David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

Grisky ratcheted down his hard-charging tone a bit. “No one here is doubting that you know how to do your job. And I’m not trying to muscle you. I just do what I’m told, same as you.”

“We all do what we’re told,” The Aarvark agreed. “So let’s just get it done, okay?”

“Fine,” Questa growled.

Grisky looked across the table at Des. “The trouble is?…”

“Excuse me, Agent?”

“You were saying that Hank Merrill had money problems stemming from his divorce. That he texted Paulette Zander a suicide note in which he appeared to confess to stealing his own mail. But that the trouble is…”

“That he didn’t commit suicide,” Yolie spoke up. “Hank Merrill was murdered last night on Kinney Road. There was a cylindrical bruise on his right temple. Early this morning our medical examiner confirmed that it matches the nose of a.38 caliber Smith and Wesson Special. The victim didn’t have a gun permit for any such weapon. We’re checking to see if any of his close friends or coworkers do. There were bruises on the left side of his neck that indicate he was physically coerced. Also bruising beneath his lower lip that suggests he was forced to drink the large quantity of the bourbon that he ingested shortly before his death. His blood alcohol level was.26-more than three times the legal limit to drive in this state. No way he drove his Passat to such a remote locale in that condition. He drank it after he got there. Had to. Yet we can’t find a bottle. If he tossed it out the window then the town plowman most likely shoved it into the snowbanks surrounding the parking lot. I’ve got eight trainees from the academy digging their way through those snowbanks as we speak. If there’s broken glass they’ll find it. We’re also canvassing Hank’s neighbors on Grassy Hill Road to determine if any of them saw him drive away last evening and if so what time. One more thing-when we searched Hank’s jacket pockets we found an unmarked prescription bottle with a half dozen pills in it. The M.E. identified them as ten-milligram doses of diazepam, better known as Valium. Hank had what they estimate to be twenty milligrams of diazepam in his bloodstream when he died. He still had traces in his stomach. We just checked with his personal physician. Hank had never been prescribed diazepam.”

“Sounds to me like he was pacified into submission,” Des said.

“I hear you,” Yolie agreed.

“Were his fingerprints on that pill bottle?” The Aardvark asked her.

Yolie shook her head. “It was wiped clean. The passenger seat floor mat was removed. The passenger seat was moist. The duct tape and box cutter on the seat were wet. Yet when Resident Trooper Mitry found Hank, his hair and shoulders were dry. So were his shoes and the floor mat under them. The man never got out of that car. Someone else duct taped the garden hose to the tailpipe. We found Hank’s fingerprints on the hose. No prints on the duct tape that was wrapped around the tailpipe. Not that we would. The car’s exhaust heated the tailpipe enough to evaporate any fingerprint residue on the tape. We’re continuing to search the car and its contents for prints. We still have to take fingerprint samples from Paulette and Casey Zander, who’ve doubtless ridden in that car a million times and probably driven it, too. We need to eliminate their prints so we can isolate any others that don’t belong. Although I’m guessing that these people were careful enough to wear gloves. And I do mean people . We believe we’re looking for a pair. One drove up there with the victim. The other followed in a getaway car.”

“That’s good work,” Grisky concluded. “Sounds like you’re right on top of this case.”

“We may be talking two cases. Resident Trooper Mitry caught another suicide earlier in the day-a man named Bryce Peck who lived out on Big Sister Island.”

“Are you telling us Bryce Peck was murdered, too?”

“I’m telling you we’re looking into it.”

“Initially, Bryce’s death played suicide all of the way,” Des explained. “He was someone who had a long history of depression and substance abuse. And I found nothing at the scene to suggest a struggle.”

“How did he die?” Questa asked her.

“By washing down a one-month supply of Vicodin, Xanax and Ambien with a bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold.”

“Prescription meds again,” The Aardvark reflected, slurping his coffee.

“Bryce had legitimate prescriptions for the pills. And his live-in girlfriend, Josie Cantro, swears that all three bottles were full last time she looked. But we only have her word for that. And we won’t know for a fact what Bryce swallowed until we get his toxicology results, which Lieutenant Snipes fast-tracked last night, right after Hank Merrill’s death.”

Grisky furrowed his brow. “Have you got reason to believe that this Josie Cantro might have been less than truthful with you?”

“Let’s say I have more information about her today than I did yesterday.”

“What kind of information?”

“Bryce Peck’s attorney drew up his will for him last week. It seems that he left Josie his house on Big Sister, which he owned free and clear. It’s worth in the neighborhood of five million.”

Sam Questa let out a low whistle. “Nice neighborhood.”

“Josie’s a life coach who has a thriving little practice around town. She had a professional relationship with Hank Merrill. And she currently has one with Paulette Zander’s son, Casey, who she also happens to be sleeping with. I know this because I walked in on them getting busy yesterday, less than two hours after Bryce Peck was pronounced dead.”

Now it was Grisky who let out a low whistle. “Josie’s a baad girl. Is she a babe?”

Des nodded. “She’s a babe.”

“Sounds to me like she’s up to her pretty eyeballs in this thing.”

“Whatever this thing is,” Des acknowledged.

Now Grisky turned to The Aardvark. “Okay, what does the Narcotics Task Force have for us?”

Joey Amalfitano took another loud slurp of his coffee before he said, “What this thing is, maybe. We’re spending more and more of our time going after dealers of stolen prescription meds. They sell them at a cut-rate price to low-wage working people who have no access to health insurance-diabetics, asthmatics, women who need birth control pills and so on. I’m not talking about a couple of skeejie characters peddling Oxy in a dark alley. These are organized, highly profitable black-market pharmacies that are operating under the protection of the Castagno crime family. Last summer we busted an operation in Bridgeport that was selling meds in broad daylight out of ice cream trucks at the playgrounds. The kids were buying Rocky Road. The grown-ups were buying Celebrex.”

“And this wasn’t counterfeit stuff from China or whatever?” Grisky asked.

“The real stuff,” The Aardvark assured him. “It’s turning into a huge problem for us. There is absolutely no way we can choke off the demand. Not when so many people are barely scraping by. So we’re attacking it from the supply end. We have an ongoing investigation into a gang that exists for the sole purpose of stealing prescription drugs for these black-market pharmacies. Some of these guys were connected with the gang we took down in Bridgeport. They’re still operating-with the blessing of the Castagnos-in places like New Haven, New London and Norwich. And they have a million different ways of getting what they need. The big-timers go after drug warehouses and delivery trucks. I’m talking armed, serious pros. Lower down on the food chain you’ve got hundreds of hustlers who gobble it up wherever they can find it. They steal it from the curbside mailboxes in wealthy rural towns like this one. And they have legions of little people who do their dirty work for them. Some of these people are pharmacy cashiers, motel chambermaids, cleaning ladies and the like. A lot of them are ordinary high school kids who’re just looking to score some pot or coke. You wouldn’t believe what these kids are lifting from their parents’ medicine chests. They swap it for their own drug of choice, legal or illegal, or for just plain old cash-which, as we know, never goes out of style. None of it’s real flashy, but it’s very profitable and it’s everywhere .” He glanced over at Questa. “If you discover that the postal service has some bad apples diverting prescription meds from the supply trucks into the hands of these guys then we may be able to bring down some major players. These are nasty boys, Inspector.”