Gone to Her Grave (Rogue River Novella Book 2) (2 page)

Seth lowered his body into a chair facing the desk. “Anything you can give me would be helpful at this point. You’re sure it was an overdose?”

“Yes. Let me pull up the reports.”

“The same drug?” Seth asked.

“Yes, I believe it was the same compound.” Hank nodded. “The DEA is formally calling it C-22 because of its chemical composition.”

“We want to stop this wave before the bodies start piling up,” Seth said.

“Better hurry. We’ve had six confirmed ODs from C-22 since January one.” Hank booted up his computer and pulled black-framed glasses from his breast pocket. “Okay. Let’s see what we have. Twenty-three-year-old male. External examination showed skin lesions, low muscle tone, general malnourished state, poor condition of teeth, et cetera, all of which suggest long-term drug use. Internal examination found dilated cardiomyopathy or an enlarged heart, which can result from abuse of illegal drugs including cocaine, methamphetamine, and heroin. From the condition of his liver, he also abused alcohol. But the immediate cause of death was cardiac arrest.” Hank peered over his glasses at Seth. “This guy was a serious user.”

“Can you identify the drug that killed him?”

“The toxicology report came in late yesterday.” Hank clicked and scrolled, his bushy, black-and-gray eyebrows sinking low over his eyes as he concentrated. “His toxicology results are similar, but not identical, to the other five, as is the nature of synthetic drugs like C-22. These compounds have no consistent manufacturing process. Kids have no idea what they’re taking when they abuse this type of drug. It’s a game of Russian roulette.”

“Any new information about the drug itself?” Seth asked.

“Not really. You already know it’s a hallucinogenic compound similar to LSD. All of the victims died of cardiac arrest. One showed bleeding in the brain. Another reported seizures just before death. But we don’t know whether those ancillary reactions were caused by this drug or by the other compounds in the mix. Preexisting conditions also have to be taken into account. However, my findings suggest it’s particularly deadly when combined with alcohol.” Hank tossed his glasses on top of his blotter and rubbed his eyes. “This is a bad one, Seth.”

“Aren’t they all?” Seth’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Excuse me one second, Hank. I have to take this.”

Hank motioned toward the door, and Seth stepped into the hall. He ducked his head back into the office a few minutes later. “I have to go, Hank. Thanks. We might have a live one. The county medical center reported a suspected overdose of a hallucinogenic compound.”

“Where?”

“Solitude,” Seth said.

“Isn’t that where you live?”

“It is.”

Concern drew Hank’s bottle-brush eyebrows together until they nearly touched. “This will be the second OD there.”

“I know.” Seth tapped on the doorjamb. “Catch you later, Hank.”

Outside, Seth cleared his head with a lungful of fresh, hot air before getting into his county-owned sedan. The medical examiner’s and sheriff’s offices were located in the Rogue County seat of Hannon, forty-five minutes away from the small town Seth called home. Solitude seemed to sit right in the middle of the current drug infestation.

The Taylors’ hobby farm on the outskirts of Solitude had served as overflow for the animal shelter for as long as Carly could remember. Since her marriage had fallen apart and she’d moved home to live with her mother, the barn had doubled as a storage facility. The little cabin on the other side of the meadow from the main house was the perfect size for her and her seven-year-old daughter, but it didn’t have much storage space.

She moved another container and read the label. “Kitchen supplies.” That wasn’t it. The stacks of boxes that held most of her possessions were a sad reminder of her broken marriage and the pretty house in town she’d left behind, all in the name of peace.

She lifted her tank top off her sweaty skin. The barn chores were finished, and she was eager to get out of her jeans and work boots. July heat wasn’t usually oppressive in southwestern Oregon, but this summer had been a scorcher from the very beginning. Her entire life felt as off-kilter as the weather.

“We didn’t leave it, did we?” Brianna propped a hand on a skinny hip. Thanks to a recent growth spurt, her jeans rode at her ankles. After she’d spent an hour in the barn working with her pet project, a rescued pygmy goat, the child’s sun-streaked hair was more dirty than blonde. A greenish smear across her pink T-shirt looked suspiciously like goat slobber.

