Walleye Junction (11 page)

“Nathan,” she said. “You should go before we do something stupid.”

“I'll call you tomorrow,” he said, letting her go and walking away.

Emma listened to the front door shut softly in his wake.

“I guess you know where to find me now,” she said.

 

6

The director of the Flathead Valley opiate-addiction program led Macy into a small conference room where the center's counselors had gathered to discuss the patients under their care. The east-facing windows were full of morning light and a coffee machine bubbled away in the corner. Julia Price was a heavyset woman with round cheeks and frizzy gray hair. She offered Macy a chair near the window.

“I'm sorry to interrupt the meeting,” Julia said to the room, gathering the folds of her flowing skirt and taking a seat at the head of the conference table. “Detective Macy Greeley has some news she needs to share with us.”

“Good morning,” said Macy. “I understand that Carla Spencer has been receiving treatment here for some time.”

A man with a slight frame and short-cropped hair held up his hand. “Carla Spencer is my patient.”

“Merle Hepworth?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes shifting to his case files. Carla's was on top. “I have an appointment with Carla later this morning. We were just discussing her progress. She missed group therapy this week.”

“Was that unusual?”

“She's had perfect attendance thus far.”

“What did her therapy involve?”

“Weekly one-on-one sessions and group therapy. She is also required to attend four twelve-step Narcotics Anonymous meetings per week.”

Macy made a few notes. “Was she on methadone?”

Julia Price spoke again. “We find that buprenorphine is more effective for treating withdrawal symptoms. Patients can't get their medication if they don't attend their meetings.”

Macy pointed to the stacks of files in front of each counselor. “How many patients are treated here?”

“At the moment we're maxed out at one hundred patients each. The wait time for a place in the program is up to three months. The good news is that we have funding to hire four more counselors so we're expanding.”

Merle raised his hand again. “May I ask what this is all about?”

“I'm afraid that Carla Spencer and her husband, Lloyd, died from an apparent drug overdose early yesterday morning.”

“Painkillers?”

“We're pretty sure it was heroin.”

Merle dropped Carla's file on the table. “I really thought we were making progress.”

“We're not ruling out foul play.”

“You think she was murdered?”

“We have reason to believe a third party was involved, but it still may have been accidental. The medical examiner should have more information by this afternoon. I need to know about the other patients who attended her group therapy sessions. We'll be speaking to her twelve-step sponsor as well. At this point I just want to know if there was anyone Carla Spencer was friendly with. They may have insight into why this has happened.”

“I'm sorry,” said Merle. “These are my patients. I can't give you their names without a court order.”

“Fair enough,” said Macy. “Don't name names. Was there anyone in the group who worried you? They may have had previous convictions. They may have also missed sessions in the past couple of weeks.”

He nodded. “I've got a name in mind.”

Julia Price picked her way through the stack of files in front of Merle.

“Joel Edwards,” she said, holding the file up in the air. “He's just been kicked out of the program for violating parole. He failed to check in with his case officer two weeks running.”

Merle sat back in his chair. “How come I wasn't notified?”

“I only received the e-mail a few minutes ago.”

Macy wrote down his name. “What's the story on Joel Edwards?”

Merle scratched his neck. “He attempted to rob a doctor at gunpoint when he was off his head on a cocktail of Oxy and Xanax. After serving his sentence he started using again. When he was arrested on a possession charge the courts said it was the drug treatment program or prison.”

“Did you notice if he and Carla were close?”

“Yes, they were pretty tight. I know they went for coffee a few times after the sessions. He was struggling, but I got the impression Carla was really pulling for him. She seemed to be completely focused on her recovery, which makes her death even more upsetting. She was on buprenorphine. She shouldn't have been craving.”

“But she missed a session.”

“She called to apologize so I arranged for her to pick up some at the pharmacy.”

“Is it common practice to prescribe such strong medication without seeing the patient?”

