Badlands (22 page)

Cassie shook her head. “Who could have taken it? Who came in here from the time you left me the message to when I called you?”

“Nobody. That's just it. You're the only person who came in here.”

Cassie started to ask about other evidence techs or deputies when Atnip said, “Except for when I went to get some coffee.”

“What?”

“I've been here all morning except for when I left to get some coffee across the street. I can't stand that crap they make in the lunchroom.”

“When was that?” Cassie asked.

“About ten minutes ago,” she said. “I got back just when you called me.”

At the same time the briefing broke up, Cassie thought.

“Who else has access to your lab?”

“Shit, everybody,” Atnip said. “Our keycards work on every door. Sheriff Kirkbride has a thing about it. He doesn't like the idea of his people getting all territorial. Except for the evidence room, of course.”

Cassie said, “This might make him rethink that policy.”

Atnip shrugged. “Don't count on it. He's a stubborn old guy. He likes to think everybody in his department is on the up-and-up. Like it was before the boom, I guess.”

“I'll talk to him. But in the meanwhile, please let me know if that cast turns up or somebody gives it back. Maybe someone took it by mistake.”

“Maybe,” Atnip said without conviction. “I hope that happens because there's no way I can get another cast. The snow last night buried the track out in the field and now it's just part of the snowpack. We wouldn't be able to find it until spring—if then.”

Cassie checked her wristwatch. Time for the meeting with the sheriff and Ian Davis.

Then, maybe, returning the call to the North Carolina prosecutor …

Cassie handed the keycard to her apartment to Atnip.

“Make yourself at home,” she said.

“Trust me. You won't even know it was there. I'll leave an open box of baking soda in there for the odor.”

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

IAN DAVIS
seemed apprehensive about meeting with Kirkbride, Cassie observed. The undercover cop couldn't stop fidgeting and his fingertips pounded out a silent drumbeat on the top of his left thigh. The sheriff couldn't see that, though, because he was behind his desk. Cassie sat next to Davis and sympathized with him. Any cop would be nervous about being asked to come see the boss, even if he had nothing to be ashamed about.

“Sorry to throw you a curve in there,” the sheriff told Davis.

“No problem,” Davis said cautiously.

“I've asked Cassie to sit in because she's new here and I wanted an outside opinion,” Kirkbride said. “Sometimes we all get too close to the locals and the day-to-day, and I find it helpful to get that extra input.”

Davis nodded and looked at Cassie, assessing her. Cassie couldn't read what Davis's conclusion was.

“So please forgive me if I ask dumb questions,” Cassie said. “I don't know all the players like you and the sheriff do.”

“Okay.”

“So what were you going to brief our guys about this morning?” Kirkbride asked. “I know you and Max went over it but I didn't hear what it was.”

Davis didn't open his notebook. He said, “I wasn't going to do any speculation, if that's what you were worried about. I was just going to share what I'd heard out and about in town while all that body parts stuff was going down.”

“Which is?”

Davis looked to Cassie and then to the sheriff. “The word is new meth will hit the street by tomorrow. You can't believe how antsy some of the tweakers are getting. But the rumor is, one more day.”

Kirkbride looked pained. “Is there any way we can stop it?”

Davis shrugged. “I'm not sure, but maybe.”

“So how do we do it?”

Davis took a deep breath and sighed. He looked at his hands as if he hadn't noticed them before. Then he said, “What I told you about new blue hitting the street is solid information. I heard it from too many guys not to think it's true—or at least
they
think it's true. But anything else—it's speculation. I just want to go on the record with that, boss.”

Kirkbride nodded gently. He had a way, Cassie thought, of putting his guys at ease. “Okay, it's speculation. I won't hold you to anything if it doesn't pan out.”

“Good,” Davis said, “and one more thing.”

“Shoot.”

“I think I need to get off the street. I know it's a couple of months early and all, but I think my days are numbered.”

Kirkbride sat back, genuinely concerned. “Why—what happened?”

