Dead to the Last Drop (27 page)

Detective Danica Hatch called me away from the men. We sat on rickety folding chairs, a stained card table between us.

“Detective, may I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she said, eyes still riveted to the men.

“You don’t know Quinn and you don’t know me. Why are you willing to stick your neck out to help a couple of potential candidates for
America’s Most Wanted
?”

Danica swung her long legs under the table and faced me.

“Actually, I know Detective Quinn better than you think.”

I leaned forward. “But he seemed a stranger to you that morning in DC, or was that some kind of a ruse?”

“No ruse. I never met Detective Quinn face-to-face until the morning I met you. But I’ve known him for several years, and I owe him a debt . . .”

She paused to fill her paper cup and mine with coffee from her
thermos. I quickly downed half my cup. It was weak and lukewarm, but I didn’t care. At this point, I was simply grateful for the caffeine.

“I still don’t understand. What sort of debt would you owe Mike?”

“Sorry. But it’s personal. You don’t really need to know.”

“Yes. I do.”

Danica lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me?”

“No offense, but I’ve only seen you once before.”

The detective glanced at the men again, who were still intensely conversing. She leaned toward me. “Mike Quinn helped someone in my family, okay? That’s why I owe him a debt.”

“What did he do, help your brother join the NYPD? Something like that?”

Danica almost laughed. “Not even close. My brother used to despise the police. When I joined the Baltimore force, he turned on me.”

I nodded, not surprised. After years of serving coffee to police officers in New York City, I’d heard plenty of similar stories.

“How old was your brother when you joined up?” I asked.

“Devon was eighteen—with a chip on his shoulder, and a lot of bad friends. Suddenly I wasn’t ‘Danny’ anymore. I was ‘the man’ . . .”

“Go on, I’d like to hear.”

“Well . . . the recession hit Baltimore hard. Dev couldn’t find a part-time job. But all of his brothers were flush with cash, because they were dealing for a local gang. One day Mom calls to tell me Devon’s missing. Five days later, he turns up in New York. Dev’s friends had convinced him to take a ride to the Bronx to pick up some new product. They got to sampling their stash in some dive hotel, but this wasn’t the stepped-on crap they were used to, and when they shot up . . .”

Danica’s cheek quivered, but she quickly covered her reaction by dumping a packet of Splenda into her cup. “By the time the housekeeper found them, only Devon was alive—barely—and facing Class B felony charges for possession of a large amount of heroin with intent to deal.”

“Oh, now I see. You know Mike from his work on the OD Squad.”

She nodded. “Detective Quinn found Dev handcuffed to a bed at a New York City hospital. He got the cuffs removed, and he was there when Dev came out of his coma.”

Danica drained her cup, and I poured us each another.

“My brother was lucky, in a way. There was something wrong with the smack, and the OD Squad was tasked with getting it off the street. I think any other cop—and that includes me—would have tossed Dev in a cell and forgotten about him. But Quinn was different.

“He offered Devon a plea deal. As long as my brother cooperated with the prosecution, he’d be treated as a material witness, not a suspect. Because of Devon’s testimony, the OD Squad made a half-dozen arrests and got the poison off the street. And Quinn was as good as his word.

“Before my brother got home, Quinn arranged treatment for him at a facility here in Baltimore. Now Dev’s a sophomore at Morgan State with a three-point-five average in computer science.” Danica smiled for the first time since she began her story. “He’ll be making more money than me someday.”

She locked eyes with me. “
Now
you see why I’d go to bat for Detective Quinn anytime he needs me, anywhere he needs me.”

“Are you telling me that through all that, you never met Mike face-to-face?”

“There’s irony there,” Danica said. “I was working undercover on a drug sting in this very neighborhood while this all went down in New York. My mother and I exchanged a lot of e-mails, and a couple of phone calls with Quinn, and when it was finally over I called to thank him, personally.”

She laughed.

“I imagined Quinn as this bald Irish guy with a beer belly. If I’d known how hot the man was, I would have driven up to New York to express my appreciation
in person
.”

I laughed, too. “You know I might have had something to say about that?”

