Thief

  His blond eyebrow arched. "What repercussions? From me? What kind of person do you think I am?"

  I stared at him. I didn't know and didn't have an answer for him. Not until I could figure out what he was doing, and why Raven, and Marc, and Axel, and everyone else had pleaded so vehemently with me to stay away from him.

  He shoved a palm at his face. "Fine. I can't win." He checked his watch. “Are we ready?”

  “For what?”

  “For you to discover my bad side.”

  A FINE LINE BETWEEN SNOOPING AND SPYING

  Blake drove out of downtown Charleston, taking I-26 out past the Mark Clark Expressway and pulled off into Hanahan. It’d been a while since I’d been that far out. Hanahan was a sprawl of middle class. To me, that was the high life.

  He took a couple of roads until there was nothing around us but green trees.

  “Where are we going exactly?”

  “I’ve got to go see someone.”

  “Who?”

  He smiled, and swung his head around to look at me. “Someone with information.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone with important information.”

  “Who?”

  “You sound like an owl,” he said. “Relax, sugar. You’ll see in a minute.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping this wasn’t the part where I was taken into the middle of the woods and shot. If it was, I would have been ticked my last meal was frozen hamburgers.

  Blake finally turned off the road onto a dirt driveway that led to a two-story old farmhouse at the top of a hill. Down the slope were a couple of crumbling, weathered wooden barns, and a smaller shed in the same disrepair, leaning precariously.

  What surprised me was the amount of antennae and satellite dishes surrounding the house, and littering the front lawn. You could almost feel the radio waves getting sucked into the space, drawn in by the electronics. Cancer central.

  Blake opened my door before I could finish staring. “Where are we?” I asked.

  “I think we’re still on Earth,” Blake said, grinning. He snagged my hand and tugged me forward. “Come on, spy girl. You’re the one that wanted to be nosey.”

  The smell of cigarette smoke was thick, even as Blake led the way up the steps and to the wrap-around front porch. He let go of me to knock sharply once at the screen door and opened it. The front door was already hanging open, revealing a barren living room, with a single faded couch against the wall and nothing else.

  “No one’s home,” I said in a low voice, feeling really creeped out.

  “Oh he’s home,” Blake said. He walked in, stretching his neck out and looking right. “Doyle!”

  “Aye!” a voice shouted from the back, beyond an archway on the far side of the room.

  I tiptoed behind Blake as he crossed the living room. To the right was an open archway with a kitchen, the counters littered with pizza boxes and empty bottles of soda, and more than one ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.

  Beyond the living room was a hallway with a set of stairs to the second floor, and a parlor ahead, with glass doors that were open.

  The parlor was clustered with a variety of desks of different sizes, and computers, AC radios and mechanical things I didn’t know the use of. It was all stuffed together on top of old tables and some coffee tables and couches. It was like all the furniture had been shoved into this one room just to hold up equipment.

  In the middle of the fray was a guy, maybe twenty-five, with an unruly mop of brown hair, a dimpled chin, and heavy, tired brown eyes. He had a corded phone stuck to his ear, propped up by his hunched shoulder as he tapped at a keyboard. His eyes were fixed on the dual monitors each projecting moving texts and screens that changed so fast that I couldn’t tell what he was doing.

  “Doyle?”

  The man ignored Blake, staring intently at his computer screen. Doyle had a lean figure under his thin T-shirt and was narrow at the hips. His jeans were a little short at the ankles and the material was a bit faded.

  Blake inched closer, stuffing his hands into his pocket and leaning over the desk that separated them. “Doyle!”

  Doyle let out an exasperated breath, snatched up a yellow sticky note pad, and a Sharpie. He sketched out something on the paper, lifted the paper and stuck it to his cheek within our view.

  On phone.

  Blake grunted. I fidgeted behind him, feeling odd in this particular rabbit hole. I was also trying not to breathe. The thickness of smoke hovered like a fog in this room, tickling at my already dry throat.

  Doyle started scratching additional notes on a pad of paper. When he finally dropped the phone onto the cradle without another word, Blake planted his palms on the desk and leaned over it. “Doyle,” he said. “I need the last one.”

  Doyle lifted his eyes from his paper and locked on me. “Who’s she?”

  “That’s Kate,” Blake said. “She’s working with me now.”

  “Is she?” Doyle tilted his head as his gaze dropped to my feet and back up to my head. “Blake Coaltar never works with anyone.” His accent was thick, and decidedly Irish.

  Blake sidestepped to block off my view and his. “I need a name, Doyle.”

  “Everyone needs a name,” he said. “They need a name, and an address, and a phone number, and a bank account, and a new ID, and cold medicine, and an elephant, and Elvis Presley.” He shoved his chair back, standing up, nearly matching Blake’s height. “You, sir, are too nosey for your own good.”

  “What do you want?” Blake said.

  “I need a new maid. The old one left.”

  Blake’s eyebrow rose. “Left? Old Mrs. Jennings? She said she needed the money.”

  Doyle zipped his hand back and forth in the air as if to cut off the conversation. “Left. Died. Whatever. Same thing. This place is disgusting.”

  “Fine,” Blake said. “I’ll send someone over.”

