The Dead Student (37 page)

He was guessing about the cell phone purchase. Keeping his head down, Student #5 rapidly retreated from the front door.

He won’t go far to make the call.

There are many different types of drug dealers. Hip-hop-styled, gold-chain-wearing, full-entourage-of-hangers-on street types; white-jacketed pharmacists who like to have a little extra sideline; and this guy—a suburban, ex-business-school sort who thought he could make some good cash and fly under the radar by living modestly and staying away from shiny cars, leggy women, and flash. Regardless of the type—they are all smart enough to be armed. A 9mm Glock stuck in his jeans waistband. He’s not Cuban, but he will still wear a loose guayabera shirt to conceal the gun. A preferred drug dealer handgun.

He will be wary. But curious.

In a world that relied on disposable cells like the number he’d given, finding a freestanding telephone could be a trick. Student #5 had spent a little time that day reconnoitering the ten-block area around the drug dealer’s home and had identified four different locations where old-fashioned pay phones still operated.
He will either go to the Mobil station on Calle Ocho or to the McDonald’s on Douglas Road. Both are well lit and busy, even late at night. He will feel safe in either. Maybe.

This made Student #5 smile. Things were reversed:
The criminal with the gun will feel he’s in danger. Mister Helpful—that’s me—is in control.

He thought a little harder and then drove toward the gas station. The McDonald’s was likely to attract cops needing coffee.

He was correct in this supposition. He parked on a side street after seeing the dealer pull into the station. Within seconds his phone rang. He let it ring twice, smiling.
That 413 area code won’t be lost on him. Western Massachusetts.

“Okay, I’m listening,” the drug dealer said. “Secure line. So, no bullshit.”

“What do I get for giving you a name?” Student #5 asked.

“What do you want?”

“Cash and some blow.”

“How much of each?”

“How much do you want the name?”

“I want the name. But how do I know you’ve got the right information?”

“You don’t. But it is.”

“Fuck you. I don’t believe you. Made me come out for nothing.”

Student #5 was already enjoying the conversation. It was an unusual match of wits. The dealer was sophisticated about the mechanics of crime—but not as sophisticated as Student #5 was. “Not nothing,” Student #5 said.

“You a cop?” the dealer demanded.

“That’s a stupid question,” Student #5 replied. “I can say
no.
I can say
yes.
You’re not going to believe either answer.”

“The law says you have to identify yourself if …”

“I don’t really adhere to many laws,” Student #5 said. “Of course, that
could be true for all sorts of people. Good guys. Bad guys. Rogue cops even.”

The dealer hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “Then give me a plan.”

Student #5 took this moment to pause, as if he was thinking, when he had already decided what he was going to do: make himself seem greedy. “Two ounces and five grand cash.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Not really. The amount of coke is low enough so even if I’m stiffing you, you can easily make it up by cutting your next batch a little more carefully. Same for the cash. Not a huge sum. Hell, in a legitimate business it would be a tax write-off—like taking some executives out to a fancy dinner and ordering an expensive bottle of wine—and the government would end up paying a third of it when it came off your tax return. Think of it the same way. And you can afford it, even if I’m lying. Which I’m not.”

“Okay, if I agree, how do we …”

“Same place where you are standing. In twenty minutes. I’ll call that line.”

“Twenty minutes isn’t nearly enough …”

“Sure it is. I figure you’ve got that much cash lying around your house. And don’t be stupid enough to bring anyone with you—even if you could get some muscle out of bed and hustle over here in twenty minutes. Hurry home. Grab the coke. Grab the cash. Hurry back. This transaction is going to take ten seconds. You hand me an envelope and I give you a name. Then we never see each other again.”

The dealer paused again.

“This sounds like a scam. I think maybe fuck you.”

