The Killing: Uncommon Denominator Page 4
The thing about shaking and baking—the street name for the do-it-yourself process of making methamphetamine that had taken over from more standard meth labs in recent years—was that it was just too easy. Where the old-style meth labs called for hundreds of pseudoephedrine pills that had to be cooked over an open fire, with shake and bake, a cooker could turn out a few ounces of methamphetamine with a handful of cold pills and some chemicals from the hardware store shaken together inside a soda bottle. Anybody who could make a batch of cookies could whip up a batch of meth. And if you didn’t have a buddy who was willing to teach you, you could find out everything you needed to know about how to do it online.
What the shakers and bakers tended to forget was that easy didn’t mean safe. Do it right, and yeah, you could produce several grams of high-quality meth in less than an hour. But if you shook the bottle too vigorously, let too much oxygen in, loosened the cap too quickly—let a single drop of sweat come in contact with the lithium strips—you ended up holding an explosive fireball of corrosive chemicals in your hands. At least with the old meth labs, when a fire broke out, the cookers had a chance to run away. As far as Holder was concerned, anybody crazy enough to shake and bake should first make a standing reservation for their own sterile room at the nearest burn center.
“Family?”
He spun around. The man standing slightly to the left and behind him fairly reeked of cop, which explained why he’d been able to catch Holder by surprise. Buzz cut, compact build, rumpled hundred-dollar suit, feet spread and arms crossed like he was about to launch an interrogation. An in-your-face, by-the-book cop who couldn’t have pretended to be anything other than what he was if his firstborn’s life depended on it.
“A friend.” Calling himself Campbell’s friend was a stretch, but Holder couldn’t exactly tell this cop that the reason he was gawking outside the man’s window was because the burned man was one of Logic’s cookers and Holder was one of Logic’s runners.
“I’m sorry,” the cop said, sounding like he actually meant it.
“So’m I.” Truly sincere.
“I was hoping I could talk to him. Any idea what happened?”
Holder arched an eyebrow. Did this cop really think Holder was stupid enough to confess to knowing about the dude’s meth lab? Maybe he should just cut the guy a break and tell him he’d been planning to use Campbell as the star witness in the case he was building against Logic and be done with it. Logic had at least a half dozen cookers in the trailer park that Holder had managed to sniff out, but aside from Campbell, they were all users, and therefore about as valuable to him in a courtroom as a cockroach. Campbell was different. He was smart—maybe the smartest person Holder had ever known. Articulate. The kind of person who’d make a great witness. And he wasn’t cooking because he needed the dope, but because he needed the money. He seemed to care about his kid, keeping him out of harm’s way. Holder was sure that he would’ve been able to turn him; he’d just been waiting for the right moment to reveal his true identity, explain the benefits of being a professional snitch. It figured that of all the cookers in the park who could’ve blown themselves up, Campbell would be the one to draw the short straw.
“Nah. Him and me don’t talk much. We’re not like, close or nuthin’.”
“Did he have any other friends in the trailer park? Maybe his neighbor?”
Oh snap. Dude didn’t care about Holder’s snitch at all. Man was Homicide, tryin’ to nail the body the cops found in Tiffany’s trailer.
“I never been to his place. Wouldn’t know.” The lie was easy enough to disprove if this guy was as good as his body language wanted Holder to believe, but by that time, Holder would be long gone. He couldn’t get involved. Not without blowing his cover. Anyway, he’d only been working the park a few months. Other than the fact that the trailer belonged to Tiffany, and that, according to the park gossip, the guy who’d moved in a month ago was the latest in a long string of loser boyfriends, he didn’t have anything to offer. This cop could get that info elsewhere.
The cop gave Holder The Look—the one Holder used himself in the interrogation room—I’m hearing you, buddy, but I’m not buying a word you’re saying. Holder threw back a look of his own: Don’ know why you don’ believe me, man; I swear I’m bein’ straight wit’ you. Played it cool, stood his ground.