  “A good proper Irish woman,” Doyle said. “None of those local mammies they’ve got around here.” He pointed a finger at me. "Or that one. I could deal with one of those. Does she come in a maid outfit? One of those short miniskirt ones?"

  I was about to open my mouth and probably throw in a middle finger, but Blake cut me off. "Stop talking about her like that. She's not a maid. Real or prostitute."

  "Yeah. You're probably right. She's not my type anyway. What with the hair, and the legs, and the face and all."

  "Doyle," he said in a sharp tone. "Her name is Kate. She is with me." His eyes darkened and his face stiffened like he was holding his last bit of patience. "Can you please stop?"

  Normally, I would have stopped him there. I didn't need anyone's help in defending myself. This, however, struck me. Blake seemed to have no problem teasing me. It was kind of cute he had a problem with his friend doing it.

  "Oh, it's please, huh?" Doyle nodded in my direction. "Did you hear that, Kit? Three years and he's never said please for anything."

  "Her name is Kate."

  "Kid. Kate. Bubba. I don't care."

  "Just give us the last location, or I may slip a little tip to the FCC about some Irishman infiltrating phone calls."

  "See, now that's just mean." Doyle returned to his desk, and sorted through a collection of notes. "You make me sound like some sort of perverted phone hacker. I can do more than intercept phone signals, you know." He selected one of the pieces of paper and read from it. "The last batch is in an abandoned house in Moncks Corner. A few bits have already been sold off, but they are having problems selling the rest. They've only had one buyer return for more."

  "Surprised anyone wanted more."

  "Yeah, well it's a low ranking cell that caters to the high school kids. Kids are stupid."

  I coughed once. "What's going on? What kids? What high school?"

  Blake started shaking his head but Doyle turned on him. "What's this? I thought you said she was working with you now. She doesn't even know why she's here?"

  "Still showing her the ro
pes," Blake said. He reached out for the piece of paper with the information he wanted.

  Doyle jerked his hand back to hang on to it. "Wait a second. Who is she? When did you meet her?"

  "It's a long story."

  "Shorten it."

  "I don't have time. She's fine."

  Doyle frowned. He slowly relinquished the paper to Blake. He picked up a packet of cigarettes by the keyboard and selected one out of the box. He fished a lighter out of his pocket, lit the cigarette and inhaled deep. He blew out the smoke in my direction. "If I end up in a jail cell, or deported, I'm not going alone."

  ♠♠♠♠♠♠

  When Blake and I were back outside, I coughed hard, trying to replace the thickness of smoke in my lungs with clean air. I felt like I had breathed in a sponge.

  Blake popped me on the back in an effort to help. "Don't die," he said.

  "When were you going to tell me you are buying drugs?" I asked in as cool of a voice as I could muster given that my throat was in dire need of some water. I'd been holding back the question while we were inside.

  Blake made a face. "Who said anything about drugs, pretty bug? No one's said any such thing."

  "The fact that neither of you said it made it obvious. And the fact that there is a batch being distributed to school kids in Moncks Corner. Is it pot or crack?"

  "Kate..." He strolled to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for me. He pointed to the seat. "Come on."

  I stalled, and tucked my hands into my pockets. "Oh, no. You lied to me. And I've seen enough. I get it. If you get me involved in your little crime antics, you'll hold it over my head and threaten to take me to jail with you if I rat you out."

  “That’s not...” He made a face, shoving a palm over his eyes and rubbing. “I know what it looks like, but you have to trust me. And we don’t have time to wait.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the longer we stand here, the higher the chance this stuff gets put out on the street and we don’t want that.”

  I squinted at him. His face was stern and the golden flecks in his eyes darkened. He wasn’t joking with me now. “What’s wrong with the drugs?” I asked. “And why are you so concerned?”

  “Get in,” he said. “I swear, Kate, I’m the good guy. Just get in. You can come help me. We won’t get into trouble. You’ll be able to tell whoever you’re working for that I’m not dealing drugs. It’s just the opposite.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just get in,” he said. He pressed his palms together in a pleading gesture. “Sweetie, just this once. After everything we’ve been through today, haven’t I proven myself? You’re the one who has all the secrets, now. I don’t know anything about you other than your first name, that you can pickpocket, and you’ve got a black hole stomach.”

  I masked my urge to frown. One of those three wasn’t even correct. Maybe he was right. Maybe the guys were making the same mistake, jumping the gun on assumptions about this guy. Maybe he’s just like them. He’s on to something that he’s trying to fix.

  “And you’re beautiful as hell when you sleep,” he said in a quieter tone, the same serious note in his voice. “And in those moments when you’re not worried about whatever it is you’re keeping to yourself.”

  I snorted. “So I’m ugly otherwise?”

  “No,” he said. And those gold flecks started to shine. “Otherwise you’re ... no, angel’s not the right word.”

  “Enough,” I said, disbelieving.

  I waved my hand through the air to cut him off but he captured it. He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed at the knuckles. “Honey doll, I’d love to play with you right now, but either you come with me, or you’re staying out here with Doyle. I don’t have the time.”

