Emerald City (7 page)

I was still sitting on the couch when Steve returned, coming through the door like a burst of jubilant energy.

“Hey,” he began, putting down the guitar case. He knelt in front of me, taking my face in his hands. “What's happened? What's wrong?”

“I got another call.” My voice quavered and I was angry at myself for feeling weak and vulnerable.

“Another message?” he asked quietly, pulling me close. I put my arms around him and held on tight, glad of something solid to hold on to. I drew back so I could look into his eyes.

“It wasn't a message this time, Steve,” I said. “I talked to him.”

“Oh, Jesus.” He stroked my hair gently. It was something my dad used to do when I was a little girl and for a moment it calmed me. “What did he say?”

I closed my eyes and let the good feelings soak through me until I felt in control, my breathing even and steady. “He threatened me again,” I said. “And you. He said bad things could happen to both of us.” I felt his fingers slow on my scalp. “And he said he'd know if I went to the police.”

“Christ.” He drew out the word like a long hiss.

“And then he said I'd had two warnings, and there wouldn't be a third.”

He stayed silent, simply letting his hand rest gently on my head.

“You need to drop this before he does anything more.”

I took a deep breath. “No. I'm going to find this asshole and discover what he had to do with Craig's death.”

Steve moved back to stare at me. “You can't. Not now.”

I stood up and started to pace around the room, my arms folded in front of me. I'd spent the hour since I'd gotten the call thinking about this.

“That's what he wants. Can't you see that?” I didn't wait for his answer. “He thinks I'll cave in, that I'll roll right over because I'm scared and because he's a man. I can't do that, Steve. I can't.”

“So you've got to prove how tough you are?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I admitted. “But if he's pulling all this shit, it means Craig really was murdered. I'm going to find out who he is and why he did it and I'm going to write the fucking story.”

He shook his head slowly. “At least call the police and tell them about the call. Please.”

“No,” I answered without hesitation. “You really think the cops do anything just because a woman gets a threatening phone call?”

“But –”

“Come on; there isn't any but. I don't know who it is, I don't recognize his voice. And if they took it seriously they'd start looking into Craig's death and my story would be gone.”

He lit a cigarette and blew out a thin plume of smoke. “So this is really all
about you getting a good story?”

“No!” I replied, then, a moment later, “I don't know. And what if it is? This could be a big story.”

“And what if he's serious? What if he hurts you?”

“Or you.”

“Never mind me,” he said dismissively. “You really think this is worth risking all that? Is it?”

“Yeah, it is,” I answered defiantly. “I'm not going to cave in just because someone threatens me. It's a mindfuck, that's all.”

“It's a pretty good one.”

“Yeah.” He was right. I wouldn't have been so terrified otherwise.

He waited a moment, then said, “But if you want to keep on with it, I'm with you, okay?”

It was what I'd hoped to hear. I just wish he'd said it right away.

“You're sure?”

“Yeah. Look, I love you.” His face was serious, his gaze intent. “I'm just worried. I don't want anything happening to you. What if this guy's really serious?”

“Then we'll find out in time.” I tried to shrug but I knew it wasn't convincing.

He came over and took my hand. “It's okay to be scared, you know. It's natural.”

I nodded. “I am,” I admitted. “I'm shit scared. But that's why I have to do it. You understand?”

He nodded and held me again.

“I know. And we're in it together. You're going to have to convince Rob, though. He's not going to be happy.”

“I'm going to call him tomorrow.”

I heard the words again in my head: to your pretty boyfriend. What if something bad did happen to him? What would I do then? I'd carry the guilt around for the rest of my life.

“You're really sure?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. I knew he was reluctant, I knew he was doing it because he wanted to support me. He was trying because he loved me and I couldn't ask more than that.

I called The Rocket at ten the next morning, hoping Rob would already be in.

“Hey,” he said, “how's the star reporter?”

“Not so good,” I answered.

“What's happened?”

I told him about the call. He stayed quiet. All I could hear was his breathing on the line and it made me fretful.

“How do you feel? Do you want to drop it?” he asked eventually.

“No,” I answered quickly.

“What about your boyfriend? Have you talked to him?”

“He's with me on this.”

“Okay.” He drew out the word thoughtfully. I imagined him toying with an unlit cigarette.

“You know what's really bugging me about this?” I said, trying to fill the silence.

“What?”

“It kept me awake half the night. The coroner said Craig's death was an accident. So this guy's good, he's hidden it well, but he's stupid, too, because he's let me know there's something to find. If this guy hadn't made the calls I'd never have known it was more than an OD. I'm missing something and I can't see what it is. I've gone over and over it.” Frustration made my voice tight. “What do you think? Craig's dealer?”

“No, I don't see that.”

“Then what is it?” I asked. “Do you know, because I sure as hell don't. What got him so worried about me looking into things? What am I not seeing here?”

“The weird thing here is everyone says Craig wasn't using, right?” Rob asked.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“That's the loose thread,” he said. “It's the only thing that doesn't fit. So that's where you start pulling and see what happens. I don't know what it's all about, but you've got to be careful, okay? You've got to assume he's serious.”

“I will,” I promised. Not just for myself, but especially for Steve.

