was that Chappy was a great inside man. He hated to lose him. He paid the coroner off anyway.

The real coup was swapping out Crotty’s journals at his apartment. Crotty had explicitly named the Partner dozens of times within the pages, as well as detailing an entirely new operations guide for running the company. Replacing the original journals with ones filled with a single line ad infinitum completed the profile of Crotty the obsessive killer. Better yet, the new playbooks he inherited were filled with some great ideas for expanding the business. He could use them. There was other information within the pages, too. Unexpected revelations he must confront.

Dagget stepped into a sedan, fell into the deep bench seat, and relaxed. He adjusted the mirror, smiling at the reflection. He was a good-looking man if he did say so, and he decided right then and there to let the tight-cropped hair grow out a bit. Get enough length on top so he could part his hair. That sort of style was more befitting a detective. He could hardly wait for his former father-in-law to pin that silver shield to his uniform. Not that they were even; he still had a few scores to settle with the old man. In due time.

In the passenger seat, the Partner drank champagne. Dagget watched her take a modest sip. The bottle looked good in Cara’s perfectly manicured hands. Like it belonged.

Now it was time for celebrating.

Things had been going great since the search wrapped. Fresh news clippings from around the world about him covered his new office walls. Sure, a few nagging questions lingered in the rumor mill, but Dagget could head those off easily enough. He was making enough money to deal with most any irritant.

Yes, the second facility Crotty built on the sly—the twin plant that Lisbeth never knew about—paid off handsomely. Just for Dagget instead of Crotty. It proved more efficient than he could ever have imagined, pumped out more product than he believed, and generated more revenue than he could spend. Thanks to David St. John’s magnum opus formulation, the one Chappy dosed Jessica with, he had a lock on a whole new market from the top-down, and no competition.

Keeping employees happy always boiled down to a question of loyalty. Crotty never understood that. Everyone was expendable, Crotty always claimed. That was Crotty’s mistake.

Dagget would not be so shortsighted. He could not afford to be. In the end, it was only people that mattered. He would take care of his employees; his employees would take care of him. Because, like Dagget said to Mike, everyone got what he deserved.

“So it’s done,” Cara asked.

“Isn’t it always when you let me handle things?”

“Well then, champagne?”

Dagget took a hearty swig from the bottle. He leaned back in the seat, one hand on the Cristal, the other over Cara’s shoulder and neck. She kissed him. “That was good,” Dagget said.

“Which? The champagne or the kiss.”

“It’s all good, Mrs. Regani,” Dagget said.

“Not for much longer.” Cara seemed to groan this more than she said it. “The divorce papers are already filed. And legally, I never was Mrs. Regani. I didn’t take his last name for a reason, you know. Never felt right. I told you that before.”

“Do you miss him?” Dagget asked.

“My husband? That, as they say, obviously didn’t work out.”

“I mean Crotty. Your boyfriend.”

Cara took a deep breath. “How did you know?”

“It was all in the journals Crotty kept,” Dagget said. “He wanted to go away with you and start a new life.”

“Obviously, he didn’t know me very well,” Cara said. “And at the end of the day, Crotty was a cheap bastard. That’s why I’m with you. You understand my needs.”

“Crotty did love money above everything.” Dagget paused. “When we get married, will you take my last name?”

Cara pulled in close, as if she might kiss Dagget again. Instead she traced the profile of his face with her first two fingers. She stopped at his chin. Pulling her hand back, she almost smiled. “You do know you’re still working for me, right?”

Acknowledgments

To co-opt a maxim from my grandfather’s day: behind every man with an idea is a better woman. In my case, it’s more like several dozen women and some men. And they stand, or rather have stood, beside me through the years. The list below is by no means exhaustive, but every name represents a real person who made a fundamental difference in my journey; they made me a better writer and person.

First, my mother fed my reading habit from the very beginning. Some mothers give out milk and cookies. Mine served
A
Wrinkle in Time
and
Fahrenheit 451
.

In school, several teachers encouraged me more than the rest: Brenda Bigelow and Dr. Mary Balkun, though I was a mediocre student to your considerable talents as instructors. Sorry I was young and stupid. Fortunately you both forgave my insecurities and nudged me in positive ways.

A crew of readers guided the various drafts with their feedback and suggestions. Matt De Vries for his weapons expertise and unflinching ability to call me out for a weak draft; Lt. John A. Dunay (Ret.) for insights on police procedures and gun handling; a few confidential sources who must remain anonymous; Oriana Leckert—tight edits and solid suggestions; Katie Boyer, master of the intricacies of male and female psyches—you were always concise; Jen and Jaysen Lesage, good friends, good ideas; Sheryl Chisholm—I’ll build a leaf fort with you any time; Spike Grobstein, a fellow tech who asked the hard questions at the right moments and always got what I was trying to do, even when it wasn’t on the page; Erin Amanda Grambling, an eagle-eyed editor if there ever was one; Jacki Meinert, my favorite hippie; Kerry Johnson, a divine editor—how I hated your electronic markup notes, especially when they hit the mark; Kayla Selans, Internet Hosting Goddess—your instant messages kept me going on the long nights; Jake Freedman, of Freedman Tire and Auto on Route 27 in Edison, NJ, you are the greatest mechanic a used car owner could know. Thanks for keeping my old vehicles humming like new all these years.