The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) (25 page)

“Listen, Nikkie,” Derek said, “I think you’re amazing. Really. And, to be honest with you, there have been times in the past when I couldn’t get you out of my mind. But, and I know this is crazy, my wife is still the owner of my thoughts. I know she’s dead and not coming back and everyone tells me it’s time for me to let go and move on. And I don’t know why I can’t do that. I’ve tried. Shit, I was closer to taking a risk and moving on a few seconds ago than ever before. Maybe I’m more messed up in the head than I realize, but, when I was looking into your eyes a moment ago, I felt an emotion stir in me I thought died with my wife. Weird thing is, feeling whatever that emotion was reminded me of Lucy. And then I realized that I’m still in love with her. Crazy, huh?”

Nikkie smiled, stepped towards Derek, bent, and kissed his forehead. “Not crazy at all. Wonderful, actually. This is going to sound weird,” Nikkie said as she straightened up and took a small step backwards towards the desk, “but I hope that, when I die, someone feels the same about me as you feel about Lucy.”

Derek laughed, then said, “You’re right, you know. That did sound weird.” He stood, grabbed his empty glass and refilled it with a double shot of scotch. He drained the glass in a swift raise of his hand and tilt of his head. “You’re also right that this scotch sucks.”

“Sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” Nikkie said. “I’m really embarrassed right now.”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed. I’m the one who has to turn in my man-card. I should be downright ashamed of myself.”

Nikkie smiled and walked to the door. As she gripped the handle, she turned and said over her shoulder, “Lucy was a very lucky woman. I bet she’s looking down on you and feeling pretty proud of you right now. But I also have a feeling she wants you to forgive yourself. What happened to her, her murder, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault at all.”

Derek was woken by the digital shrill of his iPhone. He grabbed it, hoping to do so before the loud ringing penetrated the thin hotel room walls and woke Nikkie.

“Derek, it’s Investigator Mark Mullins. I assume you made it back to your hotel room without any further incidents last night?”

“Safe and sound,” Derek said. “Anything new?”
 

“Well,” Mullins paused an extended beat, “I think it’s too damn early to talk without caffeine pumping through my veins. Same diner at seven?”

Derek glance at the time displayed on his iPhone, which read six thirty-eight am.

“Better make it seven-thirty. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” His thoughts raced back to a few hours earlier. After Nikkie had left and returned to her room, he returned to his bottle of scotch. He didn’t know how many times he had refilled his empty glass, but the empty bottle of scotch staring back at him from the desk in his room gave him some idea. “And Nikkie will be joining me as well, as long as you’re okay with that.”

“Uh huh,” Mullins grunted. “The more the merrier. How’s your associate doing? Victoria Crown is her name, right?”

“Yes, but don’t ever call her Victoria to her face. She had a pretty rough few hours last night and I haven’t checked in on her today, but the doctors are optimistic.”

“Good to hear. Listen Cole, there’s a whole lot of shit going on in Ravenswood and I’m going to break protocol and share some things with you. I don’t have to worry about you blabbing what I say around town, do I?”

“Not at all,” Derek shot back. “We’ll see you at seven-thirty at the diner.”

Derek ended the call, then paused, his finger hovering over Nikkie’s name that sat atop his “Favorites” list in his iPhone’s speed dial list. He worried how Nikkie might react to seeing or hearing from him after the uncomfortable way they parted last night. As he was finishing his fourth (or fifth) scotch last night after Nikkie returned to her room, Derek admitted to himself that he had feelings for her and though he had done an excellent and commendable job burying his feelings, he had come too close to revealing how he felt.
 

He wasn’t ready to risk what a relationship demanded. His misery and pain, though muted, was still too fresh in his mind. Saying he took Lucy’s death hard was a tremendous understatement. Her death changed him. It molded him into someone timid and fearful of loss. Before Lucy’s death, Derek believed that risks were part of the equation when he sought something of value. Falling in love, with all of its inherent vulnerabilities, was no longer something Derek could allow himself to risk.

And then there were his memories of Lucy’s smile; the smile she reserved only for him. When he envisioned that smile, his soul would stir with a mixture of amazement and sorrow. He had always been amazed that someone like Lucy could actually love him as much as he loved her.
 

