Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

“The district attorney is not going to prosecute me for trying to influence Doug Portman, is he?” I demanded. “That’s absurd!”

The phone rang. Tom rose to answer it. “You never actually completed the sale to Doug, so it’s doubtful you’ll have to face prosecution,” he answered slowly. Then he hesitated; the phone bleated. “But, Goldy—it does look very bad.”

CHAPTER 14

Tom was sitting at the table, scribbling in his trusty spiral notebook, phone tucked under his ear, when I entered the kitchen. The game was in overtime, the score tied. I didn’t care. I was angry my kitchen was closed, furious my van had been destroyed, and remorseful that I hadn’t been brave enough to tell Tom who was buying his skis. And why was all this happening? Because, years ago, I’d dated Doug Portman. And then, unabashed, I’d offered to do business with him. I’d figured, he’s the perfect buyer for the skis . I’d thought, This money will solve all our problems, and quick . Sure.

I looked around the kitchen. Action is better than inaction . Or something like that. I carefully moved Arch’s still-wet, splatter-frosted cookie sheet onto another counter, then stared at my old recipe card box. Tom continued to talk on the telephone.

I flipped through the box of stained recipe cards, my old standby before the kitchen computer. What dishes would comfort and nourish Rorry Bullock when she came home from the hospital with her newborn? Two reliable casseroles beckoned from a time before I entered the catering business: lasagne and Swedish meatballs. On one of the walk-in’s side shelves, I miraculously located fresh oregano, basil, and thyme. Serving meatballs and lasagne could jeopardize my upscale reputation, I reflected while removing ground beef, ricotta, Fontina, whipping cream, eggs, and mozzarella from the walk-in. Rorry wouldn’t tell on me, would she?

“Okay, got it. Yeah, sure, send it now. Thanks.” Tom hung up. “We know what opioid was on the patches. A drug called Duragesic.”

“Oh, brother.” Duragesic was a very powerful painkiller, administered through transdermal patches. The potency of the drug diminished over a period of time, at which point a cancer patient or other chronically ill-and-in-pain patient put on another patch.

“You use or even touch more than one Duragesic patch at a time, you’re probably going to die,” Tom added grimly. “But there wasn’t enough on those particular patches to kill anybody.”

“So why would you threaten a law enforcement person, in this case the head of the parole board, with something that wouldn’t work?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you thought it would work. Maybe you just wanted to scare the guy to death.” He slid his finger down the list of names he’d written in his notebook. “Eleven people I’ve arrested over the last four years have treated their cancer pain with Duragesic. Five of them were denied parole by Doug Portman. One’s in remission in Lamar, one’s a roofer in Pueblo, one’s in a Colorado Springs hospital on life support. One guy died. The last one, man of thirty, was paroled last June by someone else. He’d been denied twice by Portman. But Barton Reed violated his parole three weeks later by assaulting a big guy wearing a Red Wings jersey. He swore the Detroit fan taunted him. But Reed still went back to jail for another six months anyway.” Tom shook his head. “He’s been out for a couple of weeks.”

I set a pot of water on to boil for the pasta. “How’s his health?”

“He’s in remission now. Last May, while he was still in jail, he was in so much pain he was on … Duragesic.” Tom’s fax rang. A moment later the machine spat out a high-quality photocopied photograph. Barton Reed, wide-faced and menacing, a dozen crosses and oval-shaped earrings strung along the edge of each ear, leered off the faxed page. The photocopy undeniably captured the likeness of the man I remembered seeing last summer at Aspen Meadow Health Foods, the man I’d dubbed the Earring King. Last June, he’d been putting together an herbal remedy for his illness. When Cinda had talked to me about him on Friday, he’d been putting together something altogether different: a threatening card with death as its message. What had Jack Gilkey said? Reed has revenge in his heart .

I poured green-gold olive oil into a sauté pan. When the heat made the oil glisten, I tossed in chopped onions and crushed garlic cloves. They sizzled, turning the air mouthwateringly pungent. “So … what was Reed’s original offense?”

Tom cocked one of his bushy eyebrows. “Did you know our friend Barton was a hot snowboarder for a lot of years? Don’t get me wrong, that wasn’t what got him into trouble. He toured the freestyle circuit here and abroad. That takes money—for travel, lodging, entry fees, you name it. In winter, he based himself in Killdeer. In summer, he would search Aspen Meadow and the other wealthy areas of Furman County for elderly women in the last stages of cancer.”

I added the ground beef to the pan and soon the scrumptious aroma of beef sautéing in garlic and onion filled the kitchen. I was beginning to feel a little better, perhaps because I was cooking. Or maybe it was because we were talking about somebody else’s problems. I said, “Rich, elderly women with cancer? Why target them?”

Tom perused my Swedish meatballs recipe card, washed his hands, and whisked together eggs and cream. “To steal from them. He’d tell these women’s families that he knew a doctor down in Mexico, an American genius with a pedigree as long as a prosthetic leg. Reed’s very convincing line was that Doctor Genius had given up on the FDA ever approving his cancer-healing miracle drug. Why wouldn’t they approve? these people would ask. Because the AMA didn’t want their oncologists to go out of business, Reed claimed.”

“For heaven’s sake.”

“At Doctor Genius’s luxurious healing spa in Oaxaca, Barton assured his clients, their terminal relatives could be healed. They’d be back home in six months. He showed pictures, offered testimonials, the whole bit. He had a background as a lay preacher, and was very convincing. Each family handed over sixty thousand dollars—ten thousand a month for the first six months. They’d send Granny off with Reed, and that was that. They got glowing reports from Doctor Genius, from Reed, even from a purported resident chaplain. But never heard a word from their beloved grandmothers.”

“Which should have been their first clue.”

Tom nodded. “Finally, one relative went down to find out what was going on. The women were being kept in dreadful conditions in a sub-par nursing facility. No phone, no medical treatment, no chaplain. And needless to say, no genius doctor. Barton Reed had to hang up his snowboard so he could be incarcerated for three long years.” He paused. “Where’s the allspice?” I handed it to him. “Here’s the irony,” he continued thoughtfully. “After less than six months behind bars, Barton Reed was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Parole board member Doug Portman had no sympathy.”

“Or Barton Reed had no cash to fan the flames of Doug Portman’s sympathy,” I commented sourly.

Tom whirled cornflakes in the blender; he added them, along with dried minced onions, to the egg mixture. “Our guys are picking up Reed now for questioning. Miss G.—I want you to stay away from Reed. The man is fueled by rage.” Tom seasoned the crumb mixture and stirred it into his bowl of fresh ground beef. His large, capable hands formed scrumptious-looking meatballs. He placed them in rows on a jelly-roll pan and popped the pan into the oven. I stirred tomatoes, red wine, and herbs into the sauté pan for the double batch of lasagne sauce. While it was coming to a simmer, I browned two packages of chicken thighs in olive oil and set them to stew with onions, carrots, and bay leaf. These would form the base for the Sonora Chicken Strudel to be served at Arthur’s buffet the next day. Soon the old-fashioned scents of stewing chicken and spicy tomato sauce were wafting through our kitchen. Heavenly.