“That would be your choice. But just how many people know you got pinched and then released so fast it would make your eyeballs spin? Not too many, I bet. Other than the cops, the guy who turned you in, and me, who else knows your business ventures took a little side trip to the Dade County Jail? I suspect you would prefer to keep this blip on your financial
horizon quiet. Too easy for your clientele to say ‘So long, thanks for everything’ and find someone who
isn’t
on the police radar.”

This was an argument that Student #5 believed would ring true. Economics of drug dealing in Miami: There was always someone ready to step into an artificial void.

“Tell you what,” the dealer said cautiously. “One grand. No blow. You give me the name. It pans out, and I’ll fix you up with the rest.”

“Now who needs to trust whom?” Student #5 said.
Not stupid,
Student #5 thought.
Handing over that much cocaine is a felony and he still thinks I just might be a cop or a DEA informant. Handing over cash isn’t anything.

“My lawyer will get the informant’s name.”

“If he could, he already would. Tell you what,” Student #5 said. “One ounce. Two grand and that’s it. Just enough for me to have a little party.”

“Can’t do the blow,” the dealer said. “You should know that when the cops showed up they seized my whole supply. Wiped me out. So it’s cash only for the name.”

Student #5 hesitated, to give the impression that he was thinking, when he’d expected this. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Two grand. And a taste. Oxy. Grass. Something for a party.”

“Where do we meet?”

“Right where you’re standing now.”

“Twenty minutes, and back here,” the dealer said. “Twelve hundred and whatever I can dig up and we have a deal.”

The
taste
would be some very small amount of something that looked like but wasn’t actually OxyContin. Probably over-the-counter antihistamines. He didn’t care.

“Done,” Student #5 said. “Clock is starting now.”

Hang up.

Dealer gets back in his car. A black Mercedes, as familiar in Miami as palm trees. Pulls away. Moving fast, but not fast enough to attract unwanted attention.

Wait seven minutes.

Walk across to the Mobil station. Approach the exterior phone from an angle where the only attendant inside behind the counter can’t see.

Drop the baseball hat on the concrete beneath the phone.

Walk away.

It took twenty-two minutes for the dealer to return. From his vantage point, Student #5 watched him hurry to the pay phone. Student #5 dialed the number and saw the dealer seize the receiver.

“You were late,” Student #5 said.

“No I wasn’t,” the dealer replied.

“Not worth arguing over,” Student #5 said. “Here’s what you do: Look down … see the hat on the ground?”

The dealer did as he was told. “Yes.”

“Okay, you’re going to put the agreed-upon elements of all this into that hat and turn it over so it’s hidden. First, though, hold up the cash so I can see it. And you should figure that from where I’m watching you, I can even read the serial numbers on the bills.”

Student #5 saw the dealer smile. “You sound like someone who’s done this before. Makes me think this is bullshit.”

“Just don’t be stupid, like put the stuff in, get the name from me, and then pick it all up and try to leave. That would anger me immensely, and I have some resources.”

“You threatening me?”

“Yes.”

The dealer laughed a bit.

“So, we’re not going to meet?”

“You want to?”

Again, he saw the dealer smile.

“Not really.”

The dealer removed an envelope from his pocket. He fanned a few bills in front of his chest: $100s.

“How’s that?”

“Good,” Student #5 said. “Now in the hat.”
He can hardly miss that logo on the front. Don’t see too many University of Massachusetts Minutemen logos in South Florida. Plenty of University of Miami Ibis, University of Florida Gators, Florida State University Seminoles, but not Minutemen. Hard to forget that logo.

“Done.” He saw the drug dealer toe the baseball cap into a shadow. “Name?” the drug dealer demanded.

“Timothy Warner.”

A pause.

“Who? Who the fuck is that? Never heard of him.”

Student #5 felt a great sense of accomplishment. “Just drop that name on Susan Terry, your prosecutor client. See how she reacts.”

He disconnected the line and watched the dealer. He could tell the man was torn—didn’t want to leave whatever fake drug and real cash was lying on the sidewalk.
Are you the sort of man that honors a deal?
Student #5 wondered.