The cop stared back, backed down. Holder took the cigarette from behind his ear. “Lissen, man. I gotta go have me a smoke.”
The cop smiled, all Good Cop friendly now—Yeah, I hear you, buddy; no smoking rules are a bitch—and held out a card. “Sure. But if you think of anything that could help your friend, let me know.”
Holder pocketed the card and slouched off down the hall. Dude was sharper than he looked.
He paused at the nurses’ station. The charge nurse was checking a clipboard against a tray of meds. He laid on his best smile, pulled out his own card, tapped it on the counter to get her attention and pushed it toward her. “Call me when Number 1011 wakes up?”
She pushed the card back. “That’s not going to happen for a while. At least a couple of weeks.”
“Why’s that?”
“When somebody’s burned as badly as Mr. Campbell, we keep them under for as long as we can. It’s just better for everybody that way. People tend to go a little crazy when they’re awake, fighting us and screaming like they think they’re still on fire. It’s not pretty.”
Holder couldn’t imagine this five-foot bit of nothing wrestling an out-of-control burn patient the size of Campbell. He could, however, imagine her doing a very different kind of wrestling under far more pleasant circumstances. He gave her a sly smile that let her see a hint of what he was thinking and pushed the card toward her again. “Keep it. You never know. You might think of a reason to call.” He winked.
She laughed and picked up the card.
Holder stuck the cigarette between his lips and sauntered off toward the elevators. Kept his back to the nurses’ station while he pressed the call button and grinned. Oh yes, he did indeed have the touch, slayin’ the ladies with his ill lady skillz.
* * *
“Sorry I took so long,” Sarah said as she joined Goddard outside Campbell’s hospital room. “I couldn’t find a parking space.” She nodded toward the window. “You talk to him yet?”
Goddard shook his head. “No, and according to the nurse, it isn’t going to happen for a while. They’re keeping him under. Too badly burned. She said she’ll call when he wakes up, but that might not be for days—maybe weeks.”
“It was a long shot, anyway.” Sarah listened to the random beeps and hisses of the equipment keeping Campbell alive, then reached inside her jacket for her cigarettes. She caught herself and quickly shoved both hands into her pockets. Smoking in a hospital corridor? Really? Even though it was only a reflexive gesture and not a conscious act, the fact that she’d gone for her cigarettes at all was bad enough. She was going to have to give serious thought to cutting back. Maybe even quitting. She’d done it before—lots of times. She smiled thinly at the well-worn joke.
“There was a guy hanging around when I got here,” Goddard said. “Tweaker type. A real loser. Tall, brown eyes, light brown hair, jeans and a hoodie. Did you see him on your way up?”
“No. He must’ve gone down in the other elevator.”
“He made me as a cop right away. No telling why he was really here. His right hand was bandaged. Maybe from the meth fire. Want me to follow up?”
“Let it go. Not our case.” Sarah’s hand went again to her inside jacket pocket. Goddard clocked the gesture and reached into his own and pulled out a Nicachew and handed it to her. Sarah unwrapped it gratefully and popped it in her mouth. “I didn’t realize you were a smoker.”
“Was. Wife’s expecting again. I promised I’d quit before the baby’s born. It’s going to be a boy this time.”
“Boys are great.”
“You have a son, don’t you? John? Jim? How old is he?”
Sarah pressed her lips together to keep from answering back. It wasn’t the fact that Goddard had somehow managed to corner her into making small talk that irritated her so much as it was his assumption that all teenagers were trouble, including hers. He didn’t know Jack. Didn’t even know his name. Goddard was a smart man. Didn’t he realize that when parents presumed their teenage offspring would inevitably give them trouble the prophecy became self-fulfilling? She and Jack had a great relationship. Always had. Just because he was about to turn thirteen didn’t mean that was going to change.
