Fractured (7 page)

The last question was directed at her and the double entendre not subtle at all. Ellie had dealt with more than a few like him, so it didn't faze her. “No, thanks. We're here to ask if on a theoretical basis you might know where someone might purchase the drug that is known on the street as rufilin.”

Those flat black eyes stared back at her. “Now why would I know that, sweetheart?”

“Because you're a drug dealer.” Santiago sounded exasperated. “Jesus, Paulo, if this is your version of flirting, give it up. We work homicide. We aren't interested in your particular activities unless you kill someone, and then we will bust your dishonest ass. If you help us, it might win points toward your next arrest, which I have no doubt is coming if we find any evidence you contributed to a crime.”

“Like what?” Astin looked defensive. “What crime?”

Time for shock therapy. Ellie took out a crime scene photo and handed it over. “This one.”

“Holy mother of God.” Astin crossed himself after looking at it for a minute, and let it drift to the floor. “People are just sick. No one on ruf would do that.”

“We aren't saying they would.” Santiago leaned up against one of the columns. “Someone gave it to the victim. Where could the killer buy it?”

“Fuck, you think I know all the dealers in a city this large? I'm good but not
that
good.”

“I think you are an excellent place to start. Do you supply it?”

“Ah, man, seriously? I'm not answering that. You might keep in mind it is possible to get a prescription for that shit.”

“Let me rephrase.” Ellie picked up the picture and tucked it away. “Let's say, Mr. Astin, I want to purchase some of that drug illegally. Can you point me in the right direction? Just as a helpful gesture to law enforcement. Have you ever heard of someone who sells it?”

He considered for a moment, and then inclined his head. “Maybe.”

 

Chapter 6

Her eleven o'clock patient was a good half-hour early and Georgia suspected that was habitual.

“I kind of wonder if this is just a waste of my time.” Rachel Summers softened that declaration with an apologetic smile.

Georgia wasn't surprised at the comment, but needed to really think about how she went about addressing it. In her experience almost everyone had a certain point when they wondered if therapy was just tossing money and time into the wind. After all, a patient was just asking another—very fallible—human being to look at their problems and give them solid, life-improving advice.

She decided on, “It depends what you hope to gain from this experience.”

The young woman looked around and pointed. “I do like the pictures on the walls. Especially that one.” She pointed. “It reminds me of the farm my grandmother owned.”

An interesting avoidance of the issue.

The picture was of a solemn little girl sitting on the front porch of an old farmhouse, a chicken pecking in the dirt nearby, the rough frame handmade. Georgia had actually inherited it from her own grandmother.

Good memories were hard to come by sometimes, so she'd hung it in her office, just as she had her aunt's lamp on her desk.

This was their second session. Rachel was hesitant and had some nervous mannerisms that Georgia recognized. She constantly adjusted her skirt, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and while she was visibly still unsure, she was more comfortable than at their session last week.

“Your grandmother had chickens?”

“No.”

“The house then?”

“Maybe that's it.”

This was not going to be an easy patient to get to open up. “The last time we talked, you had a date. How was it?”

“I didn't go,” Rachel confessed. “I didn't feel well.”

“You do realize people often use that as an excuse, right? It is not at all uncommon to do so, but don't you think you would have felt better if you had gone?” Georgia had at first thought this patient merely introverted, but for such a pretty woman, she was certainly insecure. It was very, very early in their patient/doctor relationship to push for guarded confidences as to why, but Rachel had sought out therapy for a reason.

She wrapped a strand of long hair around her finger. “The thought of
going
made me feel sick. It's happened to me before. I wish I was more like my roommate. She's very confident.”

“What is it that makes you anxious about a simple date?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Think about it.”

Rachel finally shook her head. “I found it hard to walk through the door at the last minute in the clothes Lea had insisted I wear, so I chickened out and instead went to a restaurant down the street and had a grilled chicken salad and an iced tea, lingered for an hour, and then went back to the apartment and lied about it. He only asked me out because of Lea anyway.”

There would be some interesting notes later, but Georgia never did that in front of a patient. In her mind it was like talking behind their back. “Why do you think that?”

Rachel smiled faintly. “We were out and he saw her, bought us a drink, but he wasn't her type at all, so he asked me out instead. Story of my life.”

It was starting to seem like that might be a very interesting story indeed. Georgia asked neutrally, “How does that make you feel?”

*   *   *

Jason drifted in
a world of music and flickering lights. Movie, he realized coming awake, something action-packed. He had the volume louder than usual on the television, which would probably annoy his neighbors because a glance at the clock on the wall told him it was after midnight.

It could be why his phone was ringing.

Not the problem, as it turned out.

Astin didn't even clarify who he was, but Jason knew his voice. He said, “Try Ernie Gurst.”

The loud music in the background made it hard to hear and Jason sat up, shutting off the television with the push of a button. “Where?”

“He sells out of a bar called Lenny's downtown.”

“I know Lenny's … what makes you think Gurst can help us? Who the hell is he?”

“Hey. You wanted a tip, I gave you one. I asked around and he seemed to be the one with some information. Take it and run.”

The line went dead.

Jason rolled to his back on the couch and propped his wrist on his forehead, trying to come fully awake. Outside the windows there were stars studding the sky, which probably meant the cold front had rolled in and the snow had stopped.

The roads would be like a skating rink but maybe this was the perfect time to go. These guys did business at odd hours, and it was just after midnight. Cold streets and nothing else to do so the hunters would be out.

So would the prey.

Jason was infinitely more interested in the people who bought from the dealers at this time. Getting to his feet, he went into the bathroom, washed his hands, and put on his coat and gloves. It was going to be well below freezing—he'd seen the forecast.

