Graveyard Bay Page 17
Chapter Twenty-Two
I set the bag of trash on top of the wooden picnic table in my back yard. I didn’t care how cold it was. There was no way I was going to search through Paul Reed’s garbage inside my home.
I didn’t know how old that picnic table was, but on that afternoon, in the frosty light of winter, it was looking sad. The wood was weather beaten and cracked, and both benches were swaybacked.
John came out of the house with a fresh plastic bag and two sets of plastic gloves. “What are we looking for?”
I untied the plastic straps of the garbage bag and took my pair of gloves from John. “I don’t know. Something that tells us who Bryan Townsend’s pill supplier is.”
I slid on the gloves, noticing right away that they weren’t made to keep my hands warm. I instinctively blew warm air on my fingers before I started.
John stamped his feet against the cold. “Yeah, let’s try to make this quick.”
I started picking out empty cans of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs and empty containers of Budweiser. Then I gingerly pulled out empty boxes of macaroni and cheese, coffee filters, and greasy pizza containers.
John held out the empty bag for me to drop the trash from Paul and Bryan’s kitchen. He smiled. “It’s a glamorous life, isn’t it?”
I chuckled but then found the first of the pill bottles. I had hoped to see what pharmacy they’d come from. But the label that had been glued to the bottle had been stripped off.
“Damn it.” I handed it to John, who inspected it and dropped it into the bag he was holding.
All told, I found thirty empty pill containers, all denuded of any identification as to what they were holding or where they were from. “Shit.”
“Keep looking,” John said quietly. “Unless the kid took those labels with him, they must be somewhere.”
I rummaged some more, running out of trash. “I’ll say one thing, for a heroin addict, the kid was careful to cover his tracks.”
John answered. “You know, we’re assuming he was an addict because he died of an overdose. Addicts make mistakes. This kid was pretty smart.”
I glanced over at him. “You think maybe someone killed this kid and made it look like an accidental OD?”
“Maybe. You said his girlfriend was Holly Dickenson. She overdosed and died twenty-four hours before he did. Maybe he was pissed off that his girlfriend got some bad shit and he got into a fight with his supplier.”
“Roommate said the supplier was the Brotherhood. Do you think they killed this kid and made it look like an overdose?”
John shrugged.
Suddenly, I had a thought. “Hey, can you haul out that empty box of mac and cheese?”
John leaned over and pushed a few items of trash around until he found the bright orange and blue box. He handed it to me.
The top had been torn open but not removed. Once the pasta and cheese packet had been emptied, the cardboard tab had been tucked back in.
Just like if you were storing something inside.
I opened it and ripped the tab off the box to give me an unfettered look at the interior.
“Got it.” I poked my gloved fingers inside and gently pulled out a wad of torn labels, the glue on the backs of them holding everything together in a ragged, uneven mass. “Crap, these have been ripped apart too.”
John blew on his hands again. “Okay, let’s wrap this up and look at what you’ve got inside where it’s warm.”
We disposed both garbage bags by dropping them into my supersized plastic bin at the corner of the house. Then we went inside, shed our coats, and I dropped down at the kitchen table to pull apart the bits of paper stuck together by the adhesive originally pasting the labels to the plastic bottles.
“You want some coffee? I’ll make a pot.”
I looked up at John, who was studying me with more interest than I would have expected.
Are you waiting to see if I’ll have coffee? Or are you waiting to see if I’ll want another vodka tonic?
“Coffee sounds good.” My buzz from Brick’s had worn off anyhow. I pointed to the cupboard. “You know where everything is.”
While John busied himself, I turned my attention to the gluey mess on the table in front of me. Slowly, carefully, I began pulling the shreds of paper apart and set them out like jigsaw puzzle pieces. “Well, if I put these two pieces together, I can see most of the word OxyContin.”
He turned and arched an eyebrow. “It’s a start.”
I pulled away a few more scraps. Then I saw it. “These are from Flax Hill Pharmacy.”
John’s open laptop still sat on the kitchen table where he’d been working that morning before meeting me at Brick’s. He sat down in front of it. “Flax Hill Pharmacy,” he said in a voice so low I could barely hear him. He expertly hit a few keys, studied his screen, then hit a few more keys, and found what he was looking for. “Address is 1213 Flax Hill Road, Sheffield. It’s been doing business since 1989, independently owned by Eric Collier. It was purchased in October of this year by a company called Corsair Properties.”
“What can you find out about them?”
He tapped a few keys. “Well, they don’t have a website. Let’s see if I can find any ownership information with the state.” After a few more moments he said, “They’re a subsidiary of a much larger property company called Wyatt Investments.”
I frowned. “Wyatt Investments is the company who quietly bought up all the property along I-95. They’re the ones building the Sheffield Meridian.”
“What’s that?”
“A mall.”
John chuckled and got up out of his chair and took two coffee cups out of the cupboard. “A mall, what do these people think? That we’re still in the eighties?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Have you given your notice at the paper yet?”