“I know . . . and from that bracelet I saw you wearing the morning I brought over those reports, I’d say you two have something pretty special going on. I’d never mess with that . . . Anyway . . .” She held my gaze. “I’ll say it again. You are one lucky lady.”

All those hours of tension must have caught up to me, because I was suddenly misty-eyed.

“Can I tell you something?” I asked her. “It’s not anything Mike would want you to know, but it’s been weighing on me . . .”

“You can trust me, Clare.”

I glanced across the gloomy room, making sure the men were still occupied. All three were in a huddle around the magnifying glass, so I lowered my voice and confided the embarrassing truth.

“Katerina Lacey has been sexually harassing Mike.”

S
eventy-three

A
S I described the situation—and Katerina’s behavior—an emotion that I could describe only as deep revulsion passed over Danica’s face.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

I studied my murky cup. “Part of me wishes Mike would have simply quit. Just walked away.”

“I understand why you feel that way, but I know why he didn’t.”

“Because he’s a cop?”

“Because he’s a
good
cop. When a guy like Mike Quinn sees someone like Katerina, he’s not thinking about what she’s doing to him. What concerns him are the other people she’s victimizing—even fellow workers who might fall under her future authority.”

“It’s still hard to swallow.”

“Then let me break it down for you. The reason Quinn didn’t walk away is because he hates bullies. And he knows a bully with authority, like Katerina, is the most dangerous kind. So he’s determined to take her out—and not to dinner.”

“I knew what you meant, Detective.” Ignoring the posse of skinny rats scampering across the room, I swiped at my wet eyes. “I just doubt very much he can do it. Katerina Lacey is smart. And ruthless. She’s been careful not to incriminate herself on the sexual harassment, which is why he wouldn’t go to human resources. And even if he had, she has friends in high places, very high places—”

I paused, remembering the superior look on her face when I saw her that day in the White House. “Whatever Mike planned to charge her with
at Justice, I doubt very much she would have gotten more than a slap on the wrists. And now she’s in a position to sink us both.”

“Listen to me . . .” Danica surprised me by reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Alone he might not have been able to—but together you two can beat that woman.”

“You don’t think she’s going to end us?”

“No. Because you’re going to end her, and I’m going to help.”

“How?”

“There’s an old saying:
Everything in Washington comes with a history, and so does everyone.
Well, it’s true of Katerina Lacey, too. She’s been playing dirty for years.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Ms. Lacey began her career right here in Baltimore, in the DA’s office.”

“That must have been more than ten years ago . . .” I studied Danny’s baby-smooth mocha skin, the full, pretty cheeks. “You’re so young. How much could you know about that?”

She admitted that after Mike contacted her, she was inspired to do some snooping on her own. “I was caught riffling through Katerina’s case files by the new district attorney. She’s a real up-and-comer who was already concerned about Ms. Lacey’s past work for the Baltimore DA’s office . . .”

According to Danica, many of the high-profile cases Katerina had handled were falling apart on appeal—mostly because “confidential informants” who’d provided the most damning evidence were never named in the indictments, or vanished off the face of the earth after the first trial. Without full disclosure, the defense prevailed, and those setbacks sullied the entire Baltimore office. And really pissed off the new DA.

“I hooked her up with Detective Quinn, and since then, the DA has been feeding Quinn evidence. At first, some of the stuff Quinn asked for didn’t make a lot of sense—reports on stolen phones and perps who specialize in Apple picking—”

“Apple picking?” I stared in confusion. “Why would Quinn care about fruit theft?”

“Fruit theft?” Danny blinked. “No, no! Apple picking is slang for stealing expensive phones and laptops. It started with iPhones and iPads, but now any mobile phone or tablet is game.”

“And what does that have to do with my situation?”

Danica looked away when she heard the confab breaking up. Chan the Phone Man left with the undercover detective, and Quinn approached us, a high-end smartphone in his hand.

She lowered her voice. “Ask him later. He’ll tell you.”

“Chan said you prepped a safe house for us. Is that right?” Quinn asked.

Danica nodded. “It’s a short drive—”

“You mean we’re not staying here?” I said, the relief so obvious on my face that Danny laughed.

