Bonita Palms Page 17

  “How about thousands upon thousands per month.”

  “Per month?” The number floored me.

  “Of course. Narvia is a bestseller, at or near the very top of all drugs produced in this country. And we’re very proud of its success.”

  “What are your annual sales?”

  “I can’t divulge that information.”

  “You dubbed it a bestseller. Yet everything I read, every advertisement for Narvia I see on television, comes with a whole slew of warnings that never seem to end. Side effects that appear worse than any disease. Why is this?”

  The president ignored the question, stood, and headed toward his desk.

  “Sir?”

  No response.

  I got up and followed. “Mr. Bostwick?”

  He took a seat and spoke without looking up. “I have work to do.”

  In a calm voice I said, “I need the list of pharmacies dispensing Narvia in the Bonita Springs area of Florida.”

  He shook his head, then spewed arrogance, “Sorry, but I don’t have to reveal that information.”

  I remained composed. “Yes, you do.”

  Bostwick laughed. “Oh really? And how are you going to make me? With force? Police brutality?” His hand went beneath his desk.

  I realized he was probably preparing to hit a secret button that’d have security in the room within seconds.

  “I don’t need to use force,” I shrugged.

  He snickered. “Then what?”

  “This will do the trick.” I removed the subpoena from my jacket pocket and tossed it onto his desk.

  “What’s this?” His glance went from the document to me, daggers burning into my eyes.

  “Read it.”

  “I don’t have time to read it. Why don’t you summarize for me?”

  “That’s a court order instructing you to provide me with the information I need about Narvia.”

  “So … I should have had my lawyer here, after all!”

  “It’s not too late. You can call him now. But the subpoena stands, either way.”

  Bostwick made a move for his phone, then hesitated. I saw the change come over him; like most bullies when it’s obvious they no longer have the upper hand. Gone was his flippant attitude. What he said next was spoken with a measure of deference: “What exactly do you want to know?”

  I resisted the urge to gloat. “By cooperating with our investigation, you’ll be granted immunity from prosecution. I’ll contact the FBI and get that in writing for you. Meanwhile, you have time to start damage control. It appears Narvia has an adverse effect only on people with a certain genetic disposition—or possibly in conjunction with another drug. We believe some people who take Narvia, especially those who exceed the recommended dosage, have blackout episodes and become violent. Fortunately, that number is very small.”

  Bostwick’s eyebrow twitched. “And?”

  “I need your list of pharmacies who’ve been prescribing Narvia in the Bonita Springs area of Florida.”

  “I don’t have such a list.” he paused. “But I can ask my sales staff to gather it for you.” He pointed at the subpoena. “But you’ll have to get that amended. The drugstores won’t cooperate without legal assurances that they won’t be prosecuted for breaking patient confidentiality.”

  I took out my phone and began texting Walter Diggs, hoping he could have the change made without difficulty.

  “Deputy?”

  “Sorry. I’m working on your request.”

  “When do you think you’ll have it by?”

  My phone chimed. As expected, it was Diggs’ reply. I looked at the screen then reported: “Hopefully you’ll have it in a day or two. How long will you need once you get it?”

  “Not long. I can see there’s some urgency. I’ll do my best to speed this along.” Bostwick paused. “Look—there’s no denying I’d be pleased if you’re wrong about Narvia. But, however this shakes out, I hope you nail your killer.”

  “I hope so as well, Mr. Bostwick.” I stood, nodded a goodbye. “For both our sakes.”

  43

  March 31

  Denise sat on the couch in the great room of her home opposite Brad Pederson, each holding a glass of iced tea. She self-consciously tugged at the long sleeves of her blouse that hid the self-inflicted cuts along her arms. She didn’t know what he’d make of it; she hardly knew what to make of it herself.

  “The reason I’m here,” Pederson said evenly, “is to ask if you’re taking a prescription medication called Narvia.”

  She barely understood the question but wasn’t about to ask him to repeat it. Denise wasn’t herself; hadn’t been for the past number of days. She began to wonder if the cause was the very medication the sergeant was talking about.

  “Ma’am?” Pederson queried.

  She began to squirm in her seat. “Yes?”

  “Did you understand what I just said?”

  “Of course,” she lied.

  “Well, if you’re on the pills, have you noticed any adverse side effects? Anything unusual that’s happened to you since you began taking them?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Narvia, Mrs. Gerigk?”

  “Narvia?” Denise felt off balance. Her mind was entering that other zone, where reason took a holiday, imagining the knife in her hand, cutting herself; the delicious feel of the blade.

  Her eyes began to close; she forced them open; noticed her empty glass; an excuse to move; quell her nervous energy. She stood. “Would you like a refill?”

  “No thank you, ma’am.” He indicated his own glass of iced tea which was still half full.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need a little more.” She picked up her glass and headed for the kitchen, wobbling slightly along the way.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Gerigk?” Brad called after her.

