Chaos Theory (12 page)

Twenty-two

He finally asks, “What's up?”

“Trouble.”

Ponytail picks up a pink-frosted donut. The tattoo is two strands of intertwining barbed wire. He also has a diamond earring in his left earlobe. His Grateful Dead t-shirt is similar to mine. Would the gig listing on the back match? He is one strange campus cop. He takes a big bite, chews it thoughtfully, and swallows while eyeing us.

“Tell me about it.” His voice is deep and vibrates, sort of musical. It's comfortable and competent like Sensei's. It's a subtle move, but Gavin and Daniel look to me. Ponytail stops looking at the guys and focuses on me.

Gavin introduces us, distills the story and spews. When he gets to the part about Daniel hiding Julia's illegal activities from his family, his false confession to the police, and his now being a CI, the guy grunts, “That sucks.” And Gavin had said the same thing—a little hero worship?

Gavin moves on to the fake Facebook Page and the misleading college e-mail account. This disturbs Ponytail; there is the smallest tell of muscles tightening. It's like he leaves the ground and soars in circles overhead, looking down at some scurrying varmint. We are the varmints.

Gavin said we'd be grilled, not have our souls judged and judgments cast.

Ponytail asks me, not Gavin or Daniel, “What will you do with the information?”

I like that he said
what will.
“If he's still a student, if he supplied Julia with drugs, led her on, and if he…” I trail off, not wanting to discuss murder; an adult, eagle or not, is not going to cooperate with underage adults if murder is involved.

Again reading my mind, he asks, “Her death? You have questions about her suicide?”

I say nothing about murder possibilities. “Her life changed and, odds are, it was Ink who did it.”

“And if he's no longer a student? The e-mail accounts stay up for three months after a student leaves.”

I say, “We canvas likely places on campus. His apartment, for sure. If he's around, we'll find him. If he's not, then someone might know where he went.”

I take his pen and write Ink's e-mail on a napkin and shove it at him. “This is his e-mail address.” I let rip my own predatory eyes, drilling his, daring him to help. “Give me his class schedule, his emergency contacts, his GPA, his major, his advisor's name, his real phone number—not the burned one he gave to Julia. Give me his application references. I even want his application essay. Everything. With that data, we'll locate this creep.”

Ponytail taps a finger against his extra-large coffee mug, studying me.

I don't blink, and stare him down. “When we know where he is, we'll tell the police. We won't go after him ourselves.”

Decision made, Ponytail reaches for his laptop, taps away at the keys for a couple of minutes, and then stands. “Time for a walk. I'll be exactly fifteen minutes.” He leaves.

For one heartbeat, the three of us stare at the laptop. I get to it first. Greg Matthew Jacobs's college profile is displayed on it, with his official school photo—no password, the file open. I click on the first tab. Daniel and Gavin grab paper and pen from their backpacks and, looking over my shoulder, they start writing while I read.

***

Ink is Greg Matthew Jacobs and his official bio confirms our age suspicions. He's twenty, from Minneapolis. His major is sports therapy, but he failed his first trimester tests—either he wasn't smart enough or he didn't bother to study. After that, he dropped off the school's radar. His application is full of typos while his essay is flawless. He probably found the essay online. School admissions should have caught that. He has an adult police record that includes gang activity and stolen cars, resulting in jail time. His references come from half-way house volunteers, a counselor, and an alum named Jeanine Foster.

Ponytail will be back soon. Still writing on notepaper ripped from Daniel's backpack, Gavin swears as I punch up Ink's financial records. He qualified based on economic need for FAFSA loans and a grant from the half-way house charity, but for paying—he used cash. He never finished the grant or loan paperwork.

Ponytail re-enters the donut shot and strips to his t-shirt the second he hits the warm air. He's a precise man. I glance at the computer's timestamp; he's been gone exactly fifteen minutes. I close the laptop. Again, Daniel and Gavin groan. But there'll be no pleading for more. It's a miracle he's given us this. And why? Why did he do this for us? I imagine a butterfly's wings fanning the hair by my right ear.

Before we leave, he scribbles on his campus business card and hands it to me. “Take this. Call me, anytime, whether it's this or something else in the future.” Then he says, “And about your chaos locker...”

That grates. He's Googled me at a minimum, probably from his smartphone on his ‘walk.'

“Sometimes, even with all the facts, you can't make sense of it—like your chaos experiment. When you hit the brick wall, don't accept it. Never give up. It might be years. It might be a lifetime, but someday it will fall in place.” And he leaves.