“Of course not.” Carly forced her tight lips into a smile. “And even if we did, your father would have it. He’d bring it to you.”

“But Daddy’s never home.” Her daughter pouted. Before Seth and Carly separated last winter, Brianna’s pouts had been few and far between. “I need my hat for the parade. Prince Eric has a matching halter.”

In two days the town would celebrate the Fourth of July with a patriotic parade, fair, and fireworks. Brianna had entered her goat in the 4-H livestock show. It was the first time she’d shown any real enthusiasm since the separation. The American-flag-colored top hat they were so desperately seeking was worth fifty cents at best.

Small town rule #4: Childhood isn’t complete without farm animals and 4-H.

“I’ll keep looking, but if it isn’t here, Daddy will bring it to you or I’ll go get it from his house.”

“What if it’s not there?”

“Then I’ll buy you a new one.”

“No, Mama. I need
that
one,” Brianna whined, something else she’d rarely done before the move. But it was hard to blame a little girl when her parents uprooted her entire life. A tear rolled down Brianna’s cheek. “Grandpa gave it to me.”

The goat bleated, punctuating the sad state of affairs.

Grief and guilt compounded Carly’s misery until she was tempted to sit down next to her daughter and let them both have a good cry.

Six weeks ago her father, just fifty-nine years old, had died suddenly of a heart attack. Big Bill Taylor, husband, grandfather, police chief, town pillar, and all-around saint, at least in Carly’s eyes, was gone. His absence was a vast black hole neither the family nor the town had yet fully processed. But while some people found crying cathartic, Carly always felt worse afterward. It didn’t help that she was an ugly crier. No dainty tears for her. A crying jag for Carly was an all-out snotfest that left her looking like she’d contracted pinkeye volunteering at the elementary school.

She plucked off a work glove, crouched in front of her daughter, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek. “I’m going to call Daddy this morning and get him to look for it, okay?” Even if talking to Seth was the last thing on earth she wanted to do right now. Or ever.

Brianna sniffed and nodded. Carly used the hem of her shirt to dry her tears, leaving a swath of clean across her daughter’s dusty face. She folded the skinny child into her arms for a hug.

“Why don’t you check and make sure all the animals have clean water?” Carly looked at her watch. She needed to shower and get to her first appointment by nine, and she’d have to squeeze a stop at the Fisher place into her schedule.

“Okay, Mama. Prince Eric probably wants to go outside to play anyway.” Nothing made Brianna happier than caring for her grandmother’s motley crew of rejected livestock. Carly stayed close to her daughter. Prince Eric might only be the size of a large dog, but he was horned, agile, and mischievous.

Once the goat was caught, Carly dialed Seth. His phone went to voice mail without ringing. He was probably on duty. Seth’s unavailability had been just one of the many issues that had ground their marriage down to its sensitive root. In his eyes, his job as an investigator for the Rogue County Sheriff’s Department was always more important than her work. But Carly didn’t believe that. What could be more critical than kids who had no one to protect them?

“How are my girls?” Carly’s mom, Patsy, stood in the doorway, her petite body silhouetted against the morning sun. Despite a flowy flowered top draped over a loose cotton skirt, Carly could see her mom had lost some weight since her dad’s death.

“We’re almost finished out here,” Carly said. Taking care of the barn chores was the only way she could thank her mom for providing child care now that school was out for the summer.

“Thanks for mucking out the pens.” Patsy stepped into the dim barn. Under a wide-brimmed floppy hat, her long, curly hair hung loose around her shoulders. “What happened to your face?”

Carly touched the bruise on her chin. “It was an accident.”

“Put some ice on it. Looks like it hurts.” Patsy placed both hands on her hips and turned to Brianna. “Look how healthy Prince Eric looks. You’ve done a fine job nursing him back to health, Brianna. I’m so proud.”

Brianna beamed as she led the animal toward the barn door. Patsy’s Irish setter bounded into the aisle and wagged her tail at the goat. Patsy caught the dog by the collar. The desire to play was decidedly one-sided.

