After Love (3 page)

Nick sat in silence, staring up at the ceiling. “I really miss Peter. He was a good guy. I was sorry he got transferred to the San Diego office.” He took a deep breath and looked back at Bobbi. “But yeah, I work better alone.”

“Why?”

Nick's black eyebrows arched. “Partners slow me down, ma'am. And besides, I need someone who's completely and blindly loyal to me in a pinch.”

Bobbi twirled her pen between her fingers as she studied Nick. “Then you'll be glad to hear that I've decided you're going to get a new partner. Guaranteed to be loyal, obey your every command, and follow you anywhere.”

Nick stared at her, but she wasn't blinking. “You've just described a dog.”

“Bingo. Peter told me you were bright.” Bobbi pushed a business card across the desk. “You are to call Jamie Chambers at Woof Gang Kennels. She's the owner and head trainer. She'll help you choose the right dog and get it…and you…trained to support your work.”

“It's a joke, right?
Woof Gang?
”

Bobbi wasn't smiling. She rarely did. “This is in addition to your regular job. I'm putting you on the synthetic cannabinoid case. We've had two students at UT die in the last month.” She pushed a large folder across her desk to Nick. “Someone is selling loosie-goosey cigarettes with the paper dipped in a new synthetic drug and packed with fruit-flavored tobacco. You'll need to buy some on the street and get that into Jamie's training for your new partner.”

“Anything else?” Nick felt like he was no longer a DEA special agent but fast becoming a lowly pooper-scooper for a four-legged rookie who was going to do nothing but get in his way.

“That's a good start.”

He shifted in the chair. “I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. I don't have time to take care of myself, much less a dog.”

“You don't have a choice. You need someone to keep you from doing anything stupid again. At least a dog will know if it's cocaine or caffeine you're after. Besides, it's a partner who won't complain and will save us money. No health care, dental, or 401(k) matching…and no embarrassing headlines.”

Nick waited for her to smile and say she was kidding. But she dismissed him by looking down at the newspaper. The subject was clearly closed. At least he hadn't been fired or moved to a desk. He stood and pocketed the card. “I'll call her.”

“Today, Nick. Today.”

Nick sat in his truck in front of a small unnamed bar near the UT campus. The sun hadn't yet dipped below the buildings, but the bright red neon sign flashing
OPEN
already beckoned. He watched as a half dozen students joined the group of seedy regulars inside. Lucky for the kids, he wasn't there to check IDs, because most were clearly underage. But this bar was one of his best contact spots, so he wouldn't risk spoiling that.

He plucked Jamie's card from the dashboard of his truck and studied it.
Woof Gang Kennels
. What a stupid name.
Get a dog.
What a fucking stupid idea. The last thing he needed was a four-legged liability. It wasn't that Nick didn't like dogs, because he did. But with his crazy hours, he didn't even take care of himself properly…or at least that was what his grandma constantly reminded him. Now he would have another creature to keep alive.

Bobbi was a fair and understanding boss. She had covered for him on many occasions and looked the other way on several more. He knew she was serious about this, mostly to cover her ass with her bosses. The least he could do was cooperate…just this once. Maybe none of the dogs would pick him—a somewhat embarrassing thought.

He punched in the kennel's number, a little more viciously than necessary, and put the phone on speaker. Nick knew this would be a ridiculous waste of time, but, what the fuck, he could play along. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. This congressman thing was potentially a ticket out of Austin, and not in the right direction.

The phone rang for the third time and then stopped. Thinking it was the answering machine, Nick was about to hang up when a female voice came through.

“Woof Gang Kennels. This is Jamie. How may I help you?”

“Ah…yeah. This is DEA Special Agent Nick Archer. I was directed to call you about getting a dog.”

“Bobbi told me you'd be calling today. I had almost given up.” There was a hint of reproach in her tone.

“Yeah, sorry…Jamie, is it? Listen, I can call back tomorrow.”

“May I call you Nick, Special Agent Archer?”

“
Sure. Or maybe the day after tomorrow, if that works better for you?”

“I'd rather talk to you in person…tomorrow. Bobbi insisted that this was to happen on a fast track. What time can you come in?”

“I've got an appointment in the afternoon in Austin, so maybe about noon?”

“Noon? That's too late. I need five hours the first time to get you started correctly. Bobbi wants an update tomorrow, and I want to be able to report something more than that we talked on the phone.”

“Bobbi's a pain in my ass,” Nick muttered. “Listen, just pick me out a dog, and I'll drop by, load it up, and go.”

“That's not how we do it here. First there's an interview so I can assess your readiness, then count on about four hours to work with the dogs. And of course there's the training.”

“You mean the dogs aren't trained?” Nick heaved an exasperated sigh.

“Of course the dogs are trained. I was talking about you.”

It was the second time today that Nick had realized he was completely out of control…a feeling that made him very uncomfortable.