Somehow, I think I'm something that's falling in place. He forgot his coffee mug or maybe they keep it for him since he's such a regular. I put it into my parka's deep pocket. Ponytail deserves a place in my chaos locker.

After an uptight and worried call from Mom about why I'm late, which irritates me because I don't have a curfew, my planned return to the Bat Cave is nixed. Daniel offers to drive me home, leaving EB back in the library parking lot. He says he'll pick me up in the morning to retrieve her. She'll pout for a week.

Via a conference call, Sandy and Sam tell us they plan to keep working, but suggest an early breakfast at the Waffle Stop. It sounds like they'll be at it all night. Gavin heads back to the library to help. Our crime unit is working like well-engineered cogs in some complicated piece of machinery. Something swells in my chest—pride in what we're accomplishing together.

At home, Daniel insists on going in to meet Mom and Dad. That's old-fashioned sweet. Any parental tirade is held in check as Daniel schmoozes with them. Mom and Dad like him. They even offer him (and to me as an afterthought) some leftover lasagna.

Walking him to the door, Mom and Dad watch from the kitchen. If they expect a goodnight kiss, they don't know me or him very well.

Instead, he whispers, “I'll pick you up at five-thirty a.m. to collect your car.”

I reply, “And tomorrow we'll skip fifth and sixth period to canvas his campus apartment. Maybe we'll luck out and find him.”

He nods and disappears into the cold.

***

At six a.m., we traipse into the Waffle Stop brushing off new-fallen snow. Gavin is there, too, looking fresh despite having worked all night. We're ratty, but Hollywood Gavin would never look ratty—ever. Exhaustion from late nights and early mornings will become a major factor soon. The place is packed, which means the waitress won't hang around to overhear our conversation. We exchange information while we wait for our orders.

Sam and Sandy struck gold. Using my detailed drug photos, they matched them to images online using a Medicare prescription drug website. After hours of searching, they found the manufacturer—a pharmaceutical company fifteen miles away in Sandove.

Daniel stops mid-waffle bite. “O'Neal Pharmaceuticals?”

“Yeah,” Sandy says, “They're based out of North Carolina, but O'Neal has their main distribution and manufacturing plant in Sandove.”

Sandove is a small community south and west of here.

Daniel says, “I know about that place. Julia did too.”

Tapping my fingers on the table, I ask, “How? What's the connection?”

As we shove pancakes into empty stomachs, Daniel tells us his story. “I have an Uncle Charlie.”

I place him. Uncle Charlie is Charles Jamison who interested Julia in horses. The guy who hung around the horse show world and the money people it attracted.

Daniel continues, “Alcoholic. Last year he had a messy affair. He divorced, losing most of his money in the settlement. His drinking got worse. Then his daughter Karen checked into drug rehab for the second time.” Daniel pauses, probably organizing his thoughts. “Needing money fast, my uncle risked some of the family's company funds in a shady investment scheme his new love interest devised. But when the corporation went public that meant the FTC checked everything.” Another pause while Big Silent Guy struggles with the storytelling.

Sandy prods, “But what does this have to do with O'Neal?”

He glares at her. “I'm getting there.” Another short pause. “Things exploded. Dad fired him. He had to—the FTC was breathing down his neck. Uncle Charlie blamed everything on Dad—his divorce, losing his job. He said his daughter's rehab problems were because of Dad.” He jams his hands into his jean pockets. “Uncle Charlie never blames himself. It's always someone else's fault.

“Uncle Charlie applied for a position at O'Neal and got it. He became the new drug-sample programs manager—worldwide.”

I think about what he's said. “Look, it might be unlikely, but your uncle starts at O'Neal's, where we know the drugs were made, at the same time you leave and Julia gets into drug stuff?” I don't believe in coincidence. “Just how ticked off was Uncle Charlie at your dad? Enough to involve Julia?”

Daniel slowly shakes his head, not sure. “He's all about the money with Dad cutting him off and the divorce—maybe, but involving Julia? I don't know.”

Revenge? That's motive. I push. “Daniel, was he at Julia's funeral?”

“Sure.”

“Just how broken up was he?”

Clinch. Clinch. Clinch. “He was drunk—stinking shit-assed drunk and crying like a baby.”

Twenty-three

Skipping class, we head back to the library. Our absences will become a thing. At the Bat Cave, our laptops cover the coffee table. Old pizza smells permeate the place. The librarians still haven't found us. We get busy and Google gets a workout, while Sandy tapes a new goal sheet to the crime board. It's pretty bare, given that we only have two leads to pursue: Ink and Uncle Charlie.