  That part I hadn’t thought through. It was several miles to the next house, and miles beyond that to the nearest town. I’d be stuck here with the odd smoking Irishman. And there didn’t look to be any food in the house except old pizza. “Okay,” I said, unwilling to admit it was more than just my irritation at being left behind. I didn’t want to think of it, but Blake, and not for the first time, was pulling on heart strings I didn’t know I had as recently as a few days ago.

  He urged me into the car, shutting the door for me and running around to his side to get in. He turned over the engine and started down the road.

  THE WORST DRUG DEALER EVER

  Blake found a local road that led straight to Moncks Corner. It was a quiet side road that occasionally met with bits of neighborhood that required slowing from 70 miles an hour to 45. He shifted gears, speeding down the road and barely slowed for the 45 miles an hour stretches.

  “What are we after?” I asked. “What are we doing?”

  He glanced over at me, as if having second thoughts about telling me. He pursed his lips for a moment. “A few weeks ago, a new brand of synthetic weed rolled into Charleston called JH-14.”

  “Synthetic?” I asked. “Why make a chemical based one when the real thing is out there? Why not just grow and distribute that?” It seemed impossible. Creating a new drug similar to one that already existed would require a lab, and the brains to use it. Drug dealers did this?

  “Synthetics go under the radar. They’re undetectable on drug tests. It attracts middle class buyers, interested because they can use it and not get fired from their jobs when they get selected for random drug screening. Kids tend to like it, too, because they can hide if from their parents and school easier. It’s also not illegal yet. This makes it very popular.”

  “But why not call the police? I mean if it’s a drug deal. Shouldn’t the DEA or someone be taking care of this?”

  “The DEA and the police can’t do anything about it,” he said. “Not until there’s a ruling by a judge to make it illegal. First they have to find a sample, and then test the product, find the chemical sequence and at the end of it, they have to go through court proceedings and bureaucracy. By the time any judge gets things together to make it illegal, this batch will have been distributed and they move on to the next formula. A new synthetic drug that they have to start all over again. It’s an endless cycle.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re interested.”

  “Because this particular batch is bad,” he said. “Normal side effects of synthetics are extreme cases of paranoia and aggression. This batch is much worse, and can create permanent damage. Not to mention the physical side effects vary from person to person. It’s the worst I’ve seen.”

  “Could it kill people?”

  “I believe it already has,” he said. “There’s been an increase in the local suicide attempt reports and we’ve made the connection that they were using these drugs. There’s people going into the hospital with flu symptoms and dying but they’ve not made the connection yet to this. Some people react differently to it and don’t get sick, but I think it depends on how much is injected or smoked or whatever the hell they’re doing with it. While instances seem to have been contained, I’m hoping to stop anything more from happening.”

  “So we’re going to go find the individuals that bought it and warn them?”

  “No. It’s possibly too late for that and we have no chance of tracing all those distributions. It gets to the point to where we’re chasing ants. We’re looking for the ant hill.”

  “The last batch?”

  He nodded. He brushed his palms against the steering wheel. “We may not stop everything, but we can stop any more from being distributed.”

  “How?”

  He smirked, and looked over at me. “Sweetheart, you may not have noticed, but I’ve got a few extra dollars in my pocket.”

  “You’re buying?”

  “I’m buying it all,” he said. “I walk in, pretend to be interested in catering to the super wealthy and in dire need of a synthetic.”

  I placed a fingertip along my eyebrow, smoothing the fine hairs over. “Let me see if I understand. You found out there’s this batch of synthetic we
ed that’s really bad. So you’re buying it all so no one can have it?”

  “That’s the gist.”

  “What are you doing with the stuff once you’ve got it?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got that taken care of. The important part is, I’m getting it out of the city.”

  Could this be true? It sounded crazy. But then, was it any crazier than a group of guys snooping around the city and looking for trouble in order to make it better? Was I going to judge him for doing what it sounded like the boys would have done? They probably would have helped him if they knew. “But what about the next time? What happens when the next box of synthetics arrives in town? Are you going to have to keep buying it up?”

  “We’re working on that,” he said. “Doyle and I. We’re finding the source. In the meantime, I just have to hope the next batch isn’t deadly.”

  I tapped my knee. I wasn’t sure if I was going to tack on any of my own information, but I needed to ask. “Does Mr. Fitzgerald work for you?”

  His hands clutched tighter at the wheel. “How do you know about him?”

  “He was at the party and then ... I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “Kate,” he said. “Look at me sweetie. I need to know. What do you know about him? Is this informant group you’re with investigating him, too?”

  “They were interested in you,” I said. “They wanted to know who you were connected with.”

  His eyes darkened. “He’s an innocent player who got mixed up in it. You’ll have to tell your buddies that. Leave him alone. I can’t explain it, but what we really need to focus on is getting this last batch and then finding the source.”

  “What happens when you find the source?”

  The sly smile slid across his face. “Maybe we’ll leave a friendly note with our own lovely neighborhood FBI informant.”

  I rolled my eyes and then looked out the window at the trees and homes as we passed by. Slowly, the countryside turned back into residential sprawl. We were getting closer to Moncks Corner. “You couldn’t have told me this before?”