Hate Crime (21 page)

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about it, but as you know, Ben isn’t much of talker. I’ve had to pick up most of what little I know from third parties.”

“That’s all right,” Christina said, still feeling shell-shocked. “So they broke up because she was sick?” She shook her head. “I mean, that’s tough. But why would that make Ben so bitter? Surely he’d understand . . .”

“Christina.” The older woman grabbed her hand and gripped it tightly. “You’ve got to keep that woman away from him. No matter what. Even if it means dropping the case.”

“I can’t do that. The judge would never allow it. Not so close to the trial date.”

“Christina, please listen to me. I’m his mother. I know what he was like when he returned from Toronto. You don’t know how long it’s taken him to get where he is now. I don’t want to erase all that.”

“I—I—” Christina was at a loss for thoughts, much less words. “I hear you. I’ll—I’ll do whatever I can.”

“I know you will.” Lillian looked at her earnestly. “Because I know you care about Ben. Just as I do. And you don’t want—”

“Of course not.” She rose. “If you’ll pardon me, I need to get back to Tulsa before dark. I’ve got an early flight to Chicago tomorrow morning.”

“I understand.” Lillian smiled, as best she was able, and wagged a finger. “But next time you’re in town, young lady, I want to go shopping.”

“You don’t like my outfit?”

“Don’t be silly. Now you’re starting to sound like Ben.”

“Well, I just thought—”

She put her arm around Christina and walked her to the front door. “I think it’s a splendid outfit. Red is your color, Christina.”

“You don’t think it makes me look like a big tomato?”

“Nonsense. I just wanted—” She paused, and Christina thought she saw her eyes glisten. “I don’t get many opportunities to take anyone shopping anymore. Especially not someone I like as much as you.”

Christina was starting to feel a little itchy-eyed herself. “Thank you. For everything.”

Lillian nodded. “Let me know what happens. And Christina?”

“Yes?”

Her voice fell to a hush. “If Ben gives you any trouble, play Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.” He’s a total sucker for it. Turns to butter.”

“I’ll remember that.”

24

“So have you slept with her yet?”

Mike was not entirely surprised to look up from the desk—temporarily assigned to him at the Chicago office of the FBI—and see Sergeant Baxter hovering overhead. “I assume you’re not talking about Gwyneth Paltrow.”

Baxter had her fists pressed against her hips, feet spread. For some reason, she reminded Mike of those old commercials for Mr. Clean. “You know damn well who I’m talking about. The FBI bimbo.”

“Bimbo seems a bit harsh for someone with a master’s degree in criminology.”

“Just cut the crap and give it to me straight. Are you doing her?”

Mike stretched out his arms, pushing away from the desk. “Would it bother you if I was?”

“Damn straight it would. Are you?”

“I’m confused. I thought you made it very clear you weren’t interested in having an intimate relationship with me.”

Her face was taut and lined. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. Exactly. Not that I am. But what I said was that it would be inappropriate.”

Mike shrugged. “Okay. And Special Agent Swift—Danny—obviously feels differently. So what’s your beef?”

“My beef is that you and I are supposed to be partners!”

“But you said—”

“Not that kind of partners. Professionals—as in, doing our job. Remember that? I’m not talking about . . . about . . .”

“Grabass in the patrol car?”

“Right. I’m talking about doing our job. Properly. And I can’t do it when my partner is constantly cutting me out. Treating me like the little sister no one wants to play with.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was doing that—”

“Well, you are.”

“—so I guess I’ll let you come along when we go bike riding after school. If Mom makes me.”

“Don’t be such an asshole.” She leaned across his desk. “You know what I think? I think you’re punishing me because I won’t sleep with you.”

“Get over it already.”

“You can’t get what you want from me, so you’re giving me the dirt assignments while you go off with your new playmate.”

Mike had to bite his tongue. Sarcasm wasn’t going to calm her. He did enjoy seeing her get worked up, though. She was a lot sexier when she wasn’t being all cool and professional. “None of your assignments have been dirt. Every interview is important. I can’t predict which ones will pay off and which ones won’t.”

“But you always pair off with her.”

“It makes no sense for all three of us—”

“But
I’m
your partner!”