  She stopped, turned back. “I’m … fine,” she thought she said, or something to that effect. Then clarity surfaced, and for a moment she knew exactly what she wanted to tell him but, almost immediately, lost her train of thought. Her hand reached out to the nearest drawer. When her fingers touched the butcher knife, she felt a thrill go through her body.

  44

  April 3

  Monday afternoon my four o’clock appointment arrived at my office right on time. Joan Ward and I were familiar with one another. As usual, the bleached blonde was impeccably dressed; pink blouse, and suit an off-white color that was form-shaped.

  I invited her to have a seat and asked how I could be of help.

  She appeared nervous and took a moment before replying: “I’ve—uh—come here on my own to give you a warning. The natives are restless. There’s talk of the men forming a vigilante committee to do a search and seizure of any suspicious looking characters. I’ve heard that gun sales have gone through the roof. People are almost at a state of ‘Shoot first—ask questions later.’ The community has dubbed you guys ‘The Keystone Cops’.”

  I could see how difficult this was for her, but I was caught between a rock and a hard place. If I didn’t make a public announcement of my Narvia theory, another murder might occur. But if I did broadcast it, the serial killer would likely stop taking it—lose the urge to do harm—then essentially disappear. This would leave Bonita Palms with a series of unsolved murders that would haunt the community for years to come. Even if the killing spree stopped, the residents of the Palms would never feel truly safe and would always have to be on guard. And then there was Murphy’s Law—exactly when they did begin to relax, believing the killer’s lust had been satisfied, he would then strike again.

  “Mrs. Ward—”

  “Joan,” she corrected.

  “Joan, I can understand the frustration. But this type of investigation, where there’s no evident motive, is the most difficult to solve. My m
en have been working nonstop, approaching each murder from various angles, all without the results we were hoping for. But … new information has come to light that I’m not at liberty to discuss right now. We have a very promising development and I’m confident this will lead to an arrest.”

  Mrs. Ward looked up, hesitated, then spilled it out: “Not good enough, I’m afraid. It’s been months since the first murder and there’s been no progress. People are asking why the investigation is taking so damn long.” She blushed. “Sorry. Those aren’t my words. My neighbors are saying you’re not working hard enough, that you should be doing more to protect us.” She paused.

  When she spoke again there was a hitch in her voice. “Four of my friends have been murdered. I … don’t sleep at night. I can’t eat. I don’t feel safe anymore.” Another pause. “I’ve been going out less and less. I’ve never been claustrophobic before, but the walls of my house keep closing in on me. I feel like I—”

  Tears came to her eyes, which caught me off guard. I jumped up and came around the desk, placed my hand on her shoulder, gently squeezed.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” I said, remaining by her side.

  “I feel terrible for talking to you this way. I know you’re doing what you can. But my friends and I are living on the edge. I don’t know how much longer we can go on like this.”

  I weighed her comment for a moment, decided to take her into my confidence. “I believe the killer lives in Bonita Palms and definitely has the trust of the community. But the worst part is, he might not even be aware of what he’s doing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He could be having a drug-induced breakdown.”

  “Then how will you catch him?”

  “I would like to ask you to be vigilant. Nothing should be taken for granted. A person might do something strange. They could be rude, abrupt, or act in a way that goes against their nature. The behavior pattern I’m suggesting could be subtle and easily dismissed, especially if it’s exhibited by someone you know, someone close to you, someone you trust. Look—I’d like to give you my cell number. You’ll be able to reach me 24/7.”

  Mrs. Ward opened her purse and removed her iPhone. I noticed her hands were shaking.

  I read my number to her. “I don’t want you to put yourself in harm’s way looking for a suspect. But should something come to you, don’t hesitate to call me. Your name will be protected. Anything revealed to me will be handled with the strictest of confidence.”

  “All right,” she said, but she looked distracted.

  “Is there something else I can help you with?”

  “No. Not at the moment.” She got up but seemed reluctant to leave.

  “Mrs. Ward?”

  “Oh? I’m sorry. I was thinking about what you said. There was something that momentarily occurred to me, but now it’s gone. I’m certain it’ll come back. Eventually…”

  “Let me know if you remember it. Reach out to me at any time, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

  45

  One week prior

  Bill Miller ran out of patience. He’d spent another restless night, this time at a Hampton Inn; his medication losing its effectiveness. The temperature in St. Louis was colder than yesterday, with snow starting to fall again. He drove to Frank’s house and pulled up in front. There was no sign of activity inside.

  He looked at his watch. Frank should have been here by now. Bill wondered if he’d guessed wrong, if Frank could’ve been headed somewhere else. But this was the only destination that made sense. Unless … something happened to him?

  Bill returned to the van and checked the monitoring device; nothing registered. He drove down the block and parked. There were a few other cars, none of which belonged to Frank. The snow was picking up. He had no doubt that driving conditions would soon worsen. Frank might be unable to get here. And Bill realized that if his pain grew any worse, he’d have to check himself into the nearest hospital.