To his surprise, the dealer was. With only a slight hesitation and a single glance back, the dealer returned to his car and drove rapidly away.

Student #5 watched the next three cars pull into the gas station to fill up at the pumps, to see if one of those drivers was looking at the abandoned hat.
Possible. But irrelevant.

He put his rental car in gear and also started to drive away, slowly. He had never had any intention of obtaining anything from the dealer, but he had enjoyed the back-and-forth.
Someone will get a happy surprise,
he thought.
Maybe the underpaid gas station attendant will spot it.
Student #5 didn’t care.

He won’t call The Prosecutor until tomorrow morning but he won’t wait much longer than that
.
He will do a name search on his computer first, just as I did, find out many of the same things about young Timothy. Maybe then he’ll call his lawyer, try the name out on him before calling The Prosecutor. And while he’s doing all that, I will have time to leave one more trail of crumbs before going home.

34

Two phone calls and an argument—each upsetting in its own way.

The first call came to Moth, mid-morning. He thought it would be from Andy Candy, just as Moth was beginning to worry about her being a little late. He snatched up his phone—but the caller ID came up
Anonymous
and he paused before answering. His first thought was that the killer who had called Andy was now calling him and he tried to prepare something to reply. He felt abruptly naked—yet was unable to
not
answer.

“Yes?”

“Timothy?”

He vaguely recognized the voice, but didn’t place it instantly.

“Yes.”

“This is Martin from your aunt’s office.” Cold. Flat. Atonal.

Moth was taken aback. He stammered, “Yes, Martin, ah, how can I—”

“I thought your aunt was totally explicit when you spoke with her.”

“Explicit?”

“Yes. I believe she made herself abundantly clear.”

Moth gathered himself. “Yes. She didn’t seem to want any contact, especially if it had something to do with Ed …”

“I think she meant Ed—or anyone else.”

“Yes, okay, Martin, but I don’t see …”

Deep theatrical sigh, followed by a chilled voice. “Your aunt does not like to be threatened.”

Moth was confused. “Threatened?”

“Yes. Threatened.”

“Martin, I’m not following you …”

Martin the art purchasing assistant, sex provider, and all-around factotum business partner continued in an irate, indignant, irritated tone that told Moth that he had rehearsed his speech.

“Let me explain so there is absolutely no confusion. Shortly after we opened the gallery this morning we received a call from some thug. Let me repeat his words precisely so you will know exactly how angry we are:
‘Tell your fucking nephew Timothy to stop fucking around with me or else I will fuck him up, but I will also fuck you and your business up and maybe do a lot worse. Got it?’
Nice question to end on. Of course I quote
got it
end quote.”

Moth reeled back. He wanted to say something to the obnoxious assistant, but his mind went blank.

“So, Timothy, your aunt Cynthia would like me to say the following to you: ‘Whatever drunken or drugged-up mess you are now in, please don’t involve her, or else you will hear from her lawyers, who will be equipped with a restraining order and will make your miserable life even more miserable.’ Is that perfectly clear?”

Couldn’t make that threat any more pretentious,
Moth thought. It was a pretty clear contrast from the other threat—not guns, knives, and murder, but
lawyers
. Typical of his aunt. But her threat was minuscule. He knew who had made that call. He just couldn’t see
why.
Moth suddenly felt awash in a sea of danger. He tried to gather himself, maintain a non-panicked sense of understanding. He wished Andy Candy were there because he respected her rational side and her ability to see the larger picture.
He felt blind.
This is all part of a plan. It has to be.
This thought wasn’t reassuring. He admonished himself:
You need to figure out what is going on.

Moth took a deep breath. “Yes, but Martin—”

“Is it clear?”

“It is.”

“Then we have nothing more to speak about.”

“Martin, please, was there any indication
who
was making this call?”

The assistant paused briefly. “You mean, Timothy, there is more than one person who might be angry enough with you to go around threatening innocent people?” This was said in a fake-incredulous voice.