One splurge he'd gotten with his new vehicle—his old one had been blown up in the fall, which still pained him—was a remote starter. He pressed the button and watched out the window that faced the parking lot until he saw exhaust creeping out of the tailpipe. He wondered if he should call Ellie, decided against it because it was late, and then went down the stairs.

After a fairly harrowing drive downtown that took twice as long as it might usually, he parked next to Lenny's beside a rusting pickup truck and took a minute to send her a text.
“Maybe found ruffie guy. Let you know.”
He added at the last second,
“At a bar called Lenny's.”

Just in case. If he got into trouble, at least Ellie would have a record on her phone of his last known destination. It was a little inconvenient to not have someone asking where you might be going at this time of night and expecting you back home. He'd lived alone since his ex-girlfriend Kate had moved out last summer. Sure, he'd eventually be missed at work, but it might take just a little too long for his liking. Not a bad idea to hedge his bets.

Lenny's was on a side street, a low-built building that looked like a pole barn, and the place was filled with bikers and hookers, but Jason never begrudged anyone getting out from the chill of the Wisconsin winter. He'd flipped up his collar in the parking lot and came in kicking the snow off his boots. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and stale beer, pretty much like any other dive bar. When he wandered over to the bar and ordered a coffee, the bartender looked at him in some surprise at his beverage of choice, but went ahead and poured it, handing it over without comment.

He would personally never want to be a bartender at a place like this because he was probably also the bouncer and he'd take odds there was a fight pretty much every single night. He asked, “Know anyone named Gurst?”

“I don't know anyone named anything.” The bartender was built like a junior-high basketball player, whippy and thin, with a pockmarked face and a surly voice.

“Just need a word.”

The guy drew a draft for another customer and delivered it down the bar. When he came back by he said, “You're a cop.”

Perched on his stool, Jason laughed derisively. “Why is it legitimate people don't think I'm one, but certain others make me immediately?”

“You calling me a bastard?”

Jason rested his elbows on the worn counter. “I think this bar is owned by organized crime and no one wants me to look too deeply into that, and no, that's not why I'm here, so neither one of us should sweat it. Is Gurst here? I'm not going to bust him. I need his advice on a delicate matter.”

That did it. The kid lost his bluster and polished the bar a minute before he jerked his head toward the corner. “He might be over there. He comes and goes.”

Good enough. He didn't need it written in blood. “I won't mention my source. I never do. Maybe you should remember if bad shit really starts to go down here, the police are the first people you'd call.”

It always amazed him how often criminals forgot that one crucial fact.

“I
don't
call the cops.”

Jason met that challenging gaze. “But you would if you needed us. Like real trouble. Like you thought you might die trouble. Excuse me, but please put my coffee on Mr. Gurst's tab. I promise he won't argue the charge.”

Gurst proved to be a little older than expected and had a face like polished wood, with deep creases and a well-worn countenance. He could be thirty, but maybe even sixty. He fished, Jason guessed, and it wasn't on a lake in northern Minnesota. Off the shore of Mexico would be more likely because of the tan. He wore a heavy flannel coat and his hands were chapped. It looked like bourbon was his drink of choice, and he was on his tablet device checking e-mail. Jason slid in opposite and set down his cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Gurst logged out and said aggressively, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Detective Santiago, Milwaukee homicide. A friend of yours told me you might be able to help me.”

“Some friend. Fuckin' Astin. Help the police? That's a new one.” Gurst took a drink and slapped the glass down and started to stand. “I don't think so. If I'd of known why he was asking me those questions, I wouldn't have said shit.”

Jason guessed that was true, but if this was a real lead …

“Bear with me and sit the fuck down. I could take you in for questioning if you'd prefer that. Now, tell me, if I wanted to buy rufilin, where would I shop?”

Gurst looked defiant, but he did sink back into his seat. “That's a legal substance. Get a prescription and go to a pharmacy.”

“But what if I didn't have a prescription?” Jason refused to back down. “I'm looking for a killer, not a dealer. I want the customer, not the seller, get it?”

“I'm not a snitch.”

Jason lifted his brows. “I think you're looking at this the wrong way, pal. You help me out and you are helping out whoever sold to a killer. I'm pretty sure none of them want to be an accessory to murder, do they? This gives them a chance to get off the hook when we catch the guy I'm looking for. You're doing them a favor.”

It had worked pretty well for Ellie, so he pulled out a crime photo, one of the most graphic, and slid it across the scratched table. “Maybe you can see why we are interested in taking whoever did this off the street.”

Gurst wiped his hand across his mouth, his skin burnished in the artificial light and muttered, “Ah, Jesus Christ, man. Why'd you show me that?”

*   *   *

Two in the
morning.

Bryce must have rolled over and found the other side of the bed was empty and cold. He shouldn't be all that surprised because it happened now and then. Once he'd tactfully suggested maybe Ellie should mention to her doctor the trouble she often had sleeping, but that idea wasn't met with any enthusiasm at all.

It was this new case. She was doing him a favor by not talking much about it. It would probably give him nightmares.

He came down the hall to the kitchen, wearing his robe. She was at the oak table reading, several books scattered around her, most of them open. She glanced up when he came in and offered an apologetic smile. “I was actually trying to
not
wake you.”

“Just wondered what you were doing.”

“Research.”

“On?” She was drinking tea and he moved to the one-cup maker to make himself some decaf.

“A not particularly soothing subject.”

“Why does that not surprise me? Like what?” He sat down and lifted his brows in inquiry.

She tucked her fuzzy robe—it was a light pink—more closely around her. “Killers who mutilate. Jack the Ripper is a pretty good example. I'm trying to get a handle on the profile. There are a lot of aspects of these two cases that bother me. I don't like it when I know it all means something but just have no idea what.”