The Second Lie (3 page)

"The economy's been in the shitter. What do you expect?"

"Drugs take money. Especially if they're being imported."

"So what's your explanation?"

"I think it's like you say--it's been a hard couple of years and many people are getting desperate. But I also think this stuff is being made locally. In large quantities, like in Mexico--more of a mass production approach, not the little mom-and-pop labs we've seen in the past."

"What makes you say that?"

"There's so much of it, for one thing. And the recipe that's being used, for another. There are several different ways to make meth, different ingredients that can be used. What we're finding here isn't as pure as the stuff that comes from Mexico. And also, it would have to come from here to make it cheap enough for the number of users we're seeing." She'd done her homework. And she was scared. "Ohio's been hit hard, especially the Dayton area, with NCR pulling out and GM leaving, and so many other factories closing. More people are out of work, a record number of them, searching for jobs that aren't there. They need money. A superlab, which is what the mass production meth labs are called, could support an entire factory's worth of workers. And good times or bad, there's always going to be a market for drugs."

He was staring out over the yard, his eyebrows drawn.

"Just because we've never had a superlab in this part of the country before doesn't mean there isn't one. As a matter of fact, it makes sense that someone from the West would take advantage of the situation here and get a lab set up, say, at the crossroads of Interstate 70 and 75. That's the ideal location for transport to all parts of the country."

He didn't respond.

"Desperate people do desperate things, Kyle. And...I don't know, aside from all that, I just have a feeling--"

"Women's intuition and police work do not go hand in hand," Kyle interrupted with another oft-repeated remark. "You'll get yourself killed thinking that way."

She'd scared him. His remark, focusing only on her last sentence, ignoring the facts, told her so.

"My intuition saved my life the night I knew not to approach a speeder I stopped until I called for backup." She'd handled them on her own many times before. And that night, she'd saved herself a bullet to the chest. Another officer, one who arrived wearing a bulletproof vest, took the hit, escaping with only a bruise.

"What would save your life is getting out of that uniform and staying out," he said, looking up into a tree with branches they could hardly see in the darkness.

Sam had once been jealous of those trees. And the fields. Back when she'd wanted Kyle to love her more than he loved his farm. She still wondered what he saw, what he felt, when he gazed out over his land.

Whatever it was, she couldn't see it. Even in daylight.

"You could've been killed tonight."

"No, actually, that was Chuck." Her closest friend on the force. "He was out front when the guy blasted the bay window. The bullet missed Chuck by a foot."

Because the other deputy had been crouched down. Thank God for good training.

"Will you be tracing this meth? To learn where the ingredients are coming from?"

"We'll send it out. We'll know in a couple of days if it's ice or not, but I can already tell you it isn't. From the way it was packaged."

"Ice?"

"The stuff that comes from Mexico. Like I said, it's a much purer form. And it's a lot more dangerous. Not that it matters our stuff is a lesser quality drug. The crap is spreading like a virus and at the rate we're going in our fight to stop it, it might as well be coming from Mexico."

"Here, this will help. At least for now." Kyle handed her a second beer, cap removed. "In the long run, if anyone can get them, Sam, it's you. You're the best damn cop I've ever heard of. Anywhere."

"Uh-huh." She took his praise with a grain of salt. "And how many cops have you been in contact with?" Their small group in Fort County and Chandler and a couple of the surrounding burgs. And only when he'd been with her or her family.

"I have a television."

"When's the last time you turned it on?"

"A couple of weeks ago when it looked like a tornado might be moving in."

The only way she'd been able to talk him into getting a satellite dish was by showing him the weather channel one night while he was at her place in town.

Sam had a double-wide modular she'd inherited from her grandfather--her dad's dad, a retired deputy--when he'd passed away five years before at the age of ninety.

"And it doesn't seem to matter how good the cops are," she added. "We simply don't have the money to go to war."

"But if the problem's local--it just means finding the labs, right? Like last year, when you were part of the sting that busted the woman in town who was making the stuff in her bathroom and selling it to kids at the high school."

If only it was that easy. The investigating was usually the most straightforward part. "And that little bust cost the county almost six thousand dollars," she said, having a hard time pulling herself up after this latest testament to a fight they might not win. In her grandfather's day--hell, even in her dad's day--being a cop was about upholding the law.

Now, like everything else, it was about money.

"First, you pay law enforcement, and as you know, our budget's been cut in half in the past two years, but that's a whole other issue. Then you make the arrest. You house the perpetrator in a county facility. You pay for a trial--you pay to clean up the lab, which creates about six pounds of toxic waste for every pound of meth. And you have to do all of that for every single case, so then you pay for treatment for the perpetrator, which is usually required at sentencing. The county goes bankrupt before half the operations are shut down."

"You're telling me you don't have the money to stop these people. That you guys aren't even trying because you can't afford to?"

She drank some beer. She thought about keeping quiet because mum was the word around headquarters these days, and then reminded herself that she was with Kyle.

He might not like what she had to say, but she always tried to be honest when she talked to Kyle.

"It's not quite that bad yet, but yes, you're partially correct. We're working with such a small crew, we don't have much time to put into the investigations. And we have to consider whether one bust is big enough to be worth the expenditure of monies, or if we should just turn a blind eye and wait for a bigger bust that'll give us more bang for our buck."

"Sweet Jesus, Sam. I had no idea it had come to this."

"Not many people do. Except, of course, the operators. They seem to be multiplying like flies."

"In Fort County? We're out in the middle of nowhere!"

"A perfect cover for a superlab."

"I wish you'd quit saying that."

"If it's happening, my silence isn't going to make it go away. The only way to get rid of it is to talk about it. Find it. Go after it."

"And you really think that's what we have here? Some kind of mass production?"

"It's possible. I hope not."