Julia Price answered. “We have patients who travel more than two hours each way to reach this center. Cars break down. Medicaid vans don't show up. We can't punish a patient unduly when they have a legitimate excuse for missing a meeting.”

“What was Carla's excuse?”

Merle looked at her file. “Her husband and son had a physical altercation. She didn't feel it was safe to leave them alone together in the house. Her attendance had been perfect up to that point so I gave her the benefit of the doubt.”

“Did she talk about her husband in her therapy sessions?” asked Macy.

“She wanted to leave him but didn't see how she'd ever manage. I got the impression she was scared of him. He was still using, which made her recovery particularly challenging.”

“Is it common for addicts to move from painkillers to heroin?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Julia. “As both are opiate based it's a natural progression and now that prescription painkillers are becoming more difficult to obtain it's becoming a real problem. Heroin used to be the type of drug you only found in urban areas, but now it's in the suburbs, our schools, and in rural communities. It's cheaper but far more dangerous. The plus side of prescription painkillers is that you know exactly what dosage you're getting.”

Macy started gathering her things. “You've been incredibly helpful. I wish I could have brought you better news.”

Julia walked Macy to the door. “We've had to develop some pretty thick skin working in this business. Thankfully, we've had quite a few success stories recently, so I would like to think that we're finally turning a corner.”

Macy shook her hand. “Thank you for all the work you're doing here. I'm sure it's making a difference.”

*   *   *

As she made her way back to the police station Macy peered in the window of a children's toy shop on Main Street, making a note to stop in when they were open to pick up something for Luke. She'd been wondering how her son would feel about spending more time in the Flathead Valley. Aiden had invited them to stay for a couple of weeks over the summer. Macy had made a point of explaining exactly what having a two-and-a-half-year-old living in the house would mean. Luke couldn't be left on his own. They wouldn't be able to go to Murphy's Tavern until two in the morning. They'd also have to forgo mountain biking, rock climbing, and sleeping in. Aiden had said he didn't mind, but Macy wasn't convinced he was ready for fatherhood, temporary or otherwise. With the exception of his job, which he took very seriously, Aiden seemed to move through life with very few constraints. The truth was she didn't really understand why Aiden was so prepared to give up freedoms she sometimes wished she still had. Luke may have been three hundred miles away and well cared for, but Macy never lost sight of the fact she was his mother. It colored every decision she made. She worried constantly that she wasn't good enough so she overcompensated. At the moment Luke came first and her job came second. She wondered how Aiden would feel about third place.

A car horn sounded and Macy turned to see Gina beaming at her from behind the wheel of her patrol car.

“You need a ride to the station?” asked Gina.

“It's only another block. I think I can manage.”

Gina revved the engine. “I'll race you.”

“Lou's not going to take kindly to you speeding down Main Street.”

“Lou's a pushover.”

Macy's ribs ached when she laughed. “Okay then, you're on.”

Gina was waiting for Macy on the front steps. She'd spent the morning tracking down Sean Spencer's friends. Most of them had still been in bed when she'd showed up at their doors.

“It's amazing how much teenagers sleep,” said Gina.

“Was it worth the trip?”

Gina held up a list of microbreweries in Montana.

“One of his friends came through. He said Sean was interested in getting a job at a microbrewery in Bozeman to make money while he was in school. He got the impression that Sean was heading down there this week.”

“Why microbreweries?”

“Apparently, it's something Sean has always been into.”

Macy scanned the list. “There are at least fifty breweries listed here.”

“Yeah, but some are circled, so I'll start there. Any luck at the drug treatment center?”

“Maybe, but it's best that we discuss it inside. Probably should run it by Lou as well.”

“I spoke to him a few minutes ago. He's making a stab at finding Sean's real father. Apparently, Scott Walker has a place south of Darby Lake. Lou said he'd be out of cell phone range for a while.”