  * * *

  A full hour had passed. The knot in Bill’s stomach became unbearable. He pulled his Celenome medication out of his pocket. His prescribed limit was two pills per day. This would be his fourth. He popped it into his mouth and dry swallowed.

  The snow was now obstructing the van’s windshield, making it impossible to see. Bill started the motor and put on the wipers. But he couldn’t let the van idle for long. Twice before it had overheated. He waited a few minutes. Sure enough, the temperature gauge began to move toward the danger zone. Bill shut off the motor, opened the door and stepped out, grateful for the jacket he’d purchased yesterday. He began to brush the snow off the windshield with his hands until they grew so cold he could hardly feel them. He cupped his fingers and blew on them, which didn’t do much good. The snow was relentless. Trying to wipe it all away was a losing cause.

  Bill went to get back in the van when he slipped and fell. His right leg hit the icy ground at an awkward angle and a ferocious pain shot up his spine. He called for help but realized he was too far away for anyone to hear him. Get your phone out, he told himself, but his hands wouldn’t obey. Then the irony hit him, that Frank Sinclair would survive while he would not.

  46

  April 3

  Early evening

  In bed with Sara after making love, feeling her warmth against my chest, gave me a feeling of such contentment, I longed for it to last forever.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “So why the Cheshire cat grin?”

  I wanted to tell her how happy she made me feel, that I more than cared about her.

  “Miles?”

  “Shh—” I snuggled closer.

  I wasn’t supposed to be here. I’d called her right after Joan Ward had left my office and voiced my concern about the Bonita Palms residents running out of patience. Sarah understood my frustration, invited me over for dinner, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  I arrived in an uptight state of mind. Sara answered the door wearing nothing but bikini panties and a spaghetti-strapped white camisole with the word “appetizer” printed in black across the front.

  I stood there, speechless. At first. Then I began to laugh, loud and hard, longer than I’d laughed in months … until tears came to my eyes.

  “Do you like?” Sara batted her eyelashes.

  I more than liked.

  She beckoned with an index finger and I followed, from the foyer of the house to her bedroom, where the lights were off and a lone candle burned.

  Sara became playful, made a show of removing the flimsy undergarments she had on. I caught sight of the butterfly-shaped birthmark above her naval. She pushed me onto the bed and began to undress me, slapping my hands away when I tried to help.

  I’d recently stopped taking my Narvia medication. On the one hand, my anxiety was slowly creeping back. But on a positive note, I’d experienced no further blackout episodes. As a result, I felt confident there wouldn’t be a repeat of what happened the last time she’d joined me in bed.

  I started to expound upon this, but Sara hushed me, saying, “I’m not worried.”

  We made love in a manic frenzy. Then, after catching our breath, we went at it again, slower this time, teasing each other and making it last.

  * * *

  I slept for a while, woke to the sound of Sara working in the kitchen. By the time I joined her she had the room lights dimmed and the dining room table set.

  “Sit, sleepyhead,” she said.

  I sat.

  There was a bowl in front of me.

  “Butternut squash soup,” Sara announced. “I hope you like it. I prepared everything in a rush. Not sure how good it’s going to taste.”

  I looked at the bowl, then at Sara. I was
in love with this woman but couldn’t figure out how to tell her. I waited until she was seated before spooning my first mouthful.

  “Yum. Terrific.” I rubbed my stomach.

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel good.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “If I ever catch you lying to me, mister, I’ll be forced to reprimand you,” she winked.

  “Is that a good thing or bad?”

  “You don’t want to find out.”

  The entree was linguini in a marinara sauce, and it was delicious as well. I never tired of watching Sara eat, full fist still gripping her fork. In lieu of serving the apple pie I noticed sitting on the counter, Sara stood, leaned toward me, and began to unbutton my shirt.

  “Hey, what’re you doing, lady?”

  “Getting you ready for dessert.”

  My cell rang. It was in my coat, hanging by the door. I ignored it, not wanting to spoil the moment.

  It rang again.

  Sara went over, removed it from the pocket and handed it to me.

  I glanced at the name—Diggs. I showed it to Sara, said, “Thanks. I’d better take this.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “Miles—” The FBI agent’s voice was severe enough for me to know it was bad news. “I’m sorry, but the plug is being pulled. I’ve been instructed to advise you that my team is preparing to take over.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “Until Friday night.”

  “Huh?” I slapped the table with an open palm.

  “Until—”

  “I heard you! Goddamnit, Walter, I thought you’d give me a bit of a warning.”

  “I just gave it to you.”

  “That’s not a warning. I need a week or two, not three days.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s the best I could bargain for. The chief wanted me to take command today.”

  Don’t shoot the messenger, I reminded myself. “Okay, Walter.” I hit the OFF button, stood, and turned to Sara. “I’ve got to go.”