Nowhere Safe (13 page)

“Uh-huh.”

“Is he here now?” she pushed.

She nodded, said, “I’ll go get him,” and went through the door to the back offices. A few minutes later an Asian man came through the door, wearing blue scrubs and a white lab coat. “Can I help you?” he asked, frowning.

Wes said, “We have a victim who died from a mixture of drugs, one of which was ketamine hydrochloride. She was dating a man named Dan Quade whose brother apparently worked here.”

“Bill?” The doctor’s face flushed scarlet. “I caught him in the act. He never got away with any of it. Believe me, I checked the inventory afterward and nothing was taken, so it didn’t come from our clinic.”

“You’re certain,” September said, which made him nod at her fast and hard.

“Bill was verbally abusive when he left. Said he knew where to get the stuff without having to steal from me. He kicked a hole in the wall on his way out! Luckily, he didn’t hurt any of the animals.”

“Did he ever mention his brother?” September asked.

“I didn’t listen to him much,” the doctor said.

“Did you know what he meant about where he would get the ‘stuff ’?” Wes asked.

Dr. Amato drew a deep breath through his nose. “He was a bad hire. If Zach hadn’t recommended him, I would have never allowed him to be a part of our staff, even for the short time he was here.”

“Who’s Zach?” Wes asked.

“Dr. Swanson,” the girl put in. “He’s nice.”

Dr. Amato’s lips tightened. “My partner,” he bit out. “His son was friends with Mr. Quade, apparently.”

“Could we speak to Dr. Swanson?” September asked.

“When he gets back from Barbados, I’ll have him call you,” Amato said tightly.

Clearly, the doctor was nursing some seriously bad feelings. “Do you have an address or phone number for Bill Quade?” she tried.

“In his file, unless he’s moved. I’ll get it,” he said.

He left and then returned a few minutes later with a Laurelton address and a cell phone number. They thanked him for his help, and as soon as they were out of earshot Wes said, “Think the doc was telling the truth?”

“Why?” September asked. “Did you think he wasn’t?”

He shrugged as he pulled out his cell phone and plugged in the number Dr. Amato had given them. “He sure didn’t want the blame blowin’ back on him, but he seemed like the type who would know his inventory.” He listened for a few moments, then clicked off. “Didn’t go through,” he said. “Maybe a prepaid that he ditched.”

“Should we go to the address?” September asked.

“Yeah.”

The apartment building was a
U
shape with three levels, all of the doors opening to the outside like a motel. They parked in a visitor’s spot, then walked up the stairs to the second level, reaching the door that had been Bill Quade’s unit and finding it ajar. Wes knocked lightly on the panels and the door swung inward on its own. “Hello? Mr. Quade?”

They could see through the living room to a hallway, and there was the sound of a toilet flushing. Then a man stepped into the hallway and glanced at the two of them standing in the doorway. “Hey,” he said.

“Are you Bill Quade?” September asked.

He stilled, as if suddenly connecting on who they might be. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Detective Rafferty and this is—”

“Fuck!” he yelled. “I didn’t take the goddamned stuff. Ask that fuckhead Dr. Amato! I didn’t kill her!”

“You’re talking about Carrie Lynne Carter?” September clarified.

“I didn’t kill her. I didn’t even get the stuff!”

“How did you know what killed her?” Wes asked.

That stopped him and he looked scared.

“May we come in?” September asked.

“No. Hell, no.” He grabbed a coat off the couch and came toward them fast. They moved back to allow him onto the balcony. He looked to be in his early twenties with tousled, curly brown hair and a scruffy beard. He wore a pair of dirty jeans that looked like they were about to fall off his hips, a T-shirt that said
I Hate You,
and was shrugging into the jacket, which was giving him some trouble.

“How did you know what killed her?” Wes asked again.

“The K, man. The ketamine. You found it in her system, right?”

“Yes, but it hasn’t been on the news,” September said.

He looked confused for a moment. “Well, shit. Okay. Carrie wanted some, right? Dan wanted me to get it for her, but that was when they were together and they were going to just take some. Recreational drugs, man. You know how it goes. But I got caught by that shit Amato, and he fired my ass.”

“So, how’d she get the ketamine in her system?” Wes asked.