“Okay. We’re done here.” She started toward the elevators. Goddard took the hint and fell silent as he followed.
8
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy’s home!” Goddard’s nine-year-old squealed from inside the house as he stomped up the front steps and crossed the wooden porch of his modest Pinehurst bungalow. He waited with his hand on the knob. On the other side of the door, the patter of footsteps stopped. The knob jiggled beneath his hand.
“Arianna—help me,” Sophie called to her older sister. “It’s stuck!”
Goddard smiled. They played the same game every evening: He announced his arrival with exaggerated footsteps, Sophie ran to greet him, he drew out the moment by preventing her from opening the door. He couldn’t remember how the game got started. A silly routine that was quickly becoming more absurd as his girls got older, but one he looked forward to playing nonetheless. A few lighthearted moments at the end of what was often a very long and very trying day.
“Arianna! Help me!” Sophie called again.
He waited until a second, more sedate set of footsteps told him his teenage daughter was also on the other side of the door, then let go of the knob. The door swung open.
“Daddy!” Sophie cried when she saw him. “You tricked me!” She pointed an accusing finger. “You were holding the door.”
Goddard pretended to be crushed by her accusation, just as Sophie pretended to be angry with him, then snatched her up and swung her over his head. She giggled and wrapped her arms and legs around him like a monkey as he leaned down to kiss his older daughter on the forehead. Arianna rolled her eyes. She didn’t kiss back, but she submitted to his kiss, and from his hormonal fourteen-year-old, that was all he could expect.
Sophie snuggled against his neck. “I missed you!”
“And I missed you. But why aren’t you in bed?” The same thing he said every night. Only this time, it really was past her bedtime. He was glad Kath had let Sophie wait up.
“Oh, Daddy.” Sophie placed both hands on his cheeks and gave him a big, wet, little-girl kiss. She wriggled loose. “Don’t forget to tuck me in!” she called as she ran off down the hall.
Arianna followed at a more leisurely pace, thumbs flying as she typed out a text message on her cellphone.
“Did you finish your homework?” Goddard called after her.
“Almost,” she mumbled back.
Which meant she hadn’t yet started. Why Kath didn’t keep a closer rein on Arianna, Goddard didn’t know. If Kath had been the breadwinner, and he the artist who got to stay home and paint in his studio every day, Arianna wouldn’t be spending all of her after-school hours in her room texting her friends.
He kicked off his shoes and hung his wet jacket on a hook beside the closet—he knew better than to hang it inside—and followed the clatter of pots and pans to the kitchen.
“How was work today?” Kath asked as he came up behind her and put his arms around her burgeoning belly and kissed the back of her neck. Six weeks until the baby was due. His son. Kath was having a harder time with this pregnancy than the other two. Nothing serious, just a lot of extra tiredness and swelling feet and the doctor monitoring Kath’s blood pressure and the baby’s heart rate more closely as the big day drew near. Technically, her pregnancy was considered high risk because of her age. The doctor had even written “elderly primagravida,” translation: “geriatric pregnancy,” on Kath’s chart. The image the term conjured up of a gray-haired, elderly lady giving birth had made them both laugh. Apparently there was a big difference between having a baby when you were twenty-one and when you were pushing forty.
“Work was fine,” he answered, as he always did. He didn’t like lying to her, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t very well tell her that he’d just come from the hospital room of a man who’d burned himself beyond recognition. Or that the man wasn’t likely to live. Or that no sooner had he I.D.ed the body of a well-to-do art lover who was shot execution-style in the head, than he found out the man’s only brother had been brutally murdered on the same day.
During the early years of their marriage, he’d tried answering the question honestly. But he’d quickly learned it was better for both of them if he divided his life into segments. Work stayed at work, home life played out at home, and never the twain shall meet. Besides, no one other than another cop really wanted to know what a homicide detective did all day. Especially not a homicide detective’s wife. It turned out Kath was a sensitive soul, an artist who augmented his meager cop’s salary by selling her watercolor paintings to tourists. Pretty scenes, all bright sunlight and dancing water and perfect pine trees. As if the world really was a nice place.