“Don’t worry, Clare. I think you’ll be pleased with your overnight accommodations . . .”

As she led the way out, I couldn’t follow her fast enough.

To borrow a phrase from
The Godfather
, sleeping with the fishes was something Quinn and I might be doing before this mess was done.

But tonight, at least, we wouldn’t have to sleep with the rats!

S
eventy-four

D
ANICA led us through the clanging steel door to the area behind the garage, an expanse of broken concrete strewn with old tires and empty booze bottles.

The detective’s shiny silver SUV stood out like a UFO in a rusty junkyard. As odd as that sounded, the comparison was apt, because inside of fifteen minutes that sleek vehicle transported us to another world.

While I stretched out in the backseat, Danny got behind the wheel, and Quinn rode shotgun, tuning in an all-news radio station. Eyes closed, I listened to sports scores, celebrity news, human interest, and absolutely nothing on the First Daughter’s disappearance.

“The feds are keeping a tight lid on this,” said Danica, watching the road.

“They must still have strong threads to follow,” Quinn noted.

“What happens when they run out of leads?” I called from the backseat.

“Then they’ll turn to the public,” Quinn said.

“Unless a sharp reporter gets wind of the scoop sooner,” Danny added.

“Some members of the press may already know,” Quinn said. “My guess is the White House is asking them to hold back the story for the safety of Abigail . . .”

As the two continued their discussion, I dozed off. When I opened my eyes again, we’d landed on Planet Prosperous—or so it seemed.

Gone were the rundown buildings and cracked concrete. Around us now was an überaffluent neighborhood of exclusive shops and magnificently restored Federal-style houses.

“We’re here,” Danica called to me.

“Are we still in Baltimore?”

“Yes, ma’am. Federal Hill.”

The evening was warm, so I cracked my window. The tang of the waterfront drifted in with fresh night air.

Danny hung a right, passing a luxurious catering hall and a chic restaurant. Then she swung left, onto a private driveway beside a tastefully lit sign.

HARBORVIEW YACHT CLUB AND MARINA

Danica flashed her badge, and we were waved through a gate by a clean-cut uniformed guard.

From the parking lot I could see over a hundred boats gleaming in the moonlight, masts and antennae swaying in the stiff breeze. Like a black canvas, the dark waters of Patapsco River stretched beyond, dotted here and there with the golden glow of slow-moving ships.

“Am I dreaming?”

“What you see is what you get,” said Danny. “You don’t mind sleeping aboard a luxury yacht, do you?”

“I think I can adjust. Who’s the lucky owner?”

“The City of Baltimore. The yacht was seized by the BPD in a raid last month. The former owner is in jail, but since the harbor fee is paid until the end of this month, nobody is going to mess with the boat until then.”

“I don’t suppose the luxury interior includes a fully stocked galley?”

“Great question,” said Quinn.

Danny rolled her eyes. “You two are always on the same page, aren’t you? Don’t panic. I got you takeout, dessert, and some locally roasted whole-bean coffee, too.”

“Give that woman a medal!” I cried.

Quinn nodded. “I concur.”

*   *   *

T
EN minutes later we were strolling along Pier K, a floating dock with a line of boats moored on one side, and the lapping waters of the river on the other. This was the farthest point from shore, but it wasn’t exactly secluded.

A Tiki Barge, packed with revelers, was moored on the pier’s river side,
and a fifty-foot yacht was now motoring into its slip, four berths away. Fortunately, the bar was far enough away not to pose a threat, and the crew on the other boat paid no attention to us.

Our “hideout” turned out to be a forty-foot yacht in metallic white with mauve highlights, complete with a roof sundeck.

“
Desperate Measures
?” I read across the boat’s stern.

“Yeah,” Danny said. “Among other things, the owner sold cocaine.”

“Were the
measures
grams or kilos?” Quinn asked.

“Mostly kilos, which is why this baby is yours for the night . . .”

The ship interior was tight but cozy, with dark wood walls and sterling silver fixtures. Mirrors and recessed lighting made the space seem larger, and the upholstered furnishing continued the exterior’s mauve motif. There was a bedroom, a small living space with satellite TV, and a galley. Best of all, the bathroom had a working shower!