I lied. “I haven’t had a chance.”
What the hell am I waiting for?
I fixed my gaze on John’s face. “Do you like working for Nathaniel?”
John arched his eyebrow again. “Yes, I do. You will too.” He glanced down at the pieces of paper sitting on the tabletop. “So, what didn’t we find in all that garbage?”
I looked at the scraps of paper as well. “Well, we didn’t find any drugs. But I’m guessing the kid had them in the trunk of his car, and someone ripped him off while he was in the restroom getting high.”
“What else?”
“No written prescriptions?”
“Yeah, no scrip.” John poured the coffee and handed me a cup.
“If there were any, most likely he’d have them hidden along with his stash in the trunk of his car.. And it’s possible that whoever is prescribing this shit might have phoned it in or sent an electronic prescription.”
“That’s the part that we’re missing. We know where the candy store is. But who’s the Doctor Feelgood who’s writing the scrip?”
“Look, I’ll finish this later.” I put the cup on the table. “I need to run into the office to tie up a few loose ends.”
He was still holding his mug of steaming coffee. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“I really think I’ll be okay between here and there.”
He repeated his words. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“What are you going to do, sit in my office while I work?”
“We’ll go back to plan A. I’ll take you to work then stop by the grocery store, pick up a few things, and bring it back here. When you’re ready to come home, call me, and I’ll come get you.”
I pursed my lips. I knew he was right. I thought again about the two notes I’ve found from Merlin Finn. “You win.”
He grinned. “You’re a smart lady.”
“But first, let’s drive by the Flax Hill Pharmacy.”
* * *
It appeared that the building might have once been fronted by plate glass windows. But the facade had recently been altered in that it was all brick and windowless. The new facade was of a slightly redder hue than the old brick.
There were two glass doors, one leading into the pharmacy, one for the clinic. Only three cars plus ours were in the parking lot. We sat for a few moments observing the front of the clinic and the pharmacy. It was far quieter than I had expected.
A Volvo SUV pulled in, and a woman who might have been a soccer mom got out. She was dressed in a stylish beige overcoat and boots with fur along the tops. She was in her forties, wore her dark hair in a ponytail that peeked out from under a ball cap she wore. Once out of the car, she nervously glanced around the parking lot.
She stopped when she saw us.
John uttered. “Uh-oh.”
“I’m getting out.”
“What?”
“If she sees us just sitting here, she’ll get suspicious. I’m going to go inside and take a look around.” Without another word, I got out of the car, ignoring the interest I was getting from the soccer mom.
I passed her as I headed for the clinic doorway.
“He’s not open.”
I stopped and turned. “What’s that?”
The woman was getting her bag out of the front seat of her car. “You looked like you going into the clinic. It’s closed today.”
I eyed the doorway. A handwritten sign read Closed. Will reopen again tomorrow at 9.
The woman came up beside me. “Are you a patient?”
“It’s my first time seeing a doctor at this clinic. Are you a patient?”
She glanced around her again. “Yes. Let me guess, you’ve reached the end of your eight-day supply and your doctor can’t prescribe anymore.”
In Connecticut, your physician, by law, can only give you an opioid supply for eight days.
I tried to give her an embarrassed expression. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
She pointed at her chest with her thumb. “That’s why I come here.”
“Do you know why the clinic is closed?”
She reached out and put her hand on my arm. “I heard that another one of his patients overdosed last night. That’s two in the last two days. I’m worried.”
“Worried?”
She took her hand off my arm and leaned in. “That the police are going to find out where they got their prescriptions and close Dr. Armand down. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass? Are you headed into the pharmacy?”
“Are you filling a prescription?”
She gave me a faltering smile. “I got my scrip yesterday from Dr. Armand but didn’t get a chance to get it filled. I had to pick my son up from his music class. He’s got an electric guitar.” She rolled her eyes. “Ugh.”
“Do you mind if I come in with you?” I reached out my hand. “I’m Genie by the way. That’s why I was coming to see Dr. Armand. I need a prescription. My back is acting up again.”
She nodded knowingly and shook my hand. “Yes, the old back. For me, it’s just stress. Come inside with me. I’m Jill.”
Being a reporter, you get information in a lot of diverse ways. Hard work, long hours, tough questions, but sometimes it’s just dumb luck. Jill was my lucky break du jour.
The interior of the drugstore was surprisingly small. When pharmacies were built in the eighties, they didn’t have the same broad concept as today’s CVS and Walgreens chains. Those stores carry everything from paperbacks to magazines, cosmetics to floor fans, candy to Christmas decorations, canned and frozen food to school supplies.
The store we walked into had been tiny to begin with. But after being chopped in half, there wasn’t much more than a couple of aisles carrying the most basic of first aid items, vitamins, blood pressure cuffs, and what looked like used wheelchairs. Her back against the front counter, facing a display of cigarettes, the cashier, a young girl in her twenties wearing a black long-sleeved cotton shirt, sporting a spider web tattooed on her neck, was tapping out a text on her phone.
