Mother's Milk (6 page)

She finished her dictation and walked over to his room as Maggie gave him the second two pills. He was still sweating and in obvious pain, but he seemed less frantic, whether from the medication or from Maggie's husky voice soothing him, ‘That's right, just try and relax, everything is going to be all right.'

‘Thanks, Maggie, you need me for anything else?' Barrett asked.

‘No, and Dr. Conyors, in case no one mentions it, what you did for this boy should get you a medal. Most psychiatrists just stand in the background when bad stuff happens. I sure appreciate what you did. He could have gotten himself killed, or someone else.'

‘Thanks, Maggie,' Barrett said, not wanting to think about how close they'd come to a tragedy.

‘Don't mention it,' the nurse said. ‘I just wish others would take notice. There's not many that would step in like you did.'

Barrett returned to the nurses' station and retrieved Jerod's belongings. She piled them back into the plastic bag and thought through the day's events. It felt messy as hell and standing there holding – and contaminating – what might turn out to be evidence in a double homicide, she needed help. That was yet another problem, she knew the help she wanted: Hobbs … Detective Ed Hobbs. So as she often did when faced with tough calls, Barrett forced herself to act. She made toward the exit, punched in her code, and waited for the elevator, all the while thinking of what she'd say to Ed. She'd avoided him since Max's birth. It had become too awkward; Ed had fallen for her, and told her so. She couldn't return it. She'd hurt him, after all he'd done for her, she'd really hurt him and it killed her. Of course she loved him, but not in that way. Although … there had been that kiss, the tickle of his moustache, the feel of his strong hands on her face, in her hair. ‘Damn,' she said aloud as the elevator came to the ninth floor. She got out, glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was only three. ‘Marla,' she said, as she passed her secretary's desk, ‘hold my calls.' She closed the door, went into her small private bath, undressed, pumped, put the milk in the fridge, and no longer feeling like her breasts were going to explode, dialed Ed's cell.

He picked up on the second ring.

‘Ed, it's Barrett.' She held her breath.

‘Barrett who?' he said with uncharacteristic sarcasm.

‘Ed, I'm so sorry. It's just between the baby and going back to work and—'

‘Please stop. We've known each other way too long for bullshit. I'm glad you called. What's up?'

‘Thank you,' she said. ‘You got some time?'

‘Yeah, I'm just plugging through some reports. I can't believe how fast they pile up. What gives?'

She started to lay out the events of the day.

Barely into it, Hobbs blurted, ‘What the hell were you doing going into that building without a police escort?'

Barrett was struck by something in his voice, something she'd missed, his concern, his wit, his humor. ‘It's me, Ed. It was broad daylight, I wasn't alone.'

‘For the love of God, Barrett, why do you put yourself in these situations? Don't you think you're getting a little old?'

‘Can I finish?'

‘Yes, please continue. I can't wait for the part where you single-handedly fight off a drug lord and his minions.'

She laughed. ‘How did you know? But that's coming …'

At several points in the telling he asked for further details, about the dead kids, and about Jerod's near suicide-by-cop.

‘This is where it gets creepy,' she said, and she told him about the cells and the video of the naked girl. ‘I mean Jerod I've known for years. He has chronic schizophrenia, hears voices, and lives hand-to-mouth more often than not just staying at the shelter. The first time I met him he was eighteen and smoking a huge amount of pot because the voice of Bob Marley was telling him he was going to be a Rasta messiah. What's he doing with all that cash? The cell phones?'

‘Does anyone know you have those phones?'

‘Just some guards, and a couple nurses.'

‘That's probably what he was looking for.'

‘Who?'

‘The man you saw running away, the one you thought had a gun. From everything you've said it sounds like your sweet boy Jerod – who, let's be clear, set you up – is dealing dope. It's also unlikely he's far up in any kind of organization. This feels bad, Barrett. Something dangerous has just been dropped at your door. If you're not frightened I suggest you start. I need to see those phones and that video. Don't touch them or do anything else with them. I'll swing by within the hour. I'll also give the ME a call to see what's happening with the autopsies and if they've got positive ID. Because maybe this is just a freaky double overdose, but it stinks like homicide … No wonder your kid is scared, he's either seen something or knows something. How good is your security there?'

‘Fair. You think I should send him to Croton?' she asked, referring to the high-security forensic hospital near the Connecticut border.