She's written in big letters:
Find Greg

Armed with his photograph, Daniel and I plan to skip school this afternoon and canvas Ink's apartment building. If he's not there, we'll knock on doors, ask questions, and talk with his professors.

“With Julia's death, he's probably gonna be long gone,” Sam says.

I say, “We still cover the bases. You never know what jewels are hiding in data.” Okay, not exactly the data I normally work, but it applies.

The second goal posted reads:
Is Charles Jamison stealing drugs?

The gist of the discussion is summed up by Sam the Inquisitive Reporter. “If Uncle Charlie is rerouting O'Neal drugs, there has to be a paper trail. Maybe even shipping manifests. You know, drugs going where they aren't supposed to be, or quantities coming up short, maybe.”

Daniel paces. For a man of action this head stuff is driving him crazy. “What good are stupid manifests, if we can't get to them?

I say, “Daniel's right.” I look around the room. Everyone's nodding.

Sandy writes down another goal beneath the last one:
How do we get inside O'Neal?

***

Two hours later, Gavin uncovers a way: “Look at this,” he says.

I lean over his shoulder and read out loud from their website's home page, “O'Neal Pharmaceuticals welcome this year's interns. VP Emily Martinson reports that thirty college students from across the nation will arrive shortly for the annual two-week intern program.”

Gavin hits a button and up pops a list of descriptive intern positions to be filled. One is with Sales Distribution under Charles Jamison.

Sandy jumps up to join us. “That's it. That's our in! Kami, you can do this. You're taking a college AP class. Look.” She points to the paragraph about qualifications. “It's for anyone taking college classes.”

Sam the Practical nixes it all. “Yeah, but the application deadline was four months ago.”

I stare at the big windows and think. This is it. Even if Uncle Charlie isn't involved, I might discover how those drugs leave O'Neal and reach the streets.

Dad says when I'm in the zone—a nuclear bomb could go off and I wouldn't know it. I clear my mind and the window view fades. I throw everything at the problem: arranging the pieces, poking at the holes, shifting things around until it works. When I come back to the real world, the college students below come back into focus. The campanile is striking the hour.

“Sweetie?” Sandy asks behind me.

“I know how we can do this.”

Finding a way in is one thing. Deciding to do it is another. By 11:15 a.m. I've shared my plan; by 11:45 we've worked out the details; by 11:50 we're screaming at each other.

Sam the Cautious pushes. “Dump this stuff about Uncle Charlie and Julia's drug stash on the police. Let them handle it.”

“Wrong!” Daniel verbally shoves back; the words flying at Sam, who ducks like they were a real hit. “And if my uncle isn't involved? He's been through hell and I'm not going to make it worse. He's not a bad guy. If it has to be checked out, then we do this. If Kami's willing.”

Gavin says, “I agree with Sam.” Gavin the Newbie has settled in with ease, other than the Daniel versus Gavin testosterone thing. “If we know how Julia got her stash, we get Daniel off the hook.”

Fist. Fist. Fist. “I don't want to involve Julia in this! I don't want my family to find out.”

Into the silence that follows, I say, “If we drop this on the police, we're out of it.”

Sandy says, “But you can get into O'Neal. The police can't.”

Gavin switches sides. “And it will take the police forever to set something up. With Kami in there we might get the evidence right now.”

Sam the Practical taps his finger against the coffee table and says, “We agreed not to cross from research into other stuff. We aren't equipped to do this.”

Daniel's voice is hard and slow, “I think we are. Kami's not an idiot. We get her in there, we're going to get something.”

I can only hope that happens. It's a long shot. There are so many factors that need to fall in place for this to work.

Sandy calms the waters. “It's Kami's call, Sam. Not yours.”

Everybody looks at me. And there's another person involved in this too: Julia. Everything we're doing is because of her. I'm pretty sure she'd be mad as hell that Daniel took her rap. But that might be my guilt looking for support. There's no way that Julia's involvement doesn't become known if we're successful.

I say, “Daniel, sooner or later Julia's role in this is coming out to the police at least.”

His jaw locks down but he doesn't argue with me.

I say, “Sandy's right. I take the risk; I make the call.”

Standing up, my decision is made. “We take our plan to the police. If they give us a green light, and can arrange to make it happen with the O'Neal chairman, I'm doing it. If they tell us it's a no-go, then that's it.”

Daniel's hand tightens on his coffee mug. Clinch. Clinch. Clinch.

“Can you live with that, Daniel? If the police say no?”

He sets the mug down with great care, making a physical effort not to slam it on the coffee table. It bothers me that Daniel is so physical with his anger. He says, “The police want it all. They'll take this in a heartbeat.”