“It's cumulative, not just one thing. But I can feel it coming. You know what I do out there: I hang out at the strip clubs and bars and talk to people and hear things. It's one thing to ask a guy when the crank will be available—that's self-serving and all those guys can get down with that. But I've been pressing lately, and asking about details. ‘Where is the meth coming from? What's going on that it's dried up?' That kind of stuff.

“Anyway, a guy I know who is well-connected pulled me aside last night and said, ‘Willie Dietrich thinks you're asking too many questions.'”

Davis shot a glance at Cassie. He looked embarrassed.

“He didn't threaten me,” Davis said, “but the message was clear. They're starting to wonder about me. And if they think they can't trust me, well, based on what's been going on around here lately…”

“No need to explain,” Kirkbride said quickly. “You're back on patrol. I don't want you out there anymore. You're making the right call at the right time.”

Davis was obviously relieved. “Thank you, sir. I'll report to patrol tomorrow morning.”

“No, you won't,” Kirkbride said. “You'll ride with Cassie today and show her the ropes. Then you'll take two weeks of vacation and a week of unpaid leave. Go someplace warm, or go home to Wisconsin—whatever. Clear your head, get a haircut, and shave. Then come back and go to work.”

Davis closed his eyes and smiled. It was as if he'd won the jackpot, Cassie thought. Davis was a good cop and he needed the firm push from Kirkbride.

“Now that we've got that cleared up, I want to hear your off-the-record speculation.”

“That's all it is,” Davis said. “But it's based on snippets of conversation, and who is hanging out with who, that sort of thing.”

“Shoot.”

“Okay,” Davis said, opening his spiral notebook and glancing at his cryptic handwriting, “this is what I think is happening. For the last year and a half, Rufus Whitely got control of his bunch of rogue bikers and negotiated a charter with the Sons of Freedom in Denver. Once he had that bunch behind him, Rufus consolidated territory from here all the way to Tioga, Dickenson, Watford City, and even some of Minot. They took over distribution from little independent guys and muscled their way to controlling all of the Badlands. But with all of the new people flooding into the Bakken and all the money around here, the market keeps getting bigger and that fact got around. So we've got organized competition moving into the market.”

“Go on,” the sheriff said.

“I'd not done much research on MS-13 until about a month ago,” Davis said. “I told you about it then, but I didn't have anything to go on besides a rumor. According to the FBI info I read on them, they really didn't exist until about 1980. Salvadorans were involved in a violent civil war and a bunch of 'em moved north to L.A. In order to protect themselves against the more well-established Mexican gangs, they formed Mara Salvatrucha. Because they were outnumbered and outgunned, they figured out pretty quick that the way to hold their territory and gain more was to be over-the-top vicious.

“Now they're in a growth mode. When MS-13 moves into a new territory they don't take prisoners. They're not like other kinds of organized crime gangs who want to stay below the radar and not risk calling attention to themselves. These guys don't negotiate for market share or cut deals. They just show up and say, ‘Get the hell out of the business or we'll cut your head off.'

“I think they moved in here fast like they do and told the bikers to get the hell out. These guys are ruthless. The bikers are thugs but they're nothing compared to MS-13.

“MS-13 supposedly has better product from Mexico and they charge more for it, but if you've got a monopoly you can do whatever you want.”

“So far,” Kirkride said, “I'm buying it. It goes along with something Cassie and I talked about.”

Davis said, “So like I said, the word on a street a few days ago was that really high-quality meth would be hitting. There was a shipment on the way. The slimeball losers I talk with didn't know where it was coming from or who was behind it—they just seemed to know that good shit was coming. That's when I started asking too many questions, probably. I could feel a shift in the market but I didn't know who, or why, or when.

“Then something happened,” Davis said. “The shipment somehow didn't show up or got intercepted along the way.”

Kirkbride and Cassie exchanged glances. The timing conformed with the date of the rollover.

“I think the bikers learned about the blue meth coming and derailed it. I don't know how they found out or who did it. But they took it out of the pipeline.”

