Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [43]
“I’ve never seen Agatha in pants.”
“Ever?”
“Always wears dresses.”
“Hell, that alone makes her suspect.”
“I’m glad to see this is a scientific system.”
“You know it,” I said, and turned back toward the paper. “Who else do we have?”
She pointed out three others with whom she felt skittish. Out of more than two hundred people, that didn’t seem like a staggering number.
“What now?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I’ll find out what I can about them.”
“Promise you won’t do anything stupid.”
“I’m insulted.”
“I mean it, Mac, promise.”
“Of course I promise.”
“You won’t call any gangsters, will you?”
“If you’re referring to D, he prefers to be called a collection engineer.” Dagwood Dean Daly lived in a high-rise on the Gold Coast in Chicago and had some kind of odd crush on me. In fact, he had once challenged Rivera to a duel, winner take me.
I had left the two of them bloodied and stupid outside the Mandarin Hotel. Oddly enough, I hadn’t seen D since. I couldn’t say the same of Rivera, though he had looked a little chagrined when he’d finally showed up at my door, scabs healing.
“I don’t think any collection engineers will be necessary for this,” I said, and scowled. “I thought I’d just ask some questions.”
“Okay,” Laney said, obviously dubious, “but let’s not get anyone in trouble.”
I glanced once more at the letters spread across her perfectly made bed. “I think someone’s already troubled,” I said.
“Christina McMullen.” Officer Tavis answered on the third ring. He must have caller ID at the station in Edmond Park. He also had a very nice voice.
“Are you busy?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “We’ve had two jaywalkers and a prank call.”
“Just this morning.”
“This isn’t L.A,” he said. “I’m talking all week.”
“Well, I’d better let you get to interrogating them. Maybe you can call me back when you’re not so frazzled.”
“No hurry,” he said. “Our thumbscrews won’t be here until tomorrow. We share them with the next county.”
“And they’re being used right now?”
“They’ve had a problem with littering.”
I huffed a laugh, then, “I have a question for you,” I said.
“It’s—”
“I don’t care what color your underwear is,” I said, and he chuckled as he settled in.
“What can I do for you?”
“Last week you said something about a drug called Intensity.”
“It’s just a theory.”
“What are the effects?”
“That’s the thing, the kids who died didn’t seem to have any symptoms in common.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jerome, the boy, was happy and well adjusted. Didn’t seem to have a care in the world. At least according to friends and family.”
“Would friends and family tell the truth?”
“Hard to say. The girl’s behavior was entirely different. Aggressive and loud. What’s up?”
“I have a … acquaintance who’s been getting some funny mail.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny—”
“Funny disturbing. I’m wondering if they might be drug related, but there are no restricted substances allowed on … my friend’s workplace.”
“Drugs aren’t exactly welcomed into the public school system, either, Chrissy. But I can’t think of another excuse for the blue haze in the bathrooms.”
“I think my friend’s … manager … actually insists on blood tests,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“You think traces of Intensity wouldn’t show up in the reports?”
“Nothing’s been flagged so far. And we’re not the only county in California that’s losing kids.”
“Any idea where the drug came from?”
“Are you asking for my hypothesis?”
“Why not?”
“I think it’s an offshoot of meth. Cheap to make, but without the usual side effects.”
“Except for death, of course.”
“Except for that one.”
I asked a few more questions, but learned nothing concrete.
“Thank you,” I said, and prepared to hang up, but he stopped me.
“What’s it worth to you?”
“What’s that?”
“The information I gave you is rather sensitive.”
“Really?”
“No. But I think it’s worth something.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Seriously?”
“I’m not going to have sex with you.”
“How about some heavy petting?”
“Why haven’t you been fired yet?”
“Because I’m a nice guy.”
“To whom?”
He chuckled. “Necking?” he asked.