*   *   *

Gina and Macy sat across from each other at the two desks they'd been assigned. Gina's was covered in empty food wrappers. She held up a box of doughnuts.

“Hungry?”

Macy said she'd already eaten. “There was a guy named Joel Edwards in Carla's therapy group. Apparently, they were tight. It may be a coincidence, but Edwards has missed the last two meetings with his parole officer.”

Gina was already typing. She leaned in and studied the screen. “There's an APB out on him. Sounds like a nice guy. He did a short stint in prison for armed robbery.”

“He robbed a doctor at gunpoint.” Macy glanced at her watch. “We're kind of pressed for time. When are we supposed to interview Ron Forester?”

“I told the associate warden we'd be at the prison at around half past three.”

“We're going to have to split up again then. I'll drive myself over to Philip Long's house to interview his wife while you find out what you can about Joel Edwards and the microbrewery lead on Sean Spencer. Once I'm done we'll head south to Deer Lodge.”

Gina hesitated before handing Macy the car keys.

“Are you sure you're okay to drive?” said Gina. “You were in a serious accident. Nobody around here is going to blame you if you're still a little shaky behind the wheel.”

“Gina, you worry too much. I'll be fine.”

*   *   *

Macy parked Gina's patrol car in front of the home Philip Long once shared with his wife, Francine, and fought the urge to crawl under the dashboard and hide. The confidence she'd felt upon leaving the police station had vanished at the first intersection. The light had turned green, but instead of moving she'd sat staring out the front windshield. It wasn't until someone behind her sounded a horn that she'd started off again. In her haste she'd nearly run over a pedestrian that hadn't cleared the crosswalk. Thankfully, she'd been wearing sunglasses so no one could see she was crying.

Macy picked up her cell phone but stopped short of dialing. At some point she'd started calling Aiden whenever she was in trouble. She closed her eyes for a few seconds. Ray had never been there when she needed him so it still surprised her when Aiden answered the phone. She wasn't sure what was normal anymore. Before she met Ray she wouldn't have asked anyone for help. She would have just got on with it. Macy reached over and grabbed her laptop and case notes from her bag. She was already late so a few more minutes wouldn't hurt. The last thing Francine Long needed was a detective unraveling on her doorstep.

Macy scrolled through her e-mails, stopping on the ones that related to Philip Long's case. She frowned. The tire tread impressions found near the crime scene didn't match those on Sean Spencer's dirt bike. It didn't mean Sean didn't kill Philip Long. It just meant that he would have had to use another bike. Macy slid her computer into her bag and checked her reflection in the mirror. Nothing could be done about her appearance. She put her sunglasses back on to hide her bloodshot eyes. If anyone asked she'd say she was suffering from allergies.

The modest two-story bungalow was separated from the street by a bright green lawn lined with colorful borders. A Cadillac Escalade boxed in an older sedan and a red hatchback. On closer inspection the house was showing signs of disrepair. Paint peeled from the woodwork and thin lightning-shaped cracks ran down the plastered walls. Philip Long may have been a local celebrity, but he wasn't wealthy. According to financial documents, they'd recently taken out a second mortgage on their home.

Macy pressed the bell and waited. Footsteps followed. The young woman who greeted her wore an expensive-looking cream silk blouse, a pair of dark blue trousers, and ballet flats. Her dark hair was pulled up in a tight ponytail and she was worryingly slim. Macy wouldn't have called her pretty, but she was striking.

“Hello,” said Macy, pulling out her badge. “My name is Detective Macy Greeley. Francine Long is expecting me.” She watched as the woman inspected her badge.

“I apologize that I'm a bit late,” said Macy.

Instead of answering the woman opened the screen door a fraction further and stepped outside. The wind whipped up, catching a few loose strands of her hair. She brushed them away before squaring her shoulders. She spoke with authority.

“There have been people stopping by all morning. My mother is exhausted.”

“You must be Emma,” said Macy, extending her hand. “I admired your father greatly.”