“I don’t know, man.”

“Did your brother get it for her?” September asked.

“Ahh . . .” He sighed dolefully. “You think either Dan or I killed her? That’s wrong, man. I’m sorry she’s gone. I really am. I saw it on the news and just freaked. But she was too unstable, too into Dan, and he couldn’t take it. But nobody killed her. She did it to herself, man.”

“Where did she get the ketamine?” Wes pressed.

“Wasn’t me. I didn’t get it for her,” he said with certainty, wagging his head back and forth. “Okay, I tried. I admit it, but I couldn’t do it. I’m tellin’ you, talk to Dr. Amato at the Stafford Animal Clinic. He’ll tell ya.”

“It was your brother who got it for her,” September said.

Bill suddenly looked like he was about to cry. “No, man . . .” he said, but there wasn’t much conviction in his voice.

“Where is your brother now?” September asked.

“I don’t know. California . . . south . . . Tustin area, y’know?”

“I know Tustin. About an hour south of LA,” Wes said.

“I guess. He just had to leave, y’know. She wasn’t supposed to kill herself.”

“Can you get us in touch with Dan? You got a phone number?” Wes pressed.

“Nah, he got rid of his phone. I don’t know how to get ahold of him right now. I’ve called his friends, but he’s like vanished. He does that sometimes. He probably doesn’t even know about Carrie. He did like her a lot.”

“Where did Dan get the ketamine?” September asked.

“I didn’t say he got it for her.”

“He got it for her,” she said firmly. “He didn’t mean for her to die from it, but he got it for her.”

Bill ran his hands through his hair. “Man, this sucks,” he said. “It was supposed to be
fun.
”

“We’re going to need to talk to Dan,” Wes said.

“I don’t know how. He’s like in the wind, man.”

“Where would Dan get the stuff?” September tried again. She was pretty sure they’d about wrung Bill dry, but it was worth a try.

“Not from me . . .” He trailed off, frowning.

“It would really help you if we had some other place to look, y’know?” September pushed.

“There’s this guy Dan talked about. . . .” He looked over his shoulder, as if afraid to be overheard.

“What guy?” Wes asked quietly.

September knew Wes’s brother had died from an overdose and that he was particularly invested in getting drug dealers off the street, so she let him take over the questioning.

“I don’t know. He’s myth, y’know?”

“Myth,” Wes repeated.

“He’s like a procurer, y’see? But his skin’s all screwed-up like an alien, or something. Dan told me about him, but I don’t know. It’s kinda far-fetched.” He emitted a short laugh.

“He has some kind of skin disease?” September asked. She was picturing this mythical drug dealer with a distorted face.

“No, he’s just blue, man. Like I said—an alien. That’s what Dan told me, anyway, but then Dan’s full of shit most of the time.”

“If Dan should contact you, you need to get in touch with us right away,” Wes told him, holding his gaze.

“He’s my brother, man.”

“Dr. Amato said you tried to steal drugs,” Wes reminded him. “We could be looking at you for years to come.”

“Aww, man . . .”

They tried to get more information out of Bill, but he was both tapped out and worried sick that the law was after him. They left him on the balcony, pondering his options.

In the SUV Wes was quiet for a while, then said grimly, “I wanna get this ‘procurer.’”

“I know.”

By the time they were heading back toward the station it was almost past lunchtime. Both hungry, they took a trip through McDonald’s.

“Kayleen took the doctor’s orders to heart,” Wes muttered around a bite of Quarter Pounder with cheese. “I’ve been eating soup and rice for way too long.”

“You’re not doing anything bad to yourself, are you?” September asked with a smile.

“Don’t care if I am.”

She looked at his flat stomach as they sat in the car. The bullet he’d taken in the abdomen had missed his stomach, but had played havoc with his intestines, from what she’d heard. “Glad you’re okay.”

“Back at ’cha,” he said.

As they headed back to the station September said, “What about Carrie’s psychiatrist? Dr. Rolfe?”

“Hasn’t called me back yet,” Wes said. “Nobody wants to talk to us about nothing.”

“You got that right.”