I sat and thought about Rob's idea. It made sense. But before I did anything I needed to educate myself more about heroin and what it was like to be an addict. I hunted around for the piece of paper with the junkie's number that
Rob's cop cousin had provided. The phone rang nine times and I was about to give up when a sleepy, raspy voice mumbled, “Yeah?”

“Is this Jay?”

“Yeah. Who's this?”

I explained the situation and I heard him light a cigarette as I talked, a long bout of coughing interrupting me.

“So what do you want from me?” he asked.

“Talk. Information.”

“What's it worth?”

“Twenty?” I asked, hoping it would be enough.

“Okay,” he agreed after some thought. “You know the Jack in the Box up on Capitol Hill?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be there at noon. Are you cute?”

“How will I know you?” I said, ignoring his question.

“I'll be the one who looks like a junkie,” he answered with a hoarse laugh and hung up.

Jay wasn't lying. He truly did look like the archetypal junkie, thin as wire, long hair lank, the bones of his face so sharp they could cut metal. There were nicotine stains on his fingers and he wore an old Army jacket, a trio of wool sweaters that had seen better days back in thrift shops, jeans with holes in the knees and dirty boots with steel toecaps. From his features he seemed to be in his forties, maybe a little older, and when he smiled a greeting he showed a set of teeth that were more brown than white. He was sitting at a table in the
cramped place, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray on the plastic table in front of him.

For all that he looked like a hobo there was a sharp, wary intelligence in his eyes. When I sat across from him, he said, “You're not too bad. Could use bigger tits and maybe dress a little less butch.” It was nothing I hadn't heard a hundred times before. I didn't react. I never reacted. He continued, “So you want to know about heroin, huh?”

“I do.”

He looked at me from some deep set eyes. “Well you can start by getting me a burger, fries and a large shake. Make it chocolate.”

I brought it back, along with a cup of bad fast food coffee for myself, and he immediately sucked half of the drink through the straw before eating.

“Sweet things,” he said with a grin as he chewed. “You get a taste for them. But you can't afford to go to a dentist. So you get teeth like mine.” He smiled again to remind me.

“How long have you been a junkie?”

“Take a guess, doll. Go on.”

“I've no idea,” I answered honestly.

“Try fifteen years.” The way he said it was full of perverse pride. “Got hooked in 'Nam, came home with a habit and had it ever since. And yeah,” he added, following my glance, “the jacket's mine. I was in the Airborne back then.”

“I thought junkies didn't last too long.”

“Bullshit,” he answered quickly. “If you're careful you can maintain and last for years. Hold a job, everything.”

“Do you work?” I asked and he gave me an offended look.

“Of course I fucking work,” he said, his voice flaring. “Where do you think I get money? We're not all criminals.”

“What do you do?”

“I work down on Harbor Island, I'm a mechanic for the cranes. And don't look so surprised. Why shouldn't I have a skill?”

“Do they know you use heroin?”

He gave me a withering look. “Were you born stupid or did you have to learn it? Of course they don't. They'd fire me on the fucking spot if they did. They just think I'm some weird guy who's not big on personal hygiene. And I let them believe that. It's a good job, pays well. I have an apartment, a car, everything ordinary people have.”

“What about track marks?” I knew they were the marks of an addict.

Jay rolled up his sleeve. His forearms were clean. “You just got to be careful.” He sighed. “Look, take whatever you thought, put it in a box and throw it out the window. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly.

“You think all the shit they tell you on television is real. Honey, it ain't. I know plenty of people who maintain and do well. Some of them have pretty high-powered jobs, lawyers and shit. You just got to be careful. Buy from people you trust, don't go crazy, don't share needles. That's the kind of stuff that gets you dead pretty fast.”

“What about AIDS?”

“Like I said, don't share needles.” His tone was as if he was explaining to a five-year-old. “Clean the needles, if you fuck someone use a condom. It's
just common sense, honey. And know your junk and your dealer, that's the most important thing.”

“What about the police?”

He laughed so hard I wondered if he might choke. Another sip of the shake calmed him.

“Oh man, what would the cops want with me? I'm the very bottom of the food chain, they don't get any brownie points for me. They know me, they don't hassle me. Look, you develop a network of dealers you can trust, good people. They don't rip you off, don't sell you shit that's too pure or cut with all sorts of crap that can kill you. You know what you're putting in your body, where it's from, how strong it is.”

“So when do you get high?”

“Mostly when I get home from work, or on a day off, like today. Nod out for a while, lose the world. It's a beautiful feeling. I've tried all kinds of things, meditation, all that, and there's nothing like it.”

“So if someone were to die from an overdose?”

He shrugged. “All kinds of reasons. They didn't know what they'd bought, they used more than they should, it was too pure. Who knows? Why?”

“That's what I'm looking into.” I told him about Craig and what little I knew.

“So the cops think it's an overdose?”

“Yes,” I told him.

“Then that's probably what it is. If he hadn't used for a while it's an easy enough mistake to make.” He shook his head. “A lot of amateurs out there.”

“Could someone else have shot him up?”

“Sure. But if he didn't want it, they'd have to hold him down to find a vein with the needle.”

The coroner's report had shown no sign of bruising or force.

“What if he'd been drinking?” I wondered.

“Junkies don't drink,” Jay said. “They spend their money on smack.”

“He'd quit back in the fall.”

“Then I don't buy it,” he said flatly.