"God, I hate your job."

Being a cop was the one part of her Kyle didn't understand. Or like. And that wasn't going to change. She'd given up hoping a long time ago.

"I'm kind of tired of it myself at the moment," she said, unfastening the top button of her shirt. "Mind if I take this off?"

His grin was slow and warm as he glanced over at her. "Do I ever mind?"

No. His fondness for her body had never been in question.

"I need you tonight, Kyle." He was
her
drug. Her escape. The place she came when she needed to find herself within the cop she'd become.

"Then you've got me, baby."

"Now?" Sam pulled her belt strap out of its loop.

"Any time you need me, Sam. You know that." It was the closest he'd come to telling her he loved her since they'd broken off their engagement for the final time thirteen years before. He'd been married and divorced since then.

She'd been promoted--twice.

Kyle didn't get embarrassed about much of anything. She loved how he just dropped his pants to use as a blanket for her bottom and made love to her right out there in his backyard. And then, wrapping her in clothes just in case Grandpa stirred, he carried her to the large oak bed he'd carved with his own hands and held her until she fell asleep.

In spite of the fact that she was a big strong cop.

"You ready?"

The girl nodded.

"Today's delivery is different. This guy isn't a parent, but he really needs what we can give him. Instead of going up to a house, you'll have to wait at the corner by the trash can and then, when he pulls up in his car and asks for directions, you write them on the bag and hand it to him."

"I know. I got it."

"You're sure you aren't afraid?"

"I'm sure."

"If this goes according to plan, I'll pay you double."

She nodded again.

"Remember what I told you? If he makes a move on you, drop the bag in the trash can, scream and run. If he makes comments but stays inside the car, just play along."

Another nod.

"No eye contact."

"Okay."

"You're a good girl. The work you do, it's vital to so many people. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes, Mac."

"You know how those kids--and their parents--would suffer if they didn't have you? It's drops like the one today that let us finance the rest of them. That let me pay you."

"I know. It's okay, Mac."

"You're getting prettier by the day, and that worries me. You're going to have to be savvy, watch your back at all times, or you're of no use to us. Remember the self-defense classes. Promise me you'll practice what you learned or I won't be able to employ you anymore."

"I'll be careful. I promise."

She needed the money. She wanted to go to college and her mother didn't make enough to pay their bills. He understood that. But she had to understand something, too--that the world was a tough place.

"Good. I'm glad. I'd hate to lose you. You're by far the most promising teenager I've ever worked with."

Her eyes remained downcast.

She was the kind of girl you spent your whole life hoping to find.

And he'd met her now, like this....

"Maybe someday, when you're a little older, we could, you know, hook up." He'd broken his number-one rule.

"Maybe."

In spite of everything he couldn't do--wouldn't do--he ran his fingers through her hair, allowed the palm of his hand brief contact with her cheek. And then he pulled back. There would be no involvement here.

But still...

"Would you like that? If we hooked up?"

She nodded again.

And he was satisfied.

3

Chandler, Ohio
Tuesday, August 3, 2010

I
n my office, I had this old chintz flowered couch in primary colors that should probably have been replaced. Most of my clients avoided it, preferring to sit in the chair across from me. But I didn't think that was a good place for Maggie Winston.

I didn't want her to feel isolated.

So when she arrived, all neat and clean and proper looking, I sat on the couch. And invited her to sit beside me.

I'd purposely left my pad and pen over on the desk, though I suspected I'd be desperate for them before this session was through. Still, kids tended to associate note taking with people who had authority over them and I needed Maggie to open up and talk to me.

She was a cute kid. Young woman, I amended as soon as she opened her mouth and thanked me for seeing her.

"You're welcome." I smiled at her.

"My mother told me to say that because we aren't paying you."

Cute and forthright. I liked that.

With chestnut-brown hair that hung halfway down her back, and dressed in a pink T-shirt and jeans, she looked like an ordinary kid, but Maggie's eyes were...calmer. Clearer. I guessed she had an awareness beyond her years.

Not surprising, given what I knew about her upbringing.

"I like your highlights," I told her. They were dark in the back, mostly in the under layer, and lighter on the top and sides. They were not maroon or blue or black like the highlights I'd been seeing on kids around town lately.

"Thanks. I did them myself."

"You did? They look great."

The girl nodded. "Mom hates them. She doesn't think I should have put them in."

"Did she buy the color?"

"No. I did."

"With your own money?"

"I didn't steal it if that's what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking that at all. Listen, Maggie, you aren't here because you're in trouble. You understand that, don't you?"

The girl didn't answer, and she looked far too stoic for someone so young. I hated to see kids grow up too fast. Maybe because I'd had to.

Childhood should be fun, the only time in life for carefree self-centeredness.

"You don't have to stay," I said now. Maybe we needed to do this slow, in short sessions. If Maggie would even come back.

"I don't mind being here."

I was surprised by the girl's reply. Pleased, too.

"It's just that I honestly don't have any problems like my mom thinks I do, so we're wasting your time--especially since we aren't paying and all."

"It's my time. Why don't you let me worry about it?"

"Okay."

"So why does your mom hate the highlights?"

"She says they make guys notice me more."

"Is that why you wanted them?"

"Of course not. I wanted them because everybody else my age has highlights, and if I don't, I'll look like a poor kid. And when people know you're poor, they treat you differently."

In a town the size of Chandler, highlights weren't going to change what people knew about you. Maggie's trailer-park address was her giveaway. There were two mobile-home parks in the city. The one on the east side had privately owned manicured lots and a communal playground, clubhouse, swimming pool, basketball court and barbecue pit. The other, on the west side, was where Maggie lived. The units were old and rusty, their yards dirt patches with cars parked on them. The only communal area held overflowing trash bins.