“I’m gonna call him again,” Wes said determinedly. “This thing is looking like a suicide more and more, and I want the doctor to tell me what went on with Carrie Lynne. Jesus, they’re sticky about giving out information, even when the patient’s dead.”

September said, “If we find this ‘alien’ dealer, we might be able to charge him with something.”

“You think any of that’s true?”

“Some of it.” September shrugged.

They entered the station through the main entrance and encountered Guy Urlacher, back from sick leave. He immediately asked to see their identification and Wes just gave him a “don’t fuck with me” look and headed for the door.

“It’s policy,” Guy said, a wheedle in his voice.

“You’re making me wish for more Gayle,” Wes said.

September broke down and showed him her ID and he reached under the counter and hit the release button. “You look kind of peaked,” she told him as the door unlocked and Wes bolted through.

“Damn norovirus.” Hearing himself, Guy looked shocked.

“Norovirus?” September asked.

“It’s going around and it’s . . . bad.”

It was the most conversation September had ever had with Guy. Maybe it was the start of a new dawn, she mused, as she followed after Wes into the squad room.

She set her cell phone on her desk and it rang before she could go hang up her coat and messenger bag. Glancing down at it, she thought the number seemed familiar so she picked it up and clicked on. “Detective Rafferty.”

“This is Rhoda Bernstein,” a sharp, female voice greeted her. “You left a message that you wanted to talk to me about Christopher Ballonni.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bernstein. Thank you for returning my call. I’ve taken over the investigation, and some new evidence has come to light in the Ballonni case.”

“What does that mean?”

“There’s been a second kidnap victim who was tied to a pole and left.”

“Oh, yes. I saw that on the news, Detective,” she stated flatly. “All this time since Christopher Ballonni died and now you’re investigating. I guess nothing happens with you people until somebody else gets tied up.”

“Yes, well . . .”

“I know he was a victim, but he wasn’t the good guy everyone said he was. I suppose I should just be glad that you’re finally doing something about it. That other detective that came and saw me . . .”

“Detective Chubb.”

“Yes, him. Well, he didn’t take me seriously, either.”

September saw she was going to have to work around the enormous chip on the woman’s shoulder. “Could you just go over it again with me? What happened between Mr. Ballonni and your daughter?”

“Nothing happened, because I was there,” she snapped. “Missy was on the sidewalk when he pulled up to our mailbox. She knows better than to talk to strangers. But that day, she wasn’t minding me, and she ran right over to his window. She knew I would have a fit. And what did he do? He gave her a stick of gum! I came flying out of the house, I’ll tell you. He told
me
I was overreacting. It was just wrong. You don’t offer candy or gum to children. What is that teaching them, I ask you? I took that gum out of Missy’s hands and threw it into the trash before she could open it. I probably should have saved it as evidence, or something. Anyway, all of a sudden,
I’m
the bad guy! Missy was crying and screaming at me. Totally out of control. I had to put her to bed right then, and it was only three o’clock in the afternoon!”

“And you placed a formal complaint against Mr. Ballonni that day?”

“You bet I did.”

“Do you remember how long it was before Mr. Ballonni’s death that he offered Missy the gum?” September asked.

“Three weeks to the day,” she said with conviction.

“Had there been any other incidents where you felt Mr. Ballonni had been inappropriate with Missy?”

“He was always too friendly. I said so to LeeAnn Walters and Marnie Dramur over and over again, but they wouldn’t do anything.” She sniffed in derision.

The names were familiar. September glanced over at the row of files and wished she had the Ballonni file at hand. As it was, she had to dig through her memory. “Mrs. Walters and Mrs. Dramur live along your same mail route?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you ever witness Mr. Ballonni being inappropriate with anyone besides Missy?” September asked, dropping her coat and messenger bag on her desk and heading to the bank of files.

“You don’t believe me, either, do you, Detective?” she demanded.

“I’m just gathering information.”

“You sound just like the other detective.” September could hear the disdain in her voice. “All careful and suspicious. I know what you’re all thinking. That I’m an overprotective helicopter parent. I know. I’ve heard the term. Hovering over their kids too much. Well, I say kids don’t get enough discipline these days. I don’t mean being too harsh, but just making sure they do what they’re told. How are they going to learn respect if we don’t teach them, huh?”