‘It's a thought. I mean this could turn out to be small potatoes, but with two dead, someone pulling a gun, and someone else trying to get himself shot, someone's worried and playing high stakes.'

‘Good point,' she said, hearing the concern in his voice. ‘And, Ed …'

‘Yes?'

‘Thanks.'

‘I'll be by in the hour. And for God's sake, please watch out. If you can't do it for you, think about your kid.'

‘Fine,' she said, trying to use humor to battle her mounting fear. ‘I'll stay in my office and hide under my desk.' But her every thought triggered fresh waves of jitters. She'd put herself in harm's way, albeit for the best of reasons, Jerod could have gotten shot … or someone else, and she had a baby to take care of, and she'd pissed off Janice more than she'd ever done, and it was clear that snaky Hugh was lobbying for her job, and at the rate she was going he'd probably get it too.

‘Good, then I'll know where to find you.'

A
t twenty-five, Chase Strand, a Department of Family and Youth Services social worker, could have been a model in the magazines to which he was addicted. Sitting in his small corner office that smelled of citrus zest, he glared at the cover of
Men's Vogue
. Normally, he'd spend an enjoyable half-hour flipping pages while comparing his looks to those of the men in the glossy ads for Prada, Hugo Boss, Calvin Klein, Abercrombie's, and all the rest, commenting aloud, ‘He's pretty good looking,' ‘I'm better looking than him,' ‘I'm much better looking than him,' ‘How does that guy even get work?' And then he'd think through the possible surgical solutions that might improve the model's looks, a rhinoplasty, perhaps a chin implant. He'd evaluate the bodies of the underwear models and compare their features to his perfect abs, chest, shoulders, and legs, toned by daily workouts in his state-of-the-art home gym. He'd peer intently at each page as though his gaze could melt through the airbrushing, trying to see who'd had calf or pec implants.

But not now. As he waited for his next pathetic excuse for a human being client, he was worried; his thoughts were dark; and he was furious, shit was coming undone, and he hated this feeling of things being out of his control. Making certain his door was locked, he reached into his Gucci briefcase and pulled out a prepaid and untraceable cell phone. He dialed Marky, and as soon as the phone picked up, laid in to him. ‘Where is he?'

‘He was running,' Marky said, sounding winded. ‘He knew I was looking for him.'

‘Why would he think that?' Chase pushed. ‘Why was he even with those two? You should have made sure they were alone.'

‘Chase, I don't know what Jerod was doing there. He's been hanging around them, doing stuff for them … I think he was into that girl Carly. He was spouting some sort of bullshit about her being kidnapped. It didn't make any sense.'

Chase felt rage. ‘Don't fuck with me, Marky! Where is he?'

‘I don't know, I've been looking everywhere for him. I swear I'll find him.'

‘You better, and take care of him.'

Chase wanted to hit something, or someone. Every word from Marky reeked of carelessness and stupidity, but he had to pull it back. ‘OK, Marky, I know Bobby had one of the regular cells, and I know you didn't retrieve it. It's either with the body or somehow that nutcase got his hands on it. There's also one missing from my loft; it's not meant to go with the family kids, it's for something else. Do you know anything about it? There were half a dozen on the living-room table next to the leather sofa. When I looked there were only five. Did you take one?'

‘Oh shit! I thought that was one of the ones I could take. I thought you'd gotten new phones, and I needed one …'

‘So you have it?'

‘No, oh shit.'

‘Who has it?'

‘I'm so sorry, Chase, please don't be mad … I gave it to Bobby; he said his wasn't working. It was right before … I didn't want him to be suspicious.'

Chase looked down at his perfectly manicured nails and his long fingers. He pictured them around Marky's throat. He'd watch as the fair-haired man's face turned bright red. He'd see the fear in his eyes, desire, longing. ‘I need those cells, Marky. Find Jerod and get them. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, Chase … If … when I get them, will you see me?'

‘Get them and we'll talk.'
At least he's motivated
, Chase mused, knowing that Marky would do anything, absolutely anything, he asked.

‘I swear I'll get them back.'