I look down at the trudging students on the sidewalks below who previously were just distant data sets. I'm leaping from safe and distant research into the real world. “Daniel, I'll call your handler and set a meeting before MA class in Des Moines.” And at the same time, I'll ask GV if he'll test something for me…

***

The team enters school mid-period like a gang on the prowl. There's a report due today—no matter what, school goes on. I open my locker.

Roll. Clatter. Clink. Sandy and Sam beside me freeze. I lean down and reach into the locker's metal floor to feel for the fallen marble. It's the control for some tree bark collected from my first ride with Mom after Grandma died. With sweet honeysuckle and earthy sage sadness, I record it in my notebook. On top of the chaos are five new Dear Locker letters. They've become routine. Damn it. Can't these people dump these on someone else? I hand the envelopes off to Sandy and Sam. One is pink with butterflies.

“That looks familiar,” I say.

Sam takes it, inspects it. “Yeah, this is the third one. Her problem isn't that important—just no-one-understands-me stuff. We'll handle it while you and Daniel head to campus and Greg's apartment.”

The Dear Locker letters worry me. There've been so many since Sam and Sandy started posting answers, which they first run past a school counselor. The school journal's website now has counselor phone numbers and a bunch of 800 hotlines for everything from legal aid, drug and gambling to teen suicide. The site's getting hits from all over the United States. One came from Jordan in the Middle East.

After they leave, Gavin, who'd been to his own locker for books, slips up behind me. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Down the hall, 3J and Sally wave at us. Gavin suddenly leans in, grabbing me around the waist. His lips lower. Daniel, returning from his own locker, storms up and pushes Gavin down the hallway. There's a loud bang as Gavin slams into a locker.

“Daniel, stop it!” I yell, but Daniel's already stepped away. 3J and Sally enter their classroom—they haven't seen it.

Journalism teacher Mrs. Browski looks through her classroom's open door with a frown. She sticks around long enough to make sure there isn't going to be further violence and then goes back to her class.

Gavin says, “God, it's easy to get your goat, Daniel. Think about that, Kami.” Before he disappears down the hall, he says, “Keep each other safe.”

Daniel slams my locker shut, spins the dial, and heads toward the front doors and his car. I have to scramble to catch up. We stop by EB for my gym bag with my dōgi and MA stuff. It takes two attempts to close EB's trunk lid. She's put out being left behind.

***

For the next hour and a half, I set aside my anger at pigheaded Daniel as we tromp around Ink's large apartment complex. Only one girl recognizes him. “Yeah. Greg lived next to me.”

We show her Julia's Goth photo. “Have you ever seen her with him?”

The neighbor of Ink balances a full laundry basket on her hip. “Yeah. It's hard to miss that look. He said she was his
sister.
His
sister's
hands were all over him. She was really young. It was disgusting.”

Another lost chance to have derailed Julia's fate.

Daniel's jaw clinches. “Does he still live here?”

“I haven't heard or seen him since Christmas break.”

Our expressions give us away—mine because I hoped we'd found him and hadn't, Daniel's because Ink suspiciously disappeared after Julia's death.

The neighbor offers, “I wanted him gone. He was creepy. When my landlord fixed my sink, I asked him where Greg was. He said he didn't know and didn't care because he paid cash up front for the full year.”

She stops as she unlocks her door, balancing between her hip and the door jam. “If you find his sister? Get her away from him, okay?”

We thank her and head down the hall. I say, “A full year. He didn't expect Julia to die. This was a long-term plan.”

Daniel clink, clink, clinks.

Before we head down the stairs, I turn around and run back, knocking on the neighbor's door. She opens it.

I ask, “You said he was creepy? What did you mean by that?”

She frowns and sticks her head out the door, looking up and down the hallway. Then she whispers, “He sold drugs, okay? Big-time. But you didn't hear it from me.”

Daniel comes up behind me, and he has heard. The neighbor closes the door. He says, “It's him. He's the dealer. Now we grab his ass and toss him in jail.”

I'm kinda amazed he hasn't punched a hole in the wall or something.

We keep at it, but the neighbor is the only person who admits to recognizing him. We visit his professors from first semester. They say he took first trimester tests but never showed up again.

I ask, “Isn't that strange? His tuition was paid in full?”

“It happens all the time. Parents have money, but the kid just doesn't get serious; chooses the bar degree instead. It happens.” When it's obvious I don't understand, he explains, “The campus town bar degree.”

Back at his Mustang, Daniel mutters, “He's gone.”

I look out at the snow-covered farm fields. “On to Plan B.”