Cassie wanted Davis to jump ahead to what she thought she knew was coming, but she refrained. Davis wanted to weave it out.

“So MS-13 retaliated the way they do—violently and over the top. They went straight to the head of the Sons of Freedom, Rufus, and cut him to pieces and scattered him all over town. They figured that would send a message to the rest of the bikers that in a war they were capable of anything. And if you read up on MS-13, you know they are. They've put contract hits out on federal agents. In Honduras, they machine-gunned twenty-eight people—mostly women and children—on a bus. They decapitate entire families just to warn off informants. And to think these guys are actually here in Grimstad—it blows my mind.”

Kirkbride nodded. “So you think the motive behind Rufus's murder was retaliation?”

“Partly. But they also wanted to kill the king in the splashiest way possible so his guys would scatter.”

“Did it work?”

Davis chuckled drily. “From what I can see, it did. The word is that Rufus's guys trailered their bikes and headed to Colorado and the mothership. I haven't seen any of them since yesterday. I drove by their clubhouse last night and the place is deserted.”

“Interesting,” Cassie said. “So MS-13 has a foothold here.”

“More than that, I'd guess,” Davis said. “I think they've taken over in one fell swoop.”

“This Phillip Klein guy,” Kirkbride said, “do you think he fits into any of this?”

Davis shrugged. “It doesn't make sense that he does, other than he disappeared at the same time all this was going down. It's possible, I guess, but I haven't heard a thing about him.”

Cassie said, “Except Klein worked the man camp on the same night Rufus was murdered. Think about it. Grimstad isn't a normal town. There is absolutely no place to stay unless you've made arrangements well in advance, and there was no way the MS-13 guys could have known their meth would be intercepted ahead of time. So when that happened, maybe they'd already sent a couple of assassins up here to go after Rufus. But the practical question is, where would they stay?”

Kirkbride said, “If they didn't know the area—which I'm sure they don't—they might wind up at a man camp.”

“And maybe they didn't like the rules there,” Cassie said, “or the guy behind the desk.”

Then she sat up with a start. “Or maybe, they didn't like the cameras. Didn't someone steal the server?”

Davis and Kirkbride exchanged looks.

Kirkbride nodded. “Which means they might still be here.”

Then he turned to Davis. “What about Willie Dietrich? What do you think his role is in all of this?”

Davis shook his head in disgust. “Willie, yeah. He'll never go away. See, Willie is the middleman—the distributor. He doesn't cook, so he's no threat to either the bikers or MS-13. I'm guessing that if MS-13 showed up with more muscle and a better product, Willie would flip in a heartbeat. Rufus and Willie were supposedly real tight, but leaving pieces of Rufus all over town probably helped convince Willie to change sides and forget he'd ever even worked with those bikers. Willie's just switching wholesalers. Plus, it makes business sense to MS-13. Willie's guys fit in with all the old dopers and all the new dopers. If a bunch of tatted-up Salvadoran gangsters started walking around Walmart they'd be easy for us to spot.”

“At least that used to be the case,” Kirkbride added with a grim smile. “Have you been there lately?”

Both Cassie and Davis smiled at that. Davis said he'd read in the FBI reports that some of the more sophisticated MS-13 gang members were easing back on their facial and neck tattoos so they wouldn't be identified as easily.

“So tomorrow,” Kirkbride said, bringing it back, “there's new product on the street.”

“That's what I heard.”

Davis hesitated, then said, “That's why I wondered why you shut me down today. Max thought it would be good for the guys to know so they could keep their eyes open. If they don't know it's coming, there might be trouble. And if the druggies don't get what they think they're getting,
they
could be trouble.”

“I understand all that,” Kirkbride said with a hint of irritation. “And the last thing I want to do is withhold intel from our team. But now I'm going to ask you a really tough question, Ian, and I want you to answer it honestly. There will be no hard feelings or repercussions based on your answer, but I trust you to be honest with me.”