The sight of Patsy’s proud smile and her daughter’s happiness cheered Carly. She scanned the pens of discarded animals. Creatures of all sorts found solace in her mother’s care, and providing shelter to those in need seemed to give her mother comfort. She’d done the right thing, coming here. Moving home at twenty-nine hadn’t been easy. There’d been some pride swallowing involved. Admitting failure stung, but she and her daughter needed to heal. And this was the place to do it.

Carly’s phone vibrated. She rubbed her hands on her jeans and dug the cell out of her pocket. Her sister Stevie’s number showed on the screen.

“Hey, did you change your mind about hanging out tonight?” Carly asked.

“No. I’m still on duty. Sorry to interrupt your morning, but this is a work call.” Two years older, Stevie had recently left her job with the LAPD and moved home to take a position on Solitude’s tiny police force.

“Hold on a sec.” Carly lifted the phone away from her face. “It’s work, Mom. Would you mind?” She nodded toward Brianna.

Her mom smiled. “Of course not. Do what you have to do.”

Carly stepped out of the barn. The morning sun hit her back, its rays penetrating her damp T-shirt with dry heat. “Okay. Go.”

“I’m at the station. I’m holding one of your kids for questioning. Russ Warner.”

Carly walked away from the barn. The fifteen-year-old’s father, an abusive lowlife and small-time drug dealer, had been killed in a shootout with police in May. “What’s the crime?”

“Delivery of a controlled substance.” Stevie paused. “And possibly homicide.”

The entire Solitude police station would fit on a volleyball court with room to spare. In the six-car gravel parking lot, Carly climbed out of her Wrangler and smoothed her skirt. Her sister leaned on the outside of the building. Stevie’s uniform looked damp and wrinkled, though she’d been on duty for only a couple of hours. A few curls had escaped her bun. She straightened and met Carly on the concrete walkway.

“What’s going on?” Carly tightened her still-damp ponytail. She’d taken all of fifteen minutes to shower off the hay dust, don clean clothes, and postpone her first appointment.

“We’re waiting for Loretta. Russ is inside with Zane.” Stevie rubbed her forehead. A pink scar on her hand was the only sign of the gunshot wound she’d sustained back in May.

“What happened?”

Stevie straightened. “Beverly Rollins, age forty, was found unconscious and unresponsive by her teenage son, Peter, Tuesday morning. There was no obvious reason for her state. No signs of a struggle. No history of a medical condition. No prescription bottles nearby. The hospital ran some initial tests with mixed positive results. The doctors suspect she might have ingested C-22. When questioned, Peter admitted to buying two hits on his way home from his part-time job on Monday. He hid one in his room for later. When his mom came home early from work, she caught him with the drug and took it away from him. He doesn’t know what she did with it, but his roundabout answers suggested she ingested it. Peter says his mom had smoked pot she confiscated from him in the past. He claims when he found her and called 911, he tried to flush the remaining paper strip down the toilet. Obviously he didn’t succeed because we found it clinging to the edge of the bowl.”

“So why is Russ here?”

Stevie let out a sigh of resignation. “Peter said he bought the drug from Russ.”

“No.” Carly stared at the building. Damn it.

“Carly, Russ’s father was dealing C-22,” Stevie said.

“I know, but . . .” She’d just visited Russ and his mother, Loretta, last week. They’d seemed like they were getting back on their feet. Loretta was working steady hours. No more lost time for black eyes. Russ hadn’t missed any summer school in weeks. There’d been food in the fridge. In Carly’s world, those were all good signs.

“I’m sorry.”

Carly pressed her palm to her sweating forehead. “This doesn’t feel right. Russ has had some bad breaks, and sure, he can be explosive, but deep down, he’s a good kid. He just needs a chance.” Sadly, she’d thought he’d finally gotten that chance when his father was shot by police. Ted Warner had been one mean son of a bitch. Carly had seen the black-and-blue evidence of his temper on Loretta too many times to feel much regret that the man was dead.