Wicked Release (16 page)

25

S
am looked at his watch, sitting in the van across the street from the free clinic. Three-thirty p.m. Not bad for putting together a last-minute sting. They had Rodriguez's fake ID ready within an hour of confirming that she was willing to help out. Other than that, Straimer just had to pull a few strings to get the van with all the recording equipment. Matt now sat beside Sam and Straimer was across from both of them. Rodriguez was equipped with a microphone and a small camera. The three men watched intently as her video feed played on the screen.

Sam tapped his fingers against his bouncing knee. The muscles in his back were so tense that they were cramping between his spine and shoulder blade. “I should be in there,” Sam grumbled.

“Are you kidding? They know both of us way too well these days. You'd be made before you wrote your fake name down on the waiting list,” Matt said. “Give Rodriguez a chance. She might surprise us all.”

Inside the clinic, it wasn't very busy. A handful of people sat around, coughing quietly into their fists or sniffling.

Sam took a deep breath and stretched his neck to each side. “You're right, you're right. I need to relinquish the control to her. You trust her, so I should, too.”

But trust wasn't something you could just throw out there and expect to come easily. It was earned. And Rodriguez hadn't earned it yet . . . not from Sam, at least.

A man stepped out into the waiting room, wearing scrubs and carrying a clipboard. “Diaz. Maya Diaz,” they heard him say via Rodriguez's microphone.

“Here we go,” Sam said, as Rodriguez stood and walked over to the physician's assistant. He could feel Matt and Straimer stiffen around him as well. At least he wasn't alone in his concern. If they fucked this up, whoever was behind the distribution of Biophuterol would know to pull operations and run. He couldn't let that happen. This bastard, whoever he was, was most likely responsible for Cass's death. Wherever he went, Sam would track him down. He may run . . . but Sam would sprint to catch up.

“I'm Maya,” Rodriguez said, keeping her movements sluggish. As she walked behind the PA, the men got a view of the clinic. It looked like your typical well-run free clinic. It was new to Portland, erected in the last three years and the latest project by Mercy Hospital to get medical care to more people. The PA opened a door to an exam room and let Rodriguez walk in first.

He took her blood pressure, pulse, checked inside her ears and throat before typing some things into a computer. “So, what's the problem today?”

Rodriguez repositioned herself on the exam table and the crinkling of paper beneath her was like thunder in the microphone. They could barely hear her speak over it. She stilled immediately, seeming to know her mistake. “I'm just so, so tired lately. Sluggish. No amount of rest seems to help.”

The PA turned to face her, concern on his face. The detectives watched as he reached out, feeling her lymph nodes around her neck and jaw. “Any other symptoms? Fever? Nausea?”

Rodriguez shook her head. “Nope. Just exhausted. It feels like I'm carrying a watermelon on my back.”

Sam's breath froze in his chest. They had the perfect shot of the PA's face. He looked confused. “That's weird,” he muttered, turning to the computer and typing it in. “You're the second person today to come here with that symptom.”

“Exhaustion?” she asked, innocently.

“Yeah. But specifically, the watermelon comment.”

Rodriguez sat forward, bringing the computer screen into view of her hidden camera.
Atta girl,
Sam thought. For a brief moment, they could see what the PA was typing. Sam saw a glimpse of the word
watermelon. Bingo.

“Must be something going around,” Rodriguez said with a shrug.

The PA continued typing, staring at the computer screen. “I haven't seen any mono diagnoses lately, but we'll test for it anyway. Untreated, mononucleosis can be really dangerous.”

The camera panned down to reveal Rodriguez's elbows pushing her breasts together and up as she moved closer to the PA. “I've always wondered . . . what do you write in our charts for these things? Is it like a transcript of what patients say?”

The PA glanced back at her, his eyes dipping momentarily to her cleavage. He licked his lips and then forced his attention back to the screen. “Uh, yeah. Pretty much. It's a policy we have here. I have to type what the patients say almost verbatim.”

He stood quickly, nervous, and pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. Turning for the door, he walked into a jar of tongue depressors, knocking it over. “Crap,” he said, bending to pick them up. Matt snickered from beside Sam at the scene.

“It's like he's never seen a pair of boobs before,” he said.

The PA finished cleaning up his mess. Grabbing the clipboard, he moved for the door, mumbling, “Dr. Moore will be in to see you in just a moment.”

Sam let out the breath he'd been holding, rubbing his hands over his thighs.