The memory of her smile flashed across his mind at random times, never predictable and never following a pattern that might explain a hidden message. He saw Lucy’s smile when he looked deeply into Nikkie’s eyes last night, and the sight of that smile buried him in the sorrow of losing her.

Before he could decide how best to tell Nikkie they were expected to meet with Investigator Mullins in less than an hour, his phone rang again.
 

“I heard your phone ringing,” Nikkie said. “Everything alright? It wasn’t the hospital, was it?”

Derek sighed. He should have known Nikkie was a professional and, while they may have shared a few moments of uncomfortable tension a few hours ago, she would maintain that professionalism when it came to the Bo Randall case. “No,” he said. “It was Mark Mullins. He wants to meet with us at the diner at seven-thirty. That work for you?”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

Derek and Nikkie were pulling into the small parking lot the Morning Grind Roast House shared with a UPS Store and a barber shop, just as Derek’s phone began ringing. He answered and felt a tremendous sigh of relief when John Mather apologized for not making it to the cinema the previous night.

“I was five miles south of Ravenswood when I noticed a car following me. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, but the driver started flashing his high beams, honking his horn and riding my bumper way too close. I slowed down and pulled over to let him pass, but the guy just stayed behind me, flashing his lights. Pretty sure he wanted me to stop, which I almost did, till I got a look at the guy.”

“You recognize him?” Derek asked.

“No,” John replied, “but he flipped on the dome light in his car and I could see a long gun sitting next to him in the passenger’s seat. I took off, made a whole mess of turns till I lost him. I ended up driving to Syracuse and got a hotel room. With all the shit going on, I don’t mind telling you, I was scared out of my mind.”

Derek parked the car, shut down the engine, then began telling John all that had happened at the cinema. He ended by asking John if he knew Gene Witten or had ever heard of him.

“Jesus Christ, Derek,” John said. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. And, no, I’ve never heard of Gene Witten before. Son of a bitch, shit is getting crazy.”

“And I have a feeling,” Derek said, “that you have your suspicions about what may be causing all the crazy shit. That’s what you wanted to speak to me about last night. Your suspicions, am I right?”

There was a short pause, during which Derek could hear John drawing and expelling a deep breath. “People think that only the big cities have drug problems,” John began. “But I’m here to tell you, drugs are just as bad in small towns and cities. Ravenswood is no exception, though the politicians and Chamber of Commerce people won’t admit it. About two months ago, each member of the Ravenswood Fire Department were issued a carry-bag of Narcan. You know what Narcan is?”

“I believe it’s a drug that is given to people who overdose on heroin,” Derek said.

“That’s how bad the heroin and opiate problem is in Ravenswood. Every member of the department and every cop around carries a nasal spray dosage of Narcan. I’ve seen a whole lot of overdoses in the past year and a half. And let me tell you, they ain’t pretty. Kids as young as ten and adults as old as seventy-three are using heroin, and when they use too much, the only thing that can save them is Narcan.”

“You think heroin use is behind what’s happening around Ravenswood?” Derek asked.

“I did at first,” John said. Then, in a lower voice, he said, “But I know, hell, everyone in the department knows that Bo Randall uses cocaine on occasion. A bunch of guys do. We do what we can with drug awareness training and random blood tests, but, I’d bet ten or so members use cocaine, and some probably use heroin as well. No, I don’t think heroin is the problem, but I do think drugs are causing the problems in town.”

Derek put the call on speakerphone so Nikkie could listen in and, if she felt compelled, ask a few questions to John Mather.

“Here’s the thing that got me thinking that cocaine may be the real cause: About two weeks ago, I see some guy I’ve never seen before walking out of the officer’s office at the station with Bo. Bo seemed pretty nervous about me seeing him as I think he thought the station was pretty much empty at the time. The guy had that look to him. I can’t explain it, but, he just looked like someone up to no good. You know what I mean?”

“Do me a favor, will you?” Derek said. “Call Lance Mahoney over at Route 69 and give a description of this guy to him. He told me he saw some guy who he thought had that same, ‘up to no good look’ about him the night of the fire. Call him and compare descriptions.”