“But she’s working with us, too.” He lowered his voice. “And I would like to know why.”

“Maybe you should just ask
me
.”

Mike and Baxter both pivoted. Swift was in the doorway. She was wearing another black turtleneck, with black cords and her piece holstered over her left shoulder. She looked hot, and Mike wasn’t thinking about the room temperature, either.

“As I recall,” Mike said, “you told us you couldn’t reveal the reason for your assignment to the Nowosky murder.”

“And that’s just eating you alive, isn’t it, sugah?” Swift strolled across the office. “Only thing you hate worse than the FBI is a mystery you can’t solve.”

“Who says I can’t solve it?” Mike shot back.

“Oh, my. Does the big bad policeman have a theory? Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, I’ll play.” It would be hard to be more self-assured and in-your-face than this woman, Mike told himself. This should be a gigantic turnoff. But it wasn’t. “I’ve got a few connections in Hooverland myself, and they tell me it’s all very hush-hush, but there’s a good chance that since the Metzger kidnapping fiasco, you’ve been reassigned to some kind of drug task force specializing in designer and recreational drugs targeted toward kids. What a surprise then that Manny Nowosky, among other enterprises, turns out to have been pushing Ecstacy.” He paused. “How am I doing so far?”

“I haven’t fallen asleep yet.”

“So come clean, Swift. Is that why you’re horning in on our little small-town homicide investigation? Are we tracking a drug connection?”

“If we are, we have a right to know about it,” Baxter said. “Drugs change everything. Those people play for keeps.”

Swift stared at Mike, then at Baxter, before speaking. “You can keep your mouths shut? Because this is important. I’m under strict instructions not to share with local law enforcement.”

Mike raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Swift frowned. “Yeah. It’s drugs. Big time. Ecstacy ring. You know what X is, right?”

“MDMA,” Mike answered. “Methylenedioxymethamphetamine.”

“I’m impressed. So you also probably know that it’s a billion-dollar market, now almost entirely controlled by professional criminals. It’s cheap and easy to make. Kids love it. It’s the ‘hug drug.’ Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy and euphoric—without the wired feeling that comes from amphetamines or the confusion that comes from LSD. Requires no tools—no dirty infected syringes, no coke spoons. So the kids go to these clubs, roll around in their little cuddle puddles, and are stupid enough to think it doesn’t do them any damage.”

“And you think Manny Nowosky was pushing it?”

“Given the kind of money these guys play for, I could see someone getting the drill-bit treatment. Actually, as drug executions go, that could be considered mild.”

“So your interest in Manny is only peripheral. You’re tracking the drugs.” Mike nodded. “Thanks for leveling with us.”

“No prob. I didn’t like keeping secrets from a hunk of manhood like you.”

Baxter burned.

“Just keep it to yourself. And grab your coats.”

“Where are we going? If I may ask.”

“To a local bar, Remote Control. Remember—Roger Hartnell mentioned it. He saw Manny Nowosky there. And if he did, someone else might have as well.”

The three officers took a booth near the front of Remote Control, shouting at one another to be audible over the very loud, very live band. “I can barely hear myself think in here,” Swift complained. “Why do these places always play their music so thumpingly loud?”

Baxter held up a finger. “Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast.”

Mike smiled. “Breast.”

“Excuse me?”

“Breast.”

“Morelli, I think you need to pry your eyes away from that video monitor.”

“It’s
breast
, Baxter.”

“I mean, God knows I’ve seen how you sneak a look when you think I can’t see, but it’s totally inappropriate for—”

Mike was forced to raise his voice. “It’s poetry, Baxter!”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of compliment?”

“You were quoting—misquoting, actually—a line from Congreve. ‘Music hath charms to soothe a savage
breast
, / To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.’ Not beast. Breast.”

“Oh.” She fell silent for a moment. “So who was this Congreve dude? Some kind of pervert?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, exchanging a look with Swift. “He’s doing eight to ten at Leavenworth.” He gazed around the crowded bar and its wide array of computers and video terminals. “So this is an Ecstacy outlet?”