Chase hung up, and stared at the handsome man on the magazine cover, knowing that could easily have been him. On numerous occasions, since he'd been a teen, he'd been approached by talent agents and modeling executives. They'd tell him he had
the look
, that he could do both commercial and lucrative editorial and high-fashion work. He'd smile, flash perfect white teeth, let them linger on his blemish-free skin, full lips, high cheekbones that gave his face a slightly feline quality, and his thick head of near-black hair that he currently wore a bit longer than usual so that its natural wave could flop casually across his forehead and curl at the base of his neck. But it was his large golden-brown eyes framed by long lashes that were his best feature. They'd offer him contracts and set him up with important photographers to get a book put together – all on them. He'd enjoyed the photo shoots, and more importantly the hard, cold, photographic evidence of his beauty. But his face, his body … his cock were not on the market, at least not to be used by anyone other than Chase; they gave him power and control. Being a male model, or some pretty boy actor, was not the future he envisioned. He was going to have true power, respect, authority, and money; he was going to be a plastic surgeon, and to achieve this he would do whatever it took, which currently included dealing dope to wealthy college kids and the occasional sale of young white girls to foreign brothels or to men with wealth and a taste for something pretty, young, and disposable. Medical school wasn't cheap, and even with scholarships he was looking at 40K a year for tuition alone, not to mention the taxes and fees on his condo – nearly five grand a month – and his need for high-end clothing. He couldn't possibly get by on less than two hundred a year and even that was tight.

His phone rang; it was the receptionist. ‘Hi, Chase,' her voice slightly breathless, ‘I've got your grandma's aide on the phone. Do you want me to take a message?'

‘No,' he said, bracing for the worst, ‘put her through'.

The line clicked. ‘Mr. Strand, this is Dorothy, I hope you don't mind me calling you at work.'

‘Of course not,' he said, wondering what this was about to cost.

‘I just thought you should know I'm starting to see skin breakdown on Grace's lower back, I don't think second shift have been turning her as often as they're supposed to.'

‘How bad is it?' He pictured his grandmother, with her angel-white hair and wrinkle-free face.

‘I think I caught it in time, but she needs an inflatable mattress cover, preferably one with adjustable temperature … Medicaid won't pay for that.'

‘How much?' he asked, knowing he'd pay. Grace Strand was the only person in the world who'd ever given him a taste of that most elusive drug – unconditional love.

‘The best one's about fifteen hundred dollars.' She was about to say more when he interrupted.

‘Just do it, I'll pay you this weekend, and pick up some more of those microwavable bed-bath packs.'

‘Sure, and Mr. Strand …'

‘Dorothy, after all these years you can call me Chase.'

‘Chase, I really appreciate how you take care of her, you'd be amazed how few do.'

‘She's a great woman,' he said, flashing on an ancient memory of playing by his grandmother's side as she picked tomatoes and basil from the garden behind her three-story home in Park Slope. As he hung up, he knew that in addition to the $1500 for the inflatable mattress cover – probably an inflated price – he'd also slip Dorothy an extra couple hundred. On Saturday, he'd take the subway to Flatbush, as he did every week, to the hellhole of a nursing home that had warehoused his grandmother for twenty-one years, ever since she suffered a catastrophic stroke, with what the doctors called locked-in syndrome. He'd sit with her and hold her hand, feeling the crêpe-paper fragility of her skin. He'd talk to her about his ambitions, that he was going to be a doctor, that his aunts – her daughters – Kelly and Donna with their fat husbands and ugly children would regret the way they'd treated him, and treated her. Grace had taken Chase in after his parents had died within a year of each other. His nearly famous fashion-model mother OD'd on heroin. Ten months later his cracked-out nightclub-promoting father blew his heart out at the end of a glass pipe – Chase was four. Yet strangely, the following months living with his grandmother were the happiest of his life. Then Grace had her stroke. He found her on the kitchen floor, her eyes open, unable to move, spittle dribbling from the corner of her mouth. The brightest light in his life had just gone out. His aunts Kelly and Donna, both with their own families, refused to take him in. Years later he'd understand why, too jealous of his beautiful mother to give a shit about him, and furious that any money Grace had, as well as the big house in Park Slope, was sucked up by the state to pay for her nursing home. At the age of five Chase became a ward of the state, and like the kids he now worked with, his life was a series of foster homes and group homes. When he was still very young there was always the hope of full adoption, and likely couples dangled the prospect of a stable home, security … love. But each time something got in the way, and he'd find himself, battered suitcase in hand, moving toward the next.