“Will do. Then what?”

“I have a breakfast meeting I’m a few minutes late for. But you call Lance, he probably won’t be open till ten or so…”

“I know Lance pretty well,” John said. “And I know he gets to the bar every morning around eight. I’ll call him then.”

“And I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“Sounds good.”

Just before he ended the call, Derek asked if John was staying in Syracuse or would be driving back to Ravenswood.

“I don’t have to work till Monday and I have some friends outside of Syracuse I haven’t seen in a while. To tell you the truth, I’d just as soon stay away from Ravenswood till you figure this whole thing out.”

“I don’t blame you at all. I’d probably do the same thing if I were any smarter.”

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

Investigator Mullins was sitting in the same booth the three had sat in the day before. He welcomed Derek and Nikkie with a silent wave of his giant hand. Not one for easing into a conversation, Mullins said, “We found a connection between Witten and Louis Randall. Seems Randall has used Witten as a private investigator from time to time. He didn’t have a PI license so we assume whatever work Witten did for Randall wasn’t exactly on the up and up.”

“You think Randall was behind the cinema thing?” Nikkie asked.

“Don’t think so, but that doesn’t mean Randall isn’t dirty with that whole mess.” Mullins paused to take a sip of coffee then to take an enormous bite from the heavily buttered bagel he has holding. He then told Derek and Nikkie about the Patel murder scene and how his main person of interest was a neighbor of the Patel family, “His name is Matthew McCormick and he’s been AWOL since the murder. No one has seen or heard from him at all. His Jeep is still in his garage and he hasn’t been back home. Neighbors say they saw him sitting on his front porch right around the time of the murders. They say he was drinking beer. Nothing unusual about a man drinking a can of beer on his front porch, but what is unusual is that he left the area right around the time the murders took place.”

“What do you know about him?” Derek asked. “Any priors?”

“Nope,” Mullins said. “We know he works up at the compounding facility on the western edge of town, near the public park and golf course. I guess he’s the computer guy for the place. We contacted the owner of the place, a …” Mullins paused and consulted the notes scribbled in his notebook, “Leonard La Salle. But all he could do was verify he worked for him and that he wasn’t working when we called.”

“One of the guys accused of vandalism works at that same place. The compounding facility,” Derek stated.

“Saul Troffert and Andy Bennet both work there,” Mullins said through a wide smile. “Your brain seems to be spinning pretty fast right now, Cole. You thinking about something you’d like to share?”

“This McCormick, you said he had no priors? No history of problems with the law?”

“I did say that. I certainly did say that.”

“And the other two, Troffer and Bennet, same with them? No history?”

“Clean as a whistle, all three,” Mullins said. “And, before I forget, those weeds you gave me to check out, remember those?

“Almost forgot about them, but, yeah, the weeds I picked up on that trail in the woods. What about them?”

“They’re a plant called ‘jimson weed.’ Not all that common but not all that rare, either. Like any other weed, they grow wherever they can and their range does extend to upstate New York.”

“Okay,” Derek said. “So, anything special about jimson weed?”

“A whole lot, actually,” Mullins said. “There’s a whole lot that makes jimson weed special. For example, it has powerful hallucinogenic properties. Native Americans used to smoke the plant when going on a ‘journey of the spirit.’ The plant is powerful as hell and, since it’s a weed, available and cheap as a manager’s special at a dime store. But here’s the thing you’ll find most interesting: Jimson weed, if used to excess, can cause some serious psychosis. People who overdose on the stuff either end up dead or have a really rough hallucinogenic trip. And here’s the thing about those trips; people who experience them often do things they normally would never do and seldom remember a damn thing that happened while they were under the influence of jimson weed.”

“Damn,” Derek said. “If what I saw was what I think I saw, there’re at least two guys harvesting this jimson weed. And the only reason I can think of why anyone would be harvesting a hallucinogenic weed would be to sell that weed as drugs.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mullins said. “Jimson weed is also known as devil’s snare, since the hallucinations people on it see are often pretty damn awful. If what you saw was indeed what you think, it seems Ravenswood has a drug problem that, if not stopped soon, may cause a whole mess of more tragedies.”