“So far, so good,” Straimer said, his eyes still locked onto the video feed.

The camera jostled as Rodriguez bent down and she whispered into the microphone. “Taping the two hundred dollars now,” she said as she bent to put the money under the exam table.

Just as she was back to sitting on the table Dr. Moore walked in. “Ms. Diaz,” he said, “nice to meet you. So, you're feeling tired lately, huh?”

“Yeah. It's like no matter how much I sleep, I'm carrying around a ton of extra weight. My muscles are tired—like I'm walking around with a watermelon on my back.”

Good,
Sam thought,
Say it again in front of the doctor.
Sam wanted to see Moore's response to the phrase.

Dr. Moore paused as he locked eyes with Rodriguez. “O-
kay.
Well, let's have a look.” He pulled his stethoscope from around his neck, placing it in his ears. “What do you do for a living?”

“I'm a barista.”

“You drink a lot of coffee on the job?”

“Some.”

“Well, there you go. You're on your feet a lot of the day. You're probably over-caffeinated and not getting enough REM sleep.”

“I don't know. I'm sleeping through the night, but I just wake up so sluggish and it stays like that throughout the day.”

“Tell you what. We'll do a strep test and a few other swabs to see. I doubt it's anything serious. Lay off the caffeine for a day or two and see if it changes your restfulness. I can prescribe you some sleeping pills if you think you need a little help.”

“Nah. Sleeping pills make my head all foggy.”

“Have you ever tried meditation?”

“No.”

He did a few more tests before clicking his pen and writing something down on a pad. “Here. Let me refer you to this meditation center. I think it could help you relax and wind down after a long day.” The music playing in the background changed and Dr. Moore paused, holding up his pen in the air. “Ah, I love this song. ‘Witchy Woman,'” he said. “You know it?”

“Uhhh, no. Can't say I do.”

“It's great. You should listen to it sometime.” After tearing a piece of paper from the pad, he handed it to her. “Sometimes things like mono lay dormant for a little while so if in a week, you're still feeling this way, feel free to come back. It could be something more serious and maybe you'll change your mind about those sleeping pills. I can walk you out to the front. It sometimes takes a few minutes to get patients discharged and checked out of here.” He paused, holding the door open for her and his eyes flicked to the exam table. “Unless you need some extra time in here.”

Sam's grip on his knee tightened and he focused his eyes on Dr. Moore's face.

“Time?” Rodriguez asked. Her fingers tapped a few times against the edge of the table.

Dr. Moore's brittle smile seemingly relaxed. “You know, to gather your things or use the restroom, what have you.”

“He's our guy,” Sam said.

“Maybe . . .” said Matt.

“It's not enough. This video isn't enough to arrest, let alone convict,” said Straimer.

“Nope,” Rodriguez said on the video feed, and the camera angle moved as she stood up. “I'm all set in here.”

“This alone may not be enough . . . but that's the guy. We need to poke around in his life more,” Sam said.

Straimer grunted. “It's not even enough to get a search warrant, McCloskey.”

Sam turned back to the camera feed and watched Dr. Moore hold the door open for Rodriguez as she walked back toward reception. “Nice to meet you again, Ms. Diaz. We'll have you in tip-top shape soon enough,” the doctor said.

“Laura?”

Everyone in the van froze. Sam could feel even Rodriguez tense up through the screen. Sam knew that voice. But not as well as Matt did. When Rodriguez turned to face the voice, the camera captured Kelly, Matt's wife, holding baby Grace in her arms.

“Fuck me,” Matt said.

26

S
am was on his feet so fast that the top of his head slammed into the roof of the van. He was fast, but Matt was faster, on his feet and rushing for the door. Straimer bolted ahead of them, blocking their way. “Give Rodriguez a minute!” he boomed, looking beyond them toward the video feed.

“What's she even doing here, Matt? Don't you guys have a family doctor?” demanded Sam.

“We do. Grace was running a fever last night—sometimes if Kelly can't get an appointment, she comes here for their urgent care facility.”

“Laura,” Kelly's voice echoed through the van once more, her smile friendly, lighting up the screen. “I'm Kelly. We met at the picnic this past summer—”

Despite Rodriguez's short red wig, Kelly had still recognized her, even remembered her name.

“You must be thinking of my sister,” Rodriguez answered calmly. “I'm Maya.”

