James Swain - Bad News Travels

“I want you to distract your friends,” he whispered.

“Why should I do that?” she whispered back.

“I’m going to fix this. Stand at the head of the table, and start talking. I need you to draw everyone’s attention away from the side of the room where the plants are.”

“Wait. What are you—”

“Just do it, okay?”

“Be careful here. I don’t know Erce that well.”

“Understood.”

Beth got a fresh water and returned to the table. Instead of sitting, she stood at its head. “I’m confused about the dope. Isn’t there another treatment for PTSD?” she asked. That led to Arlen repeating the treatments he’d undergone, and how his doctors at the VA hospital had decided that taking cannabis was the safest way to keep him from losing his mind.

“It’s funny, but I never smoked until I got out of the army, and that’s the God’s honest truth,” Arlen said, blowing a monster cloud.

Lancaster returned to the table. He gave Beth a wink. She’d seen his subterfuge, while the other FBI agents had not.

“I’m sorry, Arlen, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you, and confiscate your plants,” Phillips said.

“Suit yourself,” their host said.

Phillips read Arlen his rights and handcuffed him. Then, he told his team to take the plants outside. He planned to call for a police van to take the plants to the sheriff’s department, where they’d be stored in a police property locker. Cell service was poor inside the barn, and Phillips went outside to make the call.

“I saw what you did,” Arlen whispered to Lancaster.

“Keep it down,” Lancaster said.

Arlen let out a stoner’s laugh. Phillips returned moments later, holding his cell phone. He motioned for Arlen to come outside. Still laughing, Arlen obeyed, the lit joint dangling from his lips. Lancaster walked beside him, imploring him to keep quiet.

“You’re okay for a cop,” Arlen said.

“Glad you think so.”

They stood by the building’s scant shade and faced the pot plants, which were lined up on the back lawn. The team of FBI agents stood nearby, looking confused. From the house the old woman continued to yell.

“Hey, Erce,” one of the agents said.

Phillips was still on his phone with the sheriff’s department. He said, “Hold on,” and clapped his palm over the mouthpiece. “What’s up?”

“We got a problem,” the agent said.

“What kind of problem?”

“A big problem. Take a look for yourself.”

Phillips ended the call and joined his team. They talked in hushed whispers, and were clearly agitated. Arlen flashed a loopy grin.

“Thank you, brother Parrot Head,” he said.

“That’s not why I did it,” Lancaster said.

“Then why?”

“I was a SEAL, and did several missions in Iraq. Every soldier that did a tour in that hell hole deserves a medal.”

“You can say that again. Thanks, man.”

Phillips stormed over to where they stood. He gave Lancaster an angry look, then stared at Daniels, trying to determine who had betrayed him.

“There’s only six plants,” the special agent bellowed.

“You must have miscounted,” Beth said.

“You saw them yourself. There were seven plants when we entered the barn.”

“I didn’t count them,” Beth said. “This wasn’t intended to be a drug bust. When you said there were seven plants, I took your word for it. You must have miscounted. Mistakes happen, Erce.”

“I don’t make mistakes like that,” Phillips snapped. “Your friend here disposed of one of the plants when we weren’t looking.”

Beth put her hands on her hips and stared him down. “He did no such thing. You made an honest mistake. No harm, no foul. Please remove the handcuffs from our suspect so we can get on with our investigation.”

Phillips pulled out the handcuff keys and angrily tossed them on the ground. He rounded up his team, and they departed without so much as a goodbye.

Arlen laughed under his breath as Lancaster uncuffed him.

“How did you make the plant disappear?” Arlen asked.

They were back at the dining room table inside the barn. Using an app on his phone, Arlen made a Jimmy Buffett classic, “Son of a Son of a Sailor,” play from the speakers hanging on the wall. Lancaster sat at the head of the table. He’d convinced Beth to let him take over. A bond had formed, and Arlen was in his corner.

“I dragged the smallest plant into the bathroom and flushed the leaves down the toilet,” he said. “Then I broke the stem into little pieces, and hid them in the tank.”

“Thanks for picking the smallest,” Arlen said. “Guess I’d better clean the tank out before I flush again.”

“That would be a good idea. Now let’s discuss why we’re here. Your Charger was spotted driving away from a home invasion a few hours ago, and nearly ran us over. The same vehicle was spotted earlier parked outside a church. A pair of nasty-looking Russians were driving it. Do you know these guys?”

“Not very well. Their names are Bogdan and Egor Sokolov.”

“Are they brothers?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Which is which?”

“Bogdan is taller, and does the talking. Egor is the short one, and does the driving. They rent my car when they come to town.”

“So your relationship is a business one. How often do they come into town?”

“Three or four times a month. I met them through a car sharing marketplace called Turo. They fly into town and Uber it over here. They always bring the car back clean, and pay in cash. It’s a good deal for me.”

“Which airport do they fly into?”

“Northeast Regional. It’s just north of Saint Augustine.”

“Did they ever discuss their business with you?”

“No. Whatever they were doing, it was generating a lot of cashola. They always brought an empty duffel bag with them. When they left, it was stuffed.” The joint had turned to ash, and Arlen rolled another on the table and lit up. In Lancaster’s experience, cannabis was like truth serum. The more of it a person smoked, the more they were likely to reveal, the only difference being that people didn’t take truth serum willingly when speaking with agents of the law.

Arlen took a hit and reflexively offered Beth the joint.

“Whoops. I didn’t mean that,” he said.

“I smoked once in college,” she said defensively.

Arlen dropped his chin and tried not to guffaw.

“Let’s get back to the Sokolovs,” Lancaster said. “They’ve been visiting Saint Augustine and using your car to get around. Did you ever see them in town?”

“Just once. They were having drinks with a woman at a dive called the Bar None Saloon. It’s on A1A, not far from here. I took an Uber over there with my buddies one night. I went up to the bar to get a brew, and caught them out of the corner of my eye, but they didn’t see me.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Three weeks back. The jukebox was on, but I caught a few words. They were talking in Russian. The woman kept saying, ‘Nyet, nyet,’ and Bogdan would shoot her down. It wasn’t friendly, so I grabbed a beer and went onto the patio.”

“Have you seen this woman before?”

“You bet. She was at the Tradewinds one Friday night, turning heads. I was going to buy her a drink, but my buddy told me she was bad news, so I left her alone.”

“She was good-looking?”

“A real showstopper. Ever notice how Russian men look like dogs, but the women look like models? I wonder why that is.”

“Why did your buddy say she was bad news?”

“She must have a bad rep. This being a small town, word gets around.”

“Describe her.”

“She’s got jet-black hair and long eyelashes and a kick-ass body. She sits at the bar with an unlit butt in her mouth. That’s her hook. She wants guys to light her cigarette, so she can strike up a conversation.”