Jamie continued, as if completely unaware of his distress, “I want you to meet several dogs and see which one is the best fit…you know, demeanor-wise. We'll run you through a couple of routines, and then we'll find the one dog that will pass the audition.”

“Routines? You expect me to prance around like I'm performing in the Westminster dog show or something?”

Jamie laughed. “God, no. You'll see. Wear comfortable shoes.”

“Shoes? Sure. Okay, what time works for you?” Mentally Nick admitted defeat…at least for now.

“Midmorning, so we have time to let the dogs do their thing.”

“Some don't pass the audition?”

“Most don't. But I think you have the wrong impression. Actually, it's you who will be auditioning for the dogs. How about eight?”

“Great.” Nick didn't try to hide his sarcasm. This just kept getting worse and worse. Not only was a dog being forced on him, but he could suffer the humiliation of not being selected by the fucking mutts. Sort of like getting picked last for kickball in second grade. He was too old for this shit. “See you tomorrow…at nine.”

“Bye, Nick.”

He ended the call and flipped Jamie's business card toward the passenger-side floor. It immediately disappeared in the pile of fast-food wrappers and bits of paper with addresses and phone numbers of leads scribbled on them. The unconventional filing system worked for him, although it had driven his ex-partner crazy. Better men than Jamie had tried to change him and failed. He snorted. She didn't know who she was dealing with. Fuck her and fuck her dogs. They were the ones that would have to pass
his
test.

Back to business,
he thought with a mental shake. He'd already lost enough time on Bobbi's harebrained idea. Tonight he was going to try to score some loosies.

The term
loosie
had been coined on the streets of New York. Because of the exorbitant sales tax on cigarettes and the crackdown on sales to minors, entrepreneurs got around the laws by selling cigarettes one at a time, and they never checked IDs. If they paid fifty bucks for a carton and sold each cigarette for a dollar, that would be a $150 profit. A good salesman could sell six to ten cartons a day.

The phenomenon hadn't really made the transition to Middle America, but now in Austin, where several large colleges had active campuses, there was a new twist. Someone was making cigarettes, but instead of tobacco they were packed with synthetic cannabis, also called K2 or spice, and mixed with fruity flavors. Students and even kids smoked them, some thinking the loosies were a form of pot and others thinking the cigarettes were a blend of herbs that would be healthier than tobacco.

Neither was true. In spite of its name, synthetic cannabis contained no marijuana. And even though the filler was usually a blend of herbs, they were mixed with a dangerous combination of chemicals and heavy metals that produced a quick, cheap high…often with deadly side effects. The fruit flavor made it seem all the more innocent and lured in underage kids.

All of which made loosie-gooseys, whose name separated them from the traditional cigarette loosies, a trend reaching epidemic proportions. Nick's current assignment was to work with the Austin Police Department to find the source. And the best place to start the search was the no-name bar that was frequented by the loosie-goosey's target market: students, mostly male, up to the age of about twenty-six.

Nick waited until the sun dropped below the distant hills. He checked to make sure his Glock was fully loaded before sticking it into the back waistband of his faded jeans and pulling his shirttail down to hide it. With a battered Dallas Cowboys cap on his head and a pair of black Nikes on his feet, he knew he would blend in with the other patrons in the bar. He got out of his truck, locked the doors, adjusted his pants so the automatic settled more securely, then strode toward the front door.

The interior was several shades darker than the night outside, and it took a couple minutes for his eyes to adjust. There were groups clustered at several tables in the dining area, and a couple of middle-aged regulars were slumped on barstools, already several drinks ahead. Off to the right in another room, there was the crash and clatter of pool balls, and all around the bar dozens of televisions, with the volume turned up, were broadcasting different sports channels. As if it weren't noisy enough, a jukebox in the corner was pulsing with the heavy beat of a rap song. This was definitely not an easy place to eavesdrop on conversations…until the alcohol kicked in and the shouting began.

Nick looked around at the heavily male customer base. This wasn't the type of place a guy would bring a date. The few women who were here were either professionals or chicks with a drinking problem. Nick was careful to avoid both.

The young bartender didn't even bother with a coaster on the scarred wooden countertop as Nick straddled a stool at the end of the bar where he could keep an eye on the door.

“How's it going?” the young man asked, recognizing Nick from past visits, although no one had any idea of Nick's true identity.

“Good enough….Give me a small draft….Surprise me.”

“Cool. Got just the thing.”

In a minute he returned with a glass of dark beer, which he set on the bar. “Let me know what you think.”

Nick took a long swallow. “It's good. What is it?”

“Our own brand. A dark wheat beer with molasses. We call it Pig Dog.”

Nick's dark eyebrows lifted. “Pig Dog?”

“Before the Longhorn, Bevo, the UT mascot was a dog named Pig…Pig Dog.”