Grace cooed, reaching out for Rodriguez just before unleashing a hacking cough. Kelly covered her daughter's mouth, giving an apologetic look at their undercover cop. “Sorry. Guess I have mommy brain.”

“It happens all the time. We look a lot alike.”

“Well, Ms. Diaz,” Dr. Moore's voice came from her right side, and Rodriguez shifted so the camera was back on him. “Let's get you out of here and back to being energized, shall we?”

“Thank you.”

“They'll take good care of you up front here. Be sure to drink plenty of fluids and eat well. No Dumpster diving, okay?”

Sam jerked his gaze back to the captain, holding a hand out. “Straimer, come on! Dumpster diving? It's gotta be him.”

“If it is him, the video feed near the Dumpster will prove it.”

Sam looked at the second camera feed, which so far had shown only three people since they'd first set up. One was an orderly, dumping some garbage. The other two were staff members smoking cigarettes.

The PA who had checked Rodriguez in came up to the group and spoke to Kelly. “Mrs. Johnson? We're ready for Grace.”

“Nice to meet you, Maya,” Kelly said, walking past them and following the PA to the back. Dr. Moore gave a wave and then also headed back.

In the van, the detectives gave a collective sigh, Matt dropping his head into his hands. “Thank God.”

“See?” Straimer said. “I told you Rodriguez would cover it.”

“If it was
your
wife walking into a potential crossfire, you would have run in there,” Matt said.

“You've clearly never met my wife.”

On the second video feed, the back door of the clinic opened and Sam stretched out his hand, shushing them. “Here he comes.” Dr. Moore appeared, sipping a cup of coffee and chatting on his cell phone. “Fuck, why didn't we put a mic out there, too?” Sam asked.

“Relax,” said Straimer. “We'll get him.”

Dr. Moore moved toward the Dumpster and stood beside it.

“Who the fuck takes their coffee break right next to a smelly Dumpster?” Matt said.

The doctor bent down, pinching his phone between his shoulder and ear, and appeared to be tying his shoe.

“What's he doing now? Is there something in his hand?” asked Matt.

Sam shook his head. “I don't know. I can't fucking tell. What are the chances that the tech guys will be able to enhance this video?”

“It'll be worth a shot.”

Dr. Moore's hand went out, just barely touching the back of the Dumpster before he stood back up, finished his coffee, and tossed the paper cup inside. After ending his call, he opened the back door and headed back into the clinic.

“Straimer, that's gotta be it. That's gotta be enough to at least arrest him, right?”

“Wait.” Pulling the microphone toward him, Straimer clicked a button. “Rodriguez, can you get out of there? We need you to check if the drugs are at the Dumpster.”

On the screen, Rodriguez was standing at the front signing some papers and very quietly, she murmured, “Mm-hm,” into her microphone. “There you go,” she said more loudly, handing the papers back to the receptionist. Then she moved swiftly through the front doors and around the side of the building until she came back into view on the second screen. She paused, checking to make sure no one else was around before running to the Dumpster. As she got closer and closer, a song started to play over her microphone. It was “Witchy Woman,” by the Eagles.

Rodriquez got down on her hands and knees, feeling around, and yanked out a mini Bluetooth speaker.

“What the—it's not here,” she said. “It's not fucking here. It's a speaker!”

Anger burned in Sam's gut as he pushed to his feet and kicked the side of the van as hard as he could. “That son of a bitch. He was fucking with us the whole time. He knew we were watching.”

“What does that song have to do with anything?” Matt asked.

“Raven hair and ruby lips . . .” Sam said. The lyrics were about dark hair and red lipstick—like the kind that stained the coffee cup.

“We don't know that Moore had any knowledge of us being here. It may be coincidence—” began Straimer.

“Are you kidding me?” Sam whirled around, nearly slamming into his partner and pointing to the video footage. “He specifically mentioned the Dumpster. He waited to make sure she had put the money under the table. He mentioned the song and then delivered a speaker out there just to fuck with us! He's our guy! We just need to get the proof.”

“And we'll get it,” Straimer cut in, packing up the equipment. “They all screw something up eventually. And when he does, we'll get him.”

“I want someone watching him constantly. Twenty-four-seven,” Sam demanded.

Straimer nodded. “We can arrange that. I'll run his plates real quick. You and Matt can take the first shift until I can get another team here to relieve you. Probably an hour or two.”

Sam rewound the video footage, pausing at the moment Moore bent down next to the Dumpster. He spoke to the image on the screen.

“You're going down, fucker.”