Pernicious (8 page)

         
Despite lawsuits levied against him, Duke transformed the house into one of the most successful drug rehabs in the state. Bob had arrested Duke twelve years ago, when Bob was a patrolman and Duke an absentminded junkie.

         
Tasha followed Bob up the concrete stairs, through a graffiti-scarred foyer, and into a dining room full of curious drug addicts sitting in a circle.
   

         
A slender man in a purple three-piece suit and purple shoes stepped forward and shook Bob’s hand.

         
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Duke,” Bob said.

         
The man stared at Tasha. “And who do we have here?”
 

         
“My partner. Detective Tasha Montgomery.”

         
Tasha smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

         
Duke took her hand and kissed it. “It’s an honor to meet you. Why don’t we continue this conversation in my office.”

         
They followed him to a converted bedroom; with a well-used mahogany desk, a couple of file cabinets and a few dinette chairs, it was officially an office. On the wall behind Duke’s desk was a wooden plaque embroidered: Former Addict.

         
“Have a seat,” Duke offered.

         
“I’m interested in one of your clients,” Bob said.

         
Duke frowned. “Bob, you know there’s laws against that sort of thing. I can’t even reveal a client’s name. Unless, of course, you have a warrant.”

         
“The client in question,” Bob said, “is deceased, which nullifies any client-confidentiality agreement.”

         
Duke’s grin exposed two gold teeth. “In that case what’s on your mind?”

         
“Willie Davis,” Bob said.

         
“Willie? Didn’t he drink too much water in Fourche Creek?”

         
“He was here for a time, was he not?” Tasha asked.

         
“Yes, he was. He completed the in-patient program and was scheduled to begin the out-patient program, but he didn’t show.”

         
“Anything out the ordinary with his particular case?” Bob asked.

         
Duke shrugged. “Not really.”

         
“Any visitors?”

         
“His wife. She came by once or twice a week.”

         
“Did Willie ever mention a Keshana Green?” Tasha asked.

         
“Can’t say he did. I don’t work directly with clients. Our professional staff handles that.” Duke tilted his chin and flashed the gold teeth again. “I’m the administrator.”

         
“Did his wife play a role in his rehabilitation?” Tasha asked.

         
“A role,” Duke said with a laugh. “I’m convinced his wife was the sole reason he came here.”

         
“How’s that?” Tasha said.

         
“You see,” Duke said, leaning back in his chair, “I knew Willie back when I was on the street playing the fool. You remember, Bob?”

         
Bob nodded.

         
“The Willie I knew back then was…He wasn’t a bad guy, you know, just trifling. Most dope fiends are, but Willie lowered the standards. He wouldn’t work, wouldn’t hustle, just hung around looking pathetic until somebody gave him something.

         
“The man was a bitter enemy to soap and water. Whew, he stank! Wouldn’t shower if you paid him. Why it shocked me when he came into my office smelling good, dressed in a new Brooks Brothers suit, with this ten hanging on his arm. And I do mean ten! Long hair, movie-star face, expensive jewelry out the kazoo. I’m like, wow! I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

         
“Willie starts mumbling he wants to rehabilitate himself. He sounded as truthful as a televangelist’s tax return. I think he memorized his lines during the drive over. Then she says, ‘My husband is sick and tired of being sick and tired.’ Now where have
I
heard that before?

         
“It didn’t add up. You know, Bob, I’ve been a dope fiend over twenty years and I’ve played or seen every con in the book. But I couldn’t figure what game this woman playing. You know what I’m saying? What’s her payoff?
        

         
“I put all that aside and told Willie about the program. It’s tough; you lose a lot of sleep; you’re expected to contribute during behavior groups. While I’m talking, she’s rubbing his back, telling him, ‘You can do it, baby. You can do it.’ Willie’s looking like he’s just been told he needed a lobotomy.

         
“She leaves him here, we enter him into the program, and eight hours later he escapes. Sneaks off in the heat of night and slides down a gutter pipe on the second floor. He could have broken his neck. He wasn’t court-ordered; he could have walked out the front door whenever the urge hit him. Two days later she brings him back.

         
“He’s high, smelling like an outhouse, paranoid--his old self, the Willie I remember. She asked if Willie could have a second chance. I said, ‘No way!’ Told her straight that Willie had to want rehabilitation for Willie, not someone else. She’s persistent as hell, wouldn’t take
no
for an answer. I capitulated…she’s hard to resist. Those eyes, mesmerizing.”

         
“No more problems after that?” Bob asked.

         
“No, thank God. I told him he could leave anytime, out the front door. To my surprise he completed the program, the in-patient program, that is.”

         
“Uh,” Bob said, “I guess that’ll be it. Unless Detective Montgomery has something to ask.”

         
Tasha shook her head.

         
“Let me ask you guys something,” Duke said.

         
“Yes,” Tasha said, knowing the question before he asked it.

         
“She killed him, didn’t she?”

         
Bob stared at Tasha, she out the window.

         
“Your body language tells me she killed him,” Duke said. “That makes her a rabid cougar.”

         
“How’s that?” Bob said.

         
“A woman kills, she’s motivated by drugs, alcohol, or she’s insanely jealous. Willie didn’t have a dime to his name. She propped him up to knock him down. Someone who does that has something that ate away their conscience. A mental disease, like rabies.”

                                     
Chapter 4

         
Bob and Tasha sat opposite each other at a dirty table inside Hose’s Rib and Steakhouse, a greasy spoon frequented regularly by LRPD. Bob plowed into a beef rib dinner while Tasha read the newspaper.

         
“You think it’s time we bring her in for a little chat?” Tasha said without looking up.

         
“Uh-uh,” Bob grunted with a mouthful of beef. “It’s”--CHOMP!--“too early”--CHOMP!--“for that.”

         
Slightly nauseated, Tasha decided to wait till he finished eating.

         
Just then her cell phone vibrated. “Detective Montgomery.” Thankful for the diversion.

         
“Hey, baby,” Neal said. “What you doing?”

         
“Working.”

         
“The reason I called, my folks invited me up for the weekend and I was wondering if Derrick could tag along. We’ll be gone a couple of days, nothing special.”

         
“Let me think about it,” staring at the juice trickling down Bob’s chin onto his plate.

         
“What’s there to think about? You’re at work, he’s with me, his father, remember?”

         
“Now,” Tasha said, “is not a good time to discuss this. Why don’t you wait till I get there, which should be in about thirty minutes.”

         
“We could be halfway out the state in thirty minutes. Derrick really wants to go.”

         
“Okay, Neal. Call me when you get there.”

         
“He’s gonna need some money. We might catch a movie or something.”

         
“What about gas? You want me to buy your gas, too?”

         
“Would you?”

         
Tasha pinched the bridge of her nose; she could feel the onset of a migraine. “There’s money under my mattress. If you don’t mind, leave some for me.”

         
“Baby, you know I love you.”

         
“Bye, Neal.” She closed the phone and inhaled deeply, held it, slowly exhaled. An ad she’d read said the breathing technique was effective against migraines, though it had never worked for her.

         
“We need something concrete,” Bob said, wiping his mouth with his wrist. “All we have are coincidences. And if she’s as slick as everyone says she is, it’s highly unlikely she

will say something incriminating in an interrogation room.”