Nick nodded as if it made sense. He personally had never gotten into the whole rah-rah college fanaticism. Always a mediocre student, he had dropped out his junior year to join the Marines. He'd gotten his degree online while he was in Afghanistan, which didn't promote school loyalty.

The bartender slid a plastic bowl of bar chow toward Nick. “You a student?”

“I wish,” Nick answered with just the right level of regret. “No, I detail cars when I need money….Other odd jobs sometimes.” He picked the peanuts and pretzels out of the mix and downed his beer.

“Another one?” the bartender asked.

“Sure.” Nick looked around the small bar. “Kind of slow, isn't it?”

The young man picked up Nick's empty mug and replaced it on the bar with a full one. “Summer session starts in a couple days. It'll pick up then.”

Nick sipped his beer and feigned interest in a baseball game showing on one of the TVs over the bar. The bartender wandered down to the other end, where he chatted with the two older guys and replenished their drinks. When he finally returned, Nick was halfway through the second beer and thoroughly bored. The tables shared by the college kids were getting rowdier and rowdier, but there was no sign of any loosies. Maybe it was time to check out the bartender. They usually had their fingers on the pulse.

Nick finished his beer and signaled for another. After it was delivered, he leaned forward and said, his voice lowered so no one else would overhear, “My buddy told me he bought some loosies here.” He took a drink and waited.

The bartender studied Nick for a moment, then, as if any lover of Pig Dog must be trustworthy, he nodded. “What flavor?”

“Shit…I like 'em all….Can I get one of each?” Nick smiled with his best average-Joe grin.

“Sampler…no problem. That's a Benjamin.”

Nick pulled out a money clip and peeled off five twenty-dollar bills, which he quickly folded into a small rectangle so no one else would notice.

The bartender turned around, blocking his actions from everyone else as he opened the wine cooler, reached in the back behind the bottles, and pulled out a metal box. He used a key from his pocket to unlock the box before opening it and extracting a small package wrapped in brown paper and sealed inside a plastic bag. He turned around and placed the bag on the bar and palmed the folded bills, all in one smooth move.

Nick quickly slid the package off the bar and into his pocket. “These safe? I've heard some kids got messed up.”

“Sure. I use them myself.” He smiled as he dropped the twenties in the metal box and locked it.

Nick chugged the remainder of the beer and left another twenty on the bar. “Great beer, dude. Later.”

“Enjoy,” the bartender called as Nick left the bar.

If he hadn't been so distracted…and if he hadn't totally been a guy…Nick might have noticed the beauty of the Texas Hill Country with its craggy cliffs, sprawling oaks, and blanket of brilliant wildflowers. However, he had long ago become immune to the scenery because he took this drive often.

His grandmother lived about twenty miles west of Austin, outside the small town of Dripping Springs. Her hundred-year-old farmhouse had always been the gathering place for the family on every holiday. When they were kids, Nick and his two brothers had looked forward to spending summers on the farm. Grammy had insisted they each pick a month so they could get her undivided, individual attention. Those summers had created some of the best memories of his life.

And now, with his parents gone, Grammy was the glue that held the family together. She insisted—and no one ever told Grammy no—that whenever the boys were in town, they had to have Sunday lunch with her. No excuse other than deployment overseas or an undercover mission to Colombia was acceptable. It was amazing the control that one seventy-six-year-old woman had over three grown men.

Nick passed the turnoff to Grammy's house and continued on another half mile until he saw a sign shaped like a big paw with
WOOF GANG KENNELS
and an arrow painted on it. He turned off Highway 290 onto a gravel drive. Off to the right was a thicket of oaks, mesquite, and fir trees while the land to the left had been cleared and fenced to hold a small herd of coal black Angus cattle that were belly deep in lush grass. In a smaller pasture, a half dozen horses stood in a loose circle, their noses facing inward and their tails busily flicking away the ever-present flies. With their heads lowered and their eyes closed, they were clearly enjoying the early-morning sun.

It was a quiet, peaceful scene that would have lowered Nick's blood pressure to an acceptable level if he hadn't been so pissed off about being here. He continued around a curve and saw a large yellow two-story farmhouse, probably about the same era as Grammy's but with a Victorian touch. Three long outbuildings with individual chain-link runs attached to each opening were about a hundred feet from the house, and a traditional red barn stood at the far end, open to the horse pasture.

It was a habit to quickly evaluate and commit to memory any new surroundings. Nick didn't anticipate the necessity for a fast getaway, but in his line of work, anything was possible. A deep porch stretched across the front of the house, covered by the same shiny metal roof as the rest of the house and all the outbuildings. Wooden rockers were scattered in random groupings, and a big swing hung from chains at one end of the porch, angled to catch the spectacular sunsets over the Hill Country. It was all very organic and practical, clearly a place for hanging out, discussing ranch business or gossiping about neighbors, drinking a cup of coffee in the morning and a cold beer at night. It was a working porch, not staged with designer cushions just for show.