“That’s what my people tell me,” Swift replied. “This is where they’re getting the stuff. They take it away, then hold their raves somewhere else to keep the heat off this place.”

“And Manny Nowosky was one of the main men.”

“Not according to my informants. He was a low-life punk. That’s why he was on the premises, moving and shaking, making it happen. The big boys would never come near an actual point of delivery.”

“None of which explains what he was doing in Tulsa. Or why he got rubbed out.”

“I could only speculate. Maybe he did something that displeased his masters. Maybe they knew we’d made him. Maybe he knew too much about something that was none of his business.”

Mike pondered the possibilities. He didn’t have nearly enough information to draw any definite conclusions. But some disturbing possibilities were beginning to coalesce in his brain.

“I talked to the owner of this joint, Mario Roma,” Baxter said, joining them at their booth. She pointed at the man back behind the cash register. Mike also recognized the person to whom Mario was speaking. It was Roger Hartnell—ANGER’s regional director and Tony Barovick’s former lover. “He insists that he has nothing to do with the mob. Or drugs.”

“It’s possible the mob is not involved,” Swift said. “I can’t say for sure. His denials certainly don’t prove anything. But more and more of these prestige drug operations are being handled by independents.”

Mike nodded. “Even if there’s no mob connection, how likely is it that the magnitude of drugs you’re talking about could be distributed here without him knowing?”

Swift followed his drift. “I can’t guarantee that the owner is in on it. Or even aware of it. But someone would have to be. There’s no way this thing could grow to this size without the help of someone on the inside.”

“That’s about what I thought. Excuse me, ladies and germs.” Mike slid out of the booth, crossed to the bar and introduced himself to Shelly Chimka, the perky auburn-haired woman who was on duty. She was wiping down the bar, a little awkwardly. Mike suspected she was right-handed, but since her right arm was in a sling, she had to make do with her left.

“Major Morelli,” she replied. “Are you here to see my shining face? Or are you hoping for a little video romance?”

“My idea of video romance is a six-pack of beer and a rerun of
Xena: Warrior Princess
. Can I talk to you?”

She put down her rag, suddenly serious. “I suppose. What about?”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I have it on good authority that drugs are being distributed here. Big time.”

“I haven’t seen any of it.”

“I believe you. You’re stuck behind the bar. You don’t get out into the secluded caverns. How easy would it be to arrange a sale here, with all the video gizmos? Everyone would think you were just lining up a rendezvous, and they’d be right—except the purpose of the rendezvous wouldn’t be romance.”

Shelly seemed disturbed and more than a little frightened. “Listen to me, Major—you gotta believe me. I am not involved in drugs. Not in any way, shape, or form.”

“Okay.” Mike whipped out the computer-generated photo. “And what about Manny Nowosky?”

She didn’t have to look at it long. “I’ve seen him around. Quite a bit, actually.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. But I’ve seen him here. Talked to him a few times.”

“What about?”

“Oh, just small talk. Stuff you say to barmaids while you wait for the next round. I don’t recall anything specific.”

“Did he come with anyone?”

She thought for a moment. “No, he wasn’t part of a group, and he never really seemed interested in playing with the gizmos or scoping out the chicks. He came alone.” She passed back the photo. “Haven’t seen him around lately, though.”

Mike glanced at Swift. “There’s a reason for that. Any idea who might’ve been out to get him?”

She stared stonily, as if transfixed by the thought of the horror. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“What about Tony Barovick?”

“Tony? I don’t follow . . .”

“Did he know Nowosky? Was he involved with drugs?”

“That’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t have had the chance—”

“He was the manager. He was all over the place.”

“Tony was the sweetest man who ever lived. I can’t believe—”

“Did he have any secrets?”

She seemed taken aback. “Secrets?”

“Most people do. Did Tony?”

She hesitated. “He would sometimes lock himself up in his office. Like for hours. He said he was writing in his journal. But sometimes, he wouldn’t be in there alone. He’d take in other guys, guys I didn’t know. Not Roger. It seemed weird. You don’t take in a friend to write in your diary, right? The joke around the office was that . . . well, you can imagine.”

“So he was up to something. You just don’t know what it was.”

She tilted her head slightly. “I guess.”