The most prominent feature in the store was the pharmacy itself in the back. “So, you haven’t been in here before?”
“No, is this where I’ll need to fill Dr. Armand’s scrip?”
Jill gave me an earnest expression. “Here and only here, girl. Dr. Armand owns the clinic and this pharmacy. If you go anywhere else, it’ll get reported to the state. They have a database to keep track of who’s getting what kind of pills. It’s really none of their business, don’t you think?”
We started back toward where the drugs were dispensed. Jill nearly clapped her hands when she saw there was hardly anyone at the counter. “With the clinic closed today, I kind of thought that nobody would be in here.”
“This place gets crowded?” I noticed the armed guard sitting in a chair off to one side, leafing through a magazine. Because he was seated, I could only guess at his size, but he looked to be a very large guy. He was wearing a security guard uniform that offered no logo or patch. Other than the gray shirt and pants, the only way you’d know he was working security was the holstered pistol attached to his belt.
Seeing my line of sight, Jill whispered. “That’s Chet. He looks mean, but he’s a just a big teddy bear.”
I suddenly recalled how Bristol Finn had referred to her husband in a similar way when they were first married.
The man behind the counter was about five seven, in his thirties, and was wearing a white coat and blue jeans. His head was completely shaved, his pink scalp shining under the lights overhead, and he had a tattoo of the head of a pit bull on his right cheekbone.
“I don’t know his real name, but everyone calls him Dodge, because he moves fast behind that counter when things are busy.” She bobbed from one side to another. “You know, dodge and weave.”
We stood behind a young man wearing a flannel coat, jeans, and sneakers. On his head, he wore a dark blue stocking cap with a Huskies logo. It only took a moment for him to hand over his scrip and receive a plastic shopping bag with at least a dozen vials inside.
As he turned to leave, he appraised Jill and I, looking at us up and down, followed with an appreciative grin.
When he walked away, Jill reached out and squeezed my hand. “Some of the clientele here is a little rough.”
“Hi, Jill.” The man behind the counter had Jill fixed in his sight. “What do you have today?”
“The usual.” She handed over her slip of paper.
Dodge turned and expertly filled a plastic bag with four tiny, brown plastic containers filled with pills.
She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a wad of cash. As she did, she leaned in and whispered to me, “Cash only here. No credit cards, no checks.”
“Gotcha.”
Dodge narrowed his eyes at me. “Who’s your friend, Jill?”
“This is Genie. She’s going to be a new patient of Dr. Armand’s.”
He smiled at me. “Awesome. Looking forward to doing business with you, Genie.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the armed guard was getting out of his chair. Once up, he hitched up his belt and took a phone out of his pocket. The guard slowly lumbered to where we were chatting with Dodge.
The guard’s voice was low but soft. “You’re a newbie?”
I smiled at him. “Hi, I’m Genie.”
Without saying another word, his phone came up, and he snapped a photo of my face.
I felt Jill’s hand back on my arm. “Don’t mind Chet. He likes to have photos of the clientele. Don’t you, Chet?”
He nodded and ambled back to his chair.
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When Jill and I got outside, I zipped my parka back up, and she did the same. I was happy to see John still sitting in the Mustang, a few parking spaces away.
“Is that your husband?”
She was looking at John, who purposely was ignoring us. I replied, “No, that’s just a friend.”
“Look, you seem like a nice lady.”
“You too.”
“I should warn you about Dr. Armand.”
“What about him.”
She hesitated. “Women who come to him. He may want you to do things.”
“What kind of things?”
She cocked her head and sighed. “Depends how much you want the pills, girl.”
Without another word, she got into her Volvo, and I walked slowly back to the Mustang.
But not before I memorized her plate number. I might have to reach out to Jill again sometime.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mercifully, when John dropped me off at the paper, Lorraine was in a meeting with the other department heads, along with Ben Sumner and the odious Robert Vogel. No longer considered management, I gratefully sat at my newsroom desk and polished off a piece on a mugging on Spencer Avenue and an assault at the Monterey Grill. The assault was the most fun. A customer had paid for his dinner but instead of a tip, left a nasty note on the credit card receipt. The food server, a young woman, followed the man and his wife out to their car and began shouting at them. The customer’s wife, overhearing the waitress, began a heated exchange that escalated to fists and fingernails. The wife was arrested.
Fun ink.
Seeing that it was getting close to quittin’ time, I decided to make one last work call to Mike Dillon to see if there had been any progress on the Groward Bay homicides.
“Hey, Genie.”
“Hey, Mike. Just checking in.”
“Nothing new on the double homicide. But we got a missing person that you might be interested in.”
I watched the conference room door open and the participants of the department head meeting come out. Nobody was speaking. Lorraine’s face was colored crimson, and Robert Vogel wore the expression of someone who had just eaten a bug. A few of the others, our lead pressman, the graphic arts director, and the head of circulation, came out smiling. They were the old guard, employees who hadn’t been displaced yet.