She smiled. “I’m glad. Supper’s almost ready.”
He grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down at his usual place at the table. Took a long slug as Kath hummed happily to herself and bustled around the kitchen.
“I got a new commission today,” she said as she put a heaping plateful of meatloaf and mashed potatoes in front of him and sat down with a glass of ice water to keep him company.
Goddard eyed the food and mentally divided the portion in half. Kath was a great cook—too good, really—but now that he’d reached a certain age, he needed to start watching what he ate. He’d been cutting back for almost two months. Lost close to six pounds. As far as he could tell, Kath hadn’t noticed.
“A Mrs. Armstrong wants me to paint an entire series,” she went on. “Two views of the Sound from her front lawn for each season, each depicting the water in a different mood. That’s eight paintings!” Kath beamed.
“But that will take—well, at least a year. Maybe longer.”
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful? Now I won’t have to worry so much about selling my other paintings.”
The art world was a tough place to make money, without a doubt. Tourists’ tastes were fickle. Some summers, Kath sold more than a dozen paintings. Other years, one or none. And whenever the economy took a nosedive, non-essential purchases like watercolor paintings were the first to go.
“She wants me to stay at her house as much as I can while I work,” Kath continued, “and she’s even going to set up a room for me as a studio. I went out to her home to meet with her today, and John—you should see it! The gatehouse is bigger than our own, and the main house is built entirely out of limestone—it looks like an English castle, with balconies and leaded glass windows all covered in ivy. The ceilings in the living room are low, with all this gorgeous exposed plaster and beam work, and the fireplace hearth must be at least twelve feet long. I could see into the dining room from where we were sitting, and I counted twenty chairs at the table. Imagine having a sit-down dinner party at your own house for twenty people!”
“What about the girls?”
“That’s the best part. Mrs. Armstrong says I can bring the girls with me whenever I need to. The house has an indoor swimming pool they can use, and a billiards table—even an arcade with a pinball machine. Won’t they have fun?”
“And the baby?”
“Well, there’s the rub.” She patted her belly. “No way to know if your son is going to be a quiet baby or a demanding one. But if I have to, I can make sketches at
the house and take photos and come back here to paint while the baby is napping.”
And what about me? Goddard wanted to say. Kath was glowing like a kid at a birthday party. So wrapped up in her own world, there was no room for his. He wished he could talk to her as enthusiastically about his current case. He wanted to share his concerns over his miserable solve rate, confess his constant worry that if his stats didn’t improve, he’d spend the remaining years until his retirement behind a desk.
Instead, he smiled and nodded as she prattled on. Feigning interest in what she was saying while keeping his thoughts and opinions to himself. The same tightrope he walked every night.
No wonder so many cop marriages broke up.
9
Holder picked at the duct tape on the sofa in Logic’s mom’s living room as the conversation around him ebbed and flowed. Logic the Dope Dealer bragging about his new big-screen plasma TV. Ridgeback the Dope Dealer’s Henchman going on and on about all the money he’d made that week moving product. A couple of guys Holder didn’t know the names of laughing and jiving about something he couldn’t have cared less about. The image of Campbell in his hospital bed stuck in his head, just as the hospital smell lingered in his nose and on his clothes.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Campbell’s boy either, disappeared forever into the bottomless pit otherwise known as the foster care system. He hoped somebody was watching out for the little dude on the first day of the rest of his sorry-ass life. It was tough without a moms or a pops in the picture. His sister was raising two kids by herself. Doing a good job of it, too. She’d raised Holder as well. Kids could turn out okay as long as they had somebody who cared about them.
“Bitch made me go once.” Logic’s voice penetrated Holder’s fog. “Buncha raggedy